Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (21 page)

“Ah, but that’s just it. There can’t be different versions. Truth is constant. A person’s perspective might be skewed, but that doesn’t change what the truth is. All it means is that a particular person is . . . mistaken, for whatever reason.”

She held his gaze, wondering how the conversation had turned so philosophical. “I couldn’t agree more . . . for whatever reason.” She smiled to lighten the moment.

The look McPherson gave her made her think of Daniel Ranslett, though she couldn’t place why.

The door opened. “Sheriff, I’d hoped you’d still be here. I’m wondering if Carnes has confirmed how—” A smile accompanied Drayton Turner’s surprise. “Miss Westbrook, how nice to see you again, ma’am.”

She tilted her head in greeting, wondering at his hat. “And you, Mr. Turner.”

“You’re keeping that camera of yours busy, I hear.”

She didn’t know quite how to respond.

“Mullins tells me you’ll be at his store this weekend, taking photographs.”

“Oh . . . yes. He and his wife were kind enough to ask me, and I agreed. I just hope someone shows up, so they’re not disappointed.”

“Don’t you worry about the people of Timber Ridge, Miss Westbrook.” Turner glanced at papers lying beside him on a table, then turned his head slightly as though trying to read what was written. McPherson flipped the pages over. Turner’s smile just deepened. “They’ll be lined up in their Sunday best. Mullins already has signs posted in his front window.”

She tried not to stare at Drayton Turner’s hat—a feathered bowler that would have been considered the height of style back east. But in this rustic setting, it seemed out of place. Yet somehow it still suited his personality, and lack of discretion.

He fingered the hat’s rim as though aware of her thoughts, then cast a glance at McPherson. Elizabeth could only interpret his look as puzzlement over why she was present.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” She addressed McPherson, knowing she would also answer Turner’s silent query. “If you’re agreeable, I’ll go get my equipment and be back shortly.”

“I’ll go with you,” McPherson offered.

She shook her head, realizing that he would probably rather go with her than stay and answer Turner’s questions. “Thank you, but Josiah will help me.
After
you meet with him, of course.” She moved to the door, where Turner intercepted her.

“Miss Westbrook, if you’re already taking a photograph of the body, might I impose upon you to make a copy of it for the
Reporter
?”

“I’ll be happy to. If that’s all right with the sheriff. . . .”

Looking none too pleased, McPherson nodded as he opened the door and motioned for Josiah to join him inside. “We won’t be long, Miss Westbrook.”

Apprehension showed in Josiah’s features, and she willed him not to be nervous as she walked outside, aware of Turner following her. She took a few steps on the boardwalk and breathed in the fresh air. The temperature had climbed. “Tell me, Mr. Turner, does it always smell of fresh pine in this town?”

He sniffed. “I guess it does. You get used to it after a while.”

“Mmmm . . . I don’t think I would.” Glancing his way, she decided to give him some of his own medicine. “What caused you to move out here, Mr. Turner? Why did the adventuresome editor choose the untamed west?”

“The truth?”

“Absolutely, and it’ll be off the record.” She winked.

“My wife decided she didn’t want to be married to me anymore. The newspaper life wasn’t for her. Or I wasn’t. One of the two. Maybe both.” He held her gaze. “How’s that for truthfulness, Miss Westbrook. Whether on or off the record.”

“I—” She searched for something to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”

His laughter broke the tension. “I’m only kidding, Miss Westbrook. You’re far too gullible, but the trait becomes you.”

Elizabeth smiled but didn’t share his humor.

“I came out for the same reason everyone else did. To start fresh. To live in the Wild West before civilization catches up with it and tames it to boredom. Speaking of which . . . I’m still waiting for some of your photographs, ma’am. To publish in the
Reporter
.”

She mentally flipped through the pictures she’d taken, realizing she’d been delinquent in cataloging them. “I did take one this week that you might be interested in. If you like children.”

“I’m actually not too fond of them.”

She stared, her brow raised. This man had to be Wendell Goldberg’s twin separated at birth. “Well, then you probably won’t be interested in this one.”

“When I gave you counsel to branch out from your normal landscapes, I wasn’t thinking of children but rather something with a little more risk, Miss Westbrook.”

