Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (45 page)

“Drayton Turner was here?” Unexplained warning scuttled through him.

“Why yes, he brought me a newspaper. Hand-delivered at no charge. He said he was giving out papers this morning, seeing if people would like to advertise. But why would I want to advertise, I told him, when my rooms are always occu—”

“Much obliged, ma’am.” Daniel took a backward step. “I really need to be going.”

“I’ll be sure and tell her you came by.”

He ran across the street to the butcher shop. He’d just been by the general store and the wagon wasn’t there. Elizabeth wouldn’t have just up and decided to take the wagon and go somewhere. Not when they had planned to meet. And how could Turner be at a council meeting
and
be hand-delivering his newspapers? “Lolly!”

“Ranslett! Welcome ba—”

“Have you seen Elizabeth?”

“Who?”

“The woman photographer.”

He shook his head. “Sorry.” His eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong?”

Daniel relayed his concern. “Would you get word to the sheriff ’s office and tell Willis or Stanton what I’ve told you? I’ll ride up the ridge and see if I can spot anything from there.”

Already out the door, Daniel heard Lolly’s affirmation behind him.

He swung into the saddle and kicked the mare’s haunches. If Elizabeth
was
with Turner, his gut told him it wasn’t good. But what reason would Turner possibly have to harm her?

As he rode toward the ridge, he checked the streets. He pushed the mare hard, and she flew up the mountain trail toward Rachel’s home. Reaching the ridge in record time, he jumped down and pulled his scope from his saddlebag. He searched the roads closer up, then focused across town on the only route leading to Denver.

Starting at the base of the mountain, he followed the switchback trail as it wove back and forth through the evergreens. It was a steep climb for a loaded wagon, and he didn’t think one loaded as heavily as theirs had been with Elizabeth’s equipment could have made it to the top of the pass and over in the time elapsed.

He moved the scope to the right and spotted a wagon—headed up Old Barnes Hill Road. His pulse kicked up a notch. The wagon disappeared behind a stand of aspen, and he waited for what felt like forever before it reappeared on the other side. One person on the buckboard. The image was blurry and he gave the cylinder a slight turn to adjust the focus. It looked like a man, but he couldn’t be sure.

Whoever it was, they rode at a leisurely pace, and the wagon bed was stacked with crates and boxes. He had packed Elizabeth’s equipment himself, and that wasn’t it. His unease expanded.

He searched the area again with his naked eye, just in case, then ran a short way down the ridge to get a different perspective. With the aid of the scope, he roved the mountainside. There—

He moved the scope back a fraction. A wagon. A single rider on the buckboard.

The wagon moved along at a good clip and went behind a curve before he could get a good look at what was in the back. It was on the road leading around to the backside of Maroon Lake. He followed the road in his mind, reading the twists and turns from memory. It ended abruptly in a bluff overlooking the lake. Remote, not easily accessible, and it didn’t get much wagon traffic because the path got real narrow at the top, and it was quite a hike to get to the picturesque view. Just the kind of place Elizabeth would’ve braved for a photograph.

For some reason, that thought sat ill within him.

He watched through the scope, waiting for the wagon to reappear. And when it did, he stepped forward and nearly slipped off the ridge. It
was
Turner, he was certain. And no doubt that was Elizabeth’s equipment in the back. But where was she?

A closer look at the wagon bed and he realized his earlier instincts had been right. Dread coursed through him. He ran back to his horse.

Getting to that bluff meant riding back through town and following the same path up. At least a half hour to get there on horseback. Too long. As he rode on up the mountain, he cursed Drayton Turner, fearing what the man might do. Or what he might already have done.

41

S
he could breathe.

That was the first thing Elizabeth noticed when she began to awaken. She tried to open her eyes but quickly closed them. The sunlight was excruciating. Her eyelids felt swollen, and they burned on the inside. Her throat ached as if she hadn’t had anything to drink for days. She tried to swallow and would’ve cried out, but the lining of her throat refused further abuse.

She was seated on the ground with what felt like a rock at her back. Her arms were tied behind her. She tried to move her feet, but her ankles were bound as well.

