Margaret Brownley (14 page)

Waiting for him to catch up to her, she felt a surge of guilt. Mr. Garrett had hired her to take his photograph. With all the excitement of the last several days, she’d forgotten all about him.

He tipped his top hat politely. His tweed trousers, cutaway morning coat, and silk cravat made him stand out in a town where most men wore canvas pants and boiled shirts.

“I say, I don’t mean to be a bother,” he said in his nasally voice, “but I wonder if ye’ve had a chance to develop my photograph. I wish to send it to Mum for her birthday.”

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I’m afraid there’s . . . a slight problem,” Lucy said.

His gaze sharpened. “A problem? Oh dear. Was there something wrong with the way I posed?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” she said quickly. He’d struck a pompous pose, but on him it seemed natural. “I’m afraid it was my error.”

She reached into her wagon for her portfolio. Digging inside she rifled through her prints until she found the one she wanted. She pulled it out and handed it to him. “As you can see, there’s a double exposure.”

It was her own careless mistake and she felt terrible. She ran out of dry plates, which meant having to reuse one of her wet plates. In her haste to accommodate his schedule, she failed to adequately clean it. As a result, the ghostly image of a woman could be seen in the background. It was the remains of a photograph she’d taken earlier of Mrs. Weatherbee.

Mr. Garrett stared at the photograph, his face turning a ghastly shade of gray.

“Don’t worry,” she hastened to assure him. “It was my error, so there’s no extra charge for another photograph.”

He looked up, his eyes round. “She doesn’t want me to be a cattle rancher,” he exclaimed. “I should have known!”

“Who doesn’t?” she asked, confused.

“My dead wife, of course,” he said, stabbing the ghostly image with his finger. “I know that expression. I’ve seen it hundreds of times. See how she’s looking down her nose?”

Lucy leaned closer to the photograph. “Mrs. Weatherbee always looks down her—”

“I should have known my missus would be against the cattle business. She wasn’t even that fond of sheep. Oh, thank you, thank you! You saved me from making a big mistake.” He took off, clutching the photograph in both hands.

“Does this mean you don’t want me to take another photograph?” she called after him, but he kept going.

Still bewildered by Mr. Garrett’s erratic behavior, she climbed onto the seat of her father’s wagon and prodded Moses to hurry, anxious to avail herself of a bath and change of clothes. Maybe once she cleared her mind, she could figure out a way to undo some of the damage done to Mr. Wolf.

Eleven

When posing, a small toy is appropriate in a child’s hand. A fan is
permissible for a woman. But a man must refrain from holding a
handgun or other weapon for that would label him a ruffian for all
time—and a rose won’t do him any good either.

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

T
he day went from bad to worse. Not only was Lucy out of a job, waiting for her brother was like sitting on a pincushion. In an effort to think about other things, she tried concentrating on household chores. She swept and dusted and filled vases full of flowers, but still she worried. She was so distressed she completely forgot about Timber Joe’s appointment.

Fortunately, before leaving for Garland, she’d asked Redd and Barrel to help her. As promised, they arrived on her doorstep with shirt and trousers at the appointed hour.

Never would she have guessed that photographing Timber Joe would be such a hassle. It took the better part of an hour just for Barrel to give him a shave and haircut.

Harder still was trying to stay focused. She couldn’t stop thinking about Wolf. Surely the sheriff wouldn’t refuse admittance to Doc Myers’s assistant, though she had little hope of the sheriff believing anything Caleb had to say. Her gaze wandered to the window. Where was he? What was taking her brother so long? And why oh why hadn’t she gone herself?

Timber Joe picked up on her anxiety. “Don’t you worry, Lucy. That wild man is locked up tighter than a new boot. And even if he weren’t he’d have me and old Stanley here to contend with.” Stanley was how he sometimes referred to his rifle.

“He’s not wild,” Lucy said, her voice husky. “What Barnes wrote was wrong.”

“Not according to the picture, and pictures don’t lie.” Timber Joe struck a pose. “What do you think?”

She tried to concentrate. “Timber Joe, for goodness’ sake. You look as stiff as a scarecrow.”

“I don’t know why I gotta have my picture taken anyway,” Timber Joe grumbled. “I told Annabelle everything she needs to know about me.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Lucy said. She gazed through the viewfinder. “Lower your chin. Now look at the camera.”

“The shirt is stained,” Barrel said, disapproving Redd’s contributions. Barrel’s own clothes were always immaculate, but they were far too large for Timber Joe’s slender frame.

Redd glared at Barrel. “You can’t work around food without getting it on your clothes.”

“Never mind the shirt,” she said. “We have to make him stand more natural.” The newer cameras had shortened exposure times and it was no longer necessary for the subject to stand for long periods of time like stone statues.

“I want a profile,” Timber Joe said, turning sideways.

It seemed like a reasonable request until Lucy got a good look at his prominent nose. At the current angle, it looked like the map of Italy. Worse, the hand plastered on his hip resembled a bloated starfish.

Barrel frowned and Redd pointed to his own nose and rolled his eyes.

Lucy sighed and tried to think of a tactful way to get Timber Joe to try another pose.

A woman was so much easier to pose than a man. She could always be given something to do with her hands. She could arrange flowers, hold a fan or parasol, pick up her skirt, or simply strike a delicate pose with forefinger and thumb together. But there was only so much a man could do without looking foppish.