She thought of the photograph currently on its way to Goldberg. “I’ll try and work harder on that in the future, Mr. Turner.”

The door opened behind her, and she heard Josiah’s voice before she saw him.

“You got any more questions, sir, you just let me know.”

“I’ll do that, and I appreciate your time, Josiah.”

Josiah exited the building with McPherson, appearing decidedly more relaxed than before. Elizabeth gathered from his demeanor that the conversation with the sheriff had yielded no new information.

“Miz Westbrook, how ’bout I head on to the livery and pick up Moonshine. Meet you back over at the boardin’ house?”

“Thank you, Josiah. I won’t be long.”

Josiah took the stairs from the boardwalk leading to the street at a quick jaunt.

Turner stepped forward. “You ready for me, Sheriff?”

“As I’ll ever be, Turner.” Playful sarcasm framed McPherson’s response and drew a smirk from Turner.

“Our sheriff here doesn’t hold my newspaper in very high regard, ma’am.”

“That’s not true and you know it.” McPherson pushed the door open wider. “At times, I think I hold it in higher regard than you do.”

Having no desire to get into the middle of their war of words, Elizabeth retreated a step. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll be back shortly with my camera.”

“One last thing, Miss Westbrook.” Turner tucked his pencil in his pocket. “Would this afternoon be convenient for me to stop by and get the photograph from you? I’d like to use it in tomorrow’s edition, if possible.”

Knowing she would have wanted the same thing if she were in his position, she nodded. “Certainly. Give me until after dinner and then stop by. Will that work?”

“Like a charm, ma’am. Thank you.” Turner walked on inside. From where she stood, she could hear him begin to pepper Mr. Carnes with questions.

She was almost to the stairs leading to the street when she felt a touch on her arm. She turned to find McPherson staring down, his expression inscrutable.

“There’s something you need to be aware of, Miss Westbrook, and I didn’t want to say anything in front of Turner, for obvious reasons.” A woman and child walked by. He tipped his hat, sheriff ’s smile at the ready. “Mrs. Grady, little Caroline, how are you ladies today?” He waited for them to pass before continuing. “Josiah had a run-in with the deceased a while back at the livery.”

“Yes, he’s already told me all about it, Sheriff, when we found the man’s body.” Seeing the opportunity, she seized it. “Josiah is an honest man, Sheriff. Granted, I haven’t known him long, but I believe him to be a man of outstanding integrity and character.”

“And I’m not here to argue that. But I’m wondering . . . did Josiah tell you that Coulter threatened his life that day?”

Hesitant, she shook her head.

“Coulter promised to kill him. My deputy was outside the livery and saw and heard everything. Josiah controlled himself admirably, especially after Coulter came after him with that hammer. My deputy says Josiah fended him off, holding him by the throat at arm’s length. Coulter struggled to get at him, mad as a hornet.”

Elizabeth could picture it well and felt immense pride in Josiah’s restraint.

“After Coulter left, my deputy made sure Josiah was all right. And he was. But he was angry too, and rightly so. It was what he said to my deputy that gives me pause today, ma’am . . . Josiah told him that he’d had a hard time not just snapping that little white man’s neck clean in two.”

The way the sheriff said it, Elizabeth could hear Josiah’s voice.

“Problem is, a couple of other men in the livery heard Josiah say it too. I went and visited both of them right after, because I knew how they felt about Negroes. And I knew they’d side with Coulter if it ever came to something—no matter that they didn’t like the man.”

“But you can’t fault Josiah for his reaction, understanding what had been done to him. Can you?”

“I don’t fault him at all, ma’am. I’m sure I wouldn’t have handled it nearly so well. I’m saying all this to make you aware of what happened, since Josiah’s working for you. And to let you know that there are people in this town who know what Josiah said, and they don’t hold kindly to Negroes. That’s why I don’t favor putting a picture of a dead body in the paper. I’m afraid it might stir things up that would be best left alone.”

Elizabeth considered this, seeing both sides of this issue, as well as the overall issue in a broader scope. Maybe more clearly now than she ever had. “I understand what you’re saying, but what am I supposed to do? Take the photograph, or not?”