“You’re awake, Miss Westbrook. I thought possibly I’d lost you there for a while.”

She went still, recognizing the voice.

Sensing shade on her face, she chanced a look and blinked. Not so much to see him better but to make sure she was seeing correctly. She closed her eyes again; the light and air on her eyes was too painful.

“I apologize for the way I had to escort you here, ma’am. Considering our past, I doubted whether you would’ve come if I’d asked you straight out. Especially not once I told you the purpose of our visit.” Turner laughed softly. “You know, Miss Westbrook . . . it’s not nice to open someone else’s mail.”

His voice, his manner, sounded so normal. It sent chills skittering up her spine.

“Didn’t make sense to me at first when I realized the letter had already been opened. Miss Cantrell didn’t say a thing about it . . . because she didn’t open it. I remembered you having her portfolio in your hands when you left, and that’s when it all came together. She had to go home to get that for you, and you went snooping.”

Elizabeth cringed, listening. If only she could talk to him. Then again, she wondered if it would make any difference.

“Miss Cantrell never opens my personal mail, but then . . . you had no way of knowing that. Did you, ma’am? I’m actually quite impressed, in a way. I didn’t realize you had the gumption to do something so . . . beneath you.”

Without her sight, sounds became more distinct, and Elizabeth tried to identify what she heard. The wind in the trees, a rustling somewhere behind her, and in the distance, a hawk’s cry. She tested the ropes binding her wrists.

“The ropes aren’t overly tight, Miss Westbrook, because—” He paused. “May I call you Elizabeth? I feel like I’ve learned so much about you in your absence.”

She didn’t respond.

“I know it probably hurts you to speak, but perhaps you could nod. That would only be proper, I think.”

Wishing she had her derringer, Elizabeth nodded as she rubbed her wrists together behind her back. Daniel had to be wondering where she was by now. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but surely he would come looking for her. But how would he know where to look? Even the best tracker in the territory couldn’t track what he hadn’t seen.

“Thank you . . . Elizabeth.” The crunch of gravel. Turner was moving around. “The ropes aren’t overly tight because I don’t want any marks on your wrists. Not that it matters much in the end, but I’m trying my best to—What are you doing?”

She continued to work against her bindings.

He set something down. A crate? “Stop that, Elizabeth.”

Unexpected fury filled her. At his tone and demeanor, at who he was, at what he’d done to her. To Josiah. She kept rubbing.

Pain exploded across the left side of her face and she fell hard to the ground, feeling her right shoulder pop. She gasped, groaning aloud, wishing now that she’d done as he’d asked. Dust coated her tongue.

“That’s part of your problem. You simply don’t listen.” He sighed.

She heard something behind her. A twig breaking. Or maybe a squirrel in the brush. “And you have this . . . air about you. I noticed it the first time we met. You look down on us, Elizabeth. The people of Timber Ridge. We are somehow . . . less in your mind, but that’s of little importance now.”

She felt certain that if she could see him he would look maniacal. But all she could picture was him in that feathered bowler, and the image in her mind didn’t fit with the term. But what he’d done to her back in her room—and what he was doing now—did.

She started to shake, not on the surface, but inside, deep down, in the center of her belly. It was a nauseating fear, one born of fatigue and regret.
God, I don’t want to die.
Not here, not yet, not like this. She tried to sit up and couldn’t. She heard clicks and scrapes. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing. He was setting up her camera on the tripod. . . .

“You’re the daring woman photographer come to tame this vast western frontier, Elizabeth.” He said it with the same dramatic flair he’d used the night he interviewed her. “Everyone in town knows how you travel these mountains, braving the wild to get your self-serving photographs. And they know of your breathing problems, so I don’t think this will be too much of a shock for them. Or much of a disappointment.”

Eyelids closed, she moved her eyes from side to side, trying to ease their sensitivity. Whatever he’d laced the cloth with was not quick to forgive, and she didn’t think she would stand another bout with it. She imagined what a cool cloth would feel like laid over her eyes, and unexpected tears rose in response.

She blinked and finally managed to keep her eyes open for a few seconds at a time.