“I think a face-on shot would be much more to your lady’s liking,” she said. “When you stand sideways your features dominate and she won’t be able to perceive your character.”

Timber Joe stubbornly held his pose. “This is how Julius Caesar posed for his portraits. What was good enough for Julius is good enough for me.”

She sighed and squeezed the air ball that controlled the shutter.

Photograph after photograph she snapped, but none seemed right. The revealing moment she looked for when taking a person’s picture didn’t materialize.

Timber Joe frowned.

He glared.

He glowered.

He scowled.

Redd tried to get him to relax by telling ridiculous jokes. Barrel sang an aria from
The Barber of Seville
, changing some words to English for their benefit, his strong vibrant voice rattling the windows. A portly man as tall as he was wide, he jumped up on a chair with a dancer’s agility, snipping the air with his scissors.

“Figaro here, Figaro there. Figaro up, Figaro down . . .” Barrel had trained as an opera singer but his stage fright kept him from singing professionally, though he did sing in the church choir.

Lucy laughed and clapped her hands. Even Redd chuckled from time to time, though he had little regard for opera. Timber Joe remained stoic, his spine steel-rod straight.

After Barrel’s performance, Lucy threw up her hands. “This will never do. Annabelle will take one look at you and marry someone else.”

“It’s because I don’t look like a soldier,” Timber Joe insisted.

“Actually that tomato stain on your shirt looks like you’re wounded,” Redd said, trying to help.

Timber Joe pulled the bowler off his head and tossed it to the ground. “I don’t look like myself. That’s the problem. Annabelle will see my photograph and want nothing more to do with me.” He reached for his kepi cap and grabbed his rifle.

He placed his hat on his head and struck a pose. “Now you can take my photograph.”

Lucy blew a wisp of hair away from her face. “I don’t think it wise to emphasize your Confederate affiliation.”

“Why not?” Timber Joe demanded. “I’m a Confederate soldier. That’s who I am.”

“Was,” Redd said, which only made Timber Joe scowl more.

“Once a soldier, always a soldier,” he insisted.

She tried to choose her words carefully. “Some people think slavery was wrong,” she said cautiously. “Maybe even Annabelle.”

Timber Joe snapped to attention. “Of course it’s wrong. Even General Lee said slavery was a sin. I wasn’t fighting to uphold slavery. My brother and I fought to protect our homeland. That’s what we were fighting for. If Annabelle finds fault with that, then she’s not the woman for me.” He then went on to talk about his twin brother who died in the war. His words came slowly as if he was speaking in a language not his own.

“I lost a leg and Tommy lost his life, but he would think my sacrifice greater. That’s the kind of man he was.”

His voice broke and his eyes grew misty—a window of his soul opened—and Lucy got the moment she had hoped for.

It was a good thing, too, because Timber Joe had about all he could take of posing.

“I have one more plate left. Barrel, would you like me to take your photograph? I’m sure Brenda would be pleased.” Brenda and Barrel had been married for less than a year.

Barrel waved both hands in front as if warding off an attack. “In opera, a person stabbed or shot is required to sing. I have the same impulse when facing a camera.” And just in case she wouldn’t take no for an answer, he quickly followed Timber Joe outside.

“How about you, Redd?” When he didn’t respond, she looked his way. He stood by the desk holding up one of her photographs.

“Is this Miss Hogg?” he asked, his eyes wide with astonishment.

She walked over and glanced at the print. “Yes. That was taken on the opening day of Jenny’s shop.” She smiled at the memory of Emma Hogg lying flat on the floor, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“What’s that thing on her head?”

“It’s a chemise,” she said.

“A ch-chemise.” His face reddened.

“Why, Redd Reeder, I do believe you’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing. I just don’t think people should go around wearing . . .”

“A chemise.”

“ . . . on their heads.” He cleared his throat.

She plucked the photograph out of his hands. The look of pure joy on Emma’s face filled her with a strange longing.

“Whenever I look through a lens, I feel like I’m the subject,” she said. It was as if another person’s joy or dreams became her own—if only for a fleeting moment of time. It was an odd feeling and one she couldn’t quite explain.

Redd’s already droopy eyebrows slanted another notch lower. “If that’s true, you’d best avoid photographing politicians.” With another quick glance at the print in her hands, he rushed to the door.

The sun had already set by the time Caleb drove up in the store wagon. Lucy stood by the gate waiting for him. He looked like he was bursting with news. “Whoa!” he called out, but Moses—smelling water, feed, or both—had no intention of slowing down until he reached the barn.

“Did you know that the skin is the largest organ of the body?” Caleb yelled as he sailed past her. Chickens scattered out of his way with furious clucks, feathers flying every which way.

“That’s it?” she called after him. “That’s what you have to tell me?” She picked up her skirt and raced after him. “Caleb Fairbanks, answer me this minute. Did you or did you not see Mr. Wolf?” She stormed into the barn.

He thrust his medical book into her arms and jumped to the ground. “He wasn’t there.”

Her heart nearly stood still. “What . . . what do you mean he wasn’t there?”

He unharnessed Moses and led the animal into a stall. “The sheriff released him.”

“That’s good news. Isn’t it?”

“I guess so. The sheriff told him to leave the area and never come back.”

The news hit her like a blow. Wolf was gone? “What about his leg wound?” she managed to squeak out.