“You take the photograph like you’ve agreed to do, and we’ll see how things fall out. Pictures don’t lie, Miss Westbrook, so I don’t fear them.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Even though you’re only here doing this as a hobby, what you’ve brought to Timber Ridge is the future. And it’s coming, whether we want it to or not. What I fear isn’t your lens, ma’am. It’s what a handful of people will do when they see that picture without knowing the full story. And the conclusions they might jump to without taking the time to learn the whole truth.”

His mention of truth burned inside her. She felt so . . . false, standing in front of him with his not knowing the full truth about her.

At the time she’d thought Wendell Goldberg’s idea not to tell people about her true reason for being in Timber Ridge was wise counsel. And she guessed it still was, in a way. Because people were telling her things they wouldn’t have otherwise. But every secret or personal thing they’d shared felt like a weight inside her now. The articles she’d written about them, and had yet to write . . . It felt as if she were handing out keys to houses that didn’t belong to her.

“There’s one more thing I need to tell you, ma’am. It came up as Carnes was examining the body this morning. But I asked him to hold off on saying anything publicly until he could do a more thorough examination, to make certain. I know how Coulter died.” His intensity made her want to look away, but she couldn’t. “And I won’t be able to hold the information much longer.”

She swallowed, praying she was wrong. “He died of a broken neck.”

“Yes, ma’am. Snapped clean in two.”

Later that afternoon, she waited in line at the telegraph office, carefully composing a message to Goldberg. He would salivate knowing this kind of story was forthcoming, and with photographs, no less, though her own reaction to it was far more guarded due to Josiah’s connection with the victim.

She penned the message and handed it to the clerk, who, to his credit, didn’t react in the slightest.

LOCAL RESIDENT MURDERED STOP ASSAILANT UNKNOWN STOP SCENE OF CRIME IN DISPUTE STOP PHOTO EVIDENCE AND DETAILS TO FOLLOW BY MAIL

20

D
aniel made the outskirts of Timber Ridge by mid-Thursday morning. He reined in when he spotted a man working to free his wagon from a sludge hole. Temperatures had warmed enough yesterday afternoon for the snows to partially melt, and with this morning’s sun blazing down, the rays were quickly making travel a muddy business.

Harnessed to the fellow’s wagon was the finest pair of stallions Daniel had ever seen. They were huge, each at least sixteen hands, and black as night, every inch sinewy muscle and strength. Yet with the angle of the wagon and the weight of goods packed snug in the bed, the animals couldn’t pull the freight wagon clear of the muck.

Daniel guided his mare closer. “Could you use a hand?”

Relief registered on the man’s face. “I sure could.” He rose from the bench seat, but Daniel gestured for him to stay put.

He walked to the back, rolling up his shirt sleeves. “You take the reins. I’ll shoulder it from behind.” He counted aloud to three, then put his full weight behind the stuck wheel as the man worked the team, calling the horses by name. Daniel slipped once in the sludge but regained his footing. The oversized freight wagon rocked, held fast, and then made a low sucking sound as the wheel finally began to budge from the hole onto drier ground.

It was slow work, and untidy. By the time they were done, Daniel’s clothes were covered in mud.

The man set the brake and jumped down. He handed Daniel a rag. “Much obliged, friend. I was having a time of it there.”

Daniel wiped his hands. “That’s quite a pair of stallions you’ve got. Finest I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you. They’re the finest team I’ve ever owned. Percherons, from France. Good temperament, hard workers too.”

Daniel smiled. “Well, that explains it, then.”

The stranger stared, obviously not following.

Daniel glanced back at the horses. “I thought maybe I hadn’t heard you right—the names you called out a minute ago as you worked the wagon free. But I’m thinking now that I did.”

The man gave a smile that could best be described as shy. He nodded. “Charlemagne and Napoleon. That was my wife’s doing, I’m afraid. She insisted that animals from her native country ought to have French names.” It was obvious from the spark that lit the man’s eyes when he spoke of his wife that she was treasured. The freighter took the dirty rag from Daniel and tossed it in the back of the wagon. “I’m much obliged again for your help. If you ever need a load hauled in or out, I run freight to just about every town from here to Denver to Pike’s Peak. I’ve got three other men working for me who run it farther south. I’ll carry it for you at no charge. The name’s Jack Brennan, and all you have to do is leave word with Ben Mullins at the store. He knows how to reach me.”