Turner’s back was to her. From this odd sideways angle, she watched him. She saw her equipment set up at the edge of the cliff and slowly realized what he was going to do—he was going to push her off the cliff. And make it look like an accident.

Fear coiled inside her. She shivered and remembered something Josiah had said. Something about fearing what was ahead.
“Knowin’ Jesus has already sifted through what’s comin’ before it gets to me . . . Well, I reckon that ought to be enough.”
Thinking of all the hardships Josiah had faced in his life, tears slipped down her cheeks. She prayed for the same faith he had to be in her. Jesus knew where she was. He’d sifted through this moment before it had gotten to her. She clung to that thought, repeating it over and over.
Jesus knows where I am. He knows where I am. . . .

Tillie had been right about regrets. It wasn’t so much the things she’d done that Elizabeth regretted in that moment—other than opening that letter—it was the things she hadn’t done. And if given only a handful of moments to live, she would have spent every one of them with the people she loved, letting them know—some for the very first time—just how much she cared.

Turner angled toward her, and she quickly closed her eyes.

He raised her to a sitting position and reached around behind her. “Try my patience again, Elizabeth . . .” His tone was cordial. “And next time I’ll use my fist.”

He untied her wrists, and she didn’t dare open her eyes. He untied her ankles, and she took inventory of her body. Her right shoulder throbbed. She moved it slightly and fire shot down through her back and arm. It would take a few seconds to regain her balance once she stood, so running was out of the question. Unless she could hit him with something first, and she needed to open her eyes to do that. But if she opened her eyes at the wrong time, her element of surprise would be lost. And if she
did
try to hit him, she needed to hit him hard enough to knock him out. Because he’d already proven that, if it came to a fight, he would win.

With confusing gentleness, he helped her stand. Her legs were unsteady from lack of use and tingled as the blood rushed down into them. She tried to swallow, wanting to scream in case someone was within earshot, but the dust in her mouth made it impossible.

He took hold of her arm and pulled her forward. Chancing it, she opened her eyes again. He was looking ahead, pulling a cloth from his pocket. The cliff where her camera was set up was no more than fifteen feet away. She tried to dig in her boot heels, but he just pulled harder.

“One advantage of housing the only telegraph office in town, Elizabeth, is that it gives one insight into the goings-on within a community. Return . . . first . . . photograph . . . of . . . body. Stop. Attention . . . Sheriff . . . McPherson.”

He was quoting one of the telegrams she’d sent to Wendell Goldberg.

Turner paused and turned. She squinted her eyes tight. His grip threatened to cut off the circulation in her arm.

“You simply can’t be assured of privacy in such a rustic little town, can you, ma’am?” He was facing her. She felt his breath on her cheek. He made a
tsk
ing noise. “Pity . . .”

She caught a whiff of the same acrid scent she’d smelled back in her room. If she would have any opportunity, this was it. She opened her eyes, saw his widen, and went for his face, clawing, scratching.

Anything cordial about Drayton Turner vanished.

His fist came at her and she pulled back, but he caught her on the chin and everything went fuzzy for a few seconds. She tried to push him away and he gave her right arm a vicious tug. Her knees buckled from the pain and she went down.

“Your problem, Elizabeth”—he dragged her closer to the cliff, his grip viselike—“like so many others, is that you underestimated my—”

An eerie screech, unearthly and primal, rose from the mountains. The air trembled with the sound, and so did she. The squall washed over the canyon, crashing against the walls and echoing back. Her flesh crawled, and she imagined not just one voice, but thousands of rebel voices joined in the primitive chorus. Brothers readying for battle, readying to die, and she knew that what Josiah had said about the cry was true.

Turner went stock-still. Seizing the moment, she twisted away from him and turned to run. But he recovered and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her back. He pressed the cloth over her mouth and nose. She held her breath, but fumes still worked their way inside. Rawness burned in her throat.

She grabbed at his hands and arms, digging in her nails, fighting for air, aware of consciousness slipping. She opened her eyes and saw the canyon far below—

Then time stilled. The world took on a slower pace.