Margaret Brownley (15 page)

Caleb shrugged. After checking Moses’s food and water, he joined her by the barn door. “All I know is that the sheriff said if he ever laid eyes on the man again, he would lock him up for good.”

“Oh.” Surprised to find herself close to tears, she shoved his books into his arms. She then whirled about and started toward the house.

David Wolf was gone. Now she could never explain the article in the paper. Or tell him how sorry she was. Or how much she—

“If you don’t quit your yapping, I’ll have to kiss you again
.”

Startled by the voice, she spun around before she realized she’d imagined it.

Overhead, a star winked in the twilight gray sky as if enjoying a joke at her expense.

Surprised by the way the intrusive memory affected her, she shook her head. Kissing Wolf was the furthest thing from her mind—or at least it should be. Had to be. With this thought she broke into a full run in an effort to escape the memory of him.

In the days that followed, Lucy felt depressed and restless. Even working in her darkroom failed to lift her spirits. She refused to think it had anything to do with Wolf. It was her failure to obtain meaningful employment as a photographer that left her bereft. And why wouldn’t it? She would soon be twenty-one and her future looked bleak. She prayed for God’s guidance but none was forthcoming, and she felt very much alone. If God had a plan for her, he was keeping it to himself.

More than her own future, she worried about Caleb’s. There was no way her father could afford to send him to medical school when the time came. The money she made taking family photographs barely paid for the cost of plates and chemicals.

Seated at her desk, she pulled out pen and paper and wrote letters seeking employment. She addressed her letters to newspapers in Houston, Dallas, St. Louis, and Kansas City. She even wrote letters to the
Chicago Tribune
,
The New York Times
, and
The Boston Globe
. She hated the thought of traveling so far away from home and leaving family and friends, but she couldn’t think of any other way to help pay for Caleb’s education.

After sealing her letters with wax, she tucked them into her reticule and carefully slid Timber Joe’s photograph into her satchel. She then drove into town. Timber Joe stood guard by the Wells Fargo bank, rifle flung over his shoulder, talking to Redd.

She parked her wagon across from the bank and tucked her leather satchel beneath her arm. She then hurried across the street to join them. Both men turned to greet her.

“What brings you to town so early?” Redd asked. He was dressed in a ketchup-stained apron and wore a floppy white hat.

“I have Timber Joe’s photograph,” she said. She made no mention of the letters she intended to mail. Pulling a print from her portfolio, she handed it to Timber Joe. She was pleased with the finished picture. The composition, light—everything was perfect. But no more so than Timber Joe. The expression on his face as he talked about the brother lost in the war was pure love, and she had captured it in all its glory.

Expecting a positive response, she didn’t know what to make of his stoic face as he stared at the photograph in his hand.

“I can’t send this to Annabelle,” he said at last. “I look like we lost the war.”

“You
did
lose the war,” Redd said, in his ever-helpful way.

“No need to advertise it,” Timber Joe groused.

Lucy tried not to let her disappointment show. She should have known that Timber Joe would think showing emotion was a sign of weakness. He was a soldier through and through.

“It’s a wonderful likeness,” she insisted. “Your lady friend will be impressed.”

Timber Joe looked unconvinced. “I don’t know . . .”

After arguing about it for several moments, Lucy squeezed his arm. “Trust me. I’m a woman and I know these things. Annabelle will love it.” She beseeched Redd silently to convince Timber Joe she was right.

Timber Joe was still staring at the photograph and shaking his head when she left and headed for Fairbanks General Merchandise on the opposite side of the street. Her father stood behind the counter helping Mrs. Weatherbee with her order.

Caleb greeted her with a silly grin. “Your wet plates didn’t come yet,” he said, correctly guessing one of her reasons for being there.

Catching her staring at the stack of groceries on the counter, Caleb whispered, “You won’t believe how much food that woman buys. She’s in here every couple of days. Do you suppose Millard eats that much?”

“Running for office is hard work,” she whispered back. Running for state senator had to be almost as difficult as running for president. “Have . . . have you noticed anything strange about her?”

“You mean stranger than usual?”

She nodded. “She talks to herself and sometimes I don’t think she recognizes me. Maybe you should mention it to Doc Myers. Something’s not right with her brain.”

“Talking to Doc Myers won’t do much good unless she seeks his help herself,” Caleb said. He broke into a wide grin. “Speaking of the brain, do you know why it’s impossible to tickle yourself?”

She laughed. “No, why?”

“Doc Myers said it’s because the brain anticipates your touch. A tickle makes you laugh only if you ambush the brain, and you can’t do that by yourself.”

“Mystery solved,” she teased, and since he looked about to regale her with more facts about the body, she quickly stuffed her letters into the bag waiting to be taken to the train station, careful to leave the right amount for postage. She then threw him a kiss and left.

Across the way, Redd and Timber Joe were still arguing over the photograph. With a sigh she stroked Tripod on the neck. “I don’t know which are harder to photograph, men or women.”

With women it was all about appearances and youthfulness. Men simply wanted to look invincible.

Climbing onto the seat, she slapped the reins against Tripod’s behind and the wagon took off. It was a beautiful, clear day in late May. White clouds gathered like sheep on the distant horizon. Trees stretched and swayed in the gentle breeze. Though bluebonnets had faded away with the last breath of spring, an abundance of wildflowers danced across the landscape.

Normally she would have stopped to take photographs, but now that she had switched to the more convenient dry plates, she could no longer afford to take pictures for her own enjoyment alone. At three dollars a dozen, dry plates had to be saved for paying jobs. She did, however, hold up one hand and peer through the frame made with forefinger and thumb.

What a beautiful picture, and how she longed to take it. It was the kind of picture she imagined her mother painting. Sighing, she dropped her hand and forced Tripod to pick up speed.

A cow standing by the side of the road lifted its head and mooed, but not even the steady
clip-clopping
of the horse’s hooves and squeak of wagon wheels penetrated her dark thoughts.

Something touched her shoulder and she jumped. Crying out in alarm, she swung her head around and gasped,
“Mr
.
Wolf!
”

Heart racing, she tugged on the reins and tried to catch her breath. “Don’t ever do that again!” She set the brake and leaped to the ground. Hands at her waist, she faced him. “You near scared the life out of me.”

“Sorry.” Slumped against the inside of the wagon, he looked alarmingly weak. His eyes were glazed, his forehead beaded in sweat. Her anger evaporating, she moved closer.

“I heard you were released,” she said.

“The sheriff couldn’t trump up enough charges to keep me any longer.” His usual strong voice sounded strained, as if it took every bit of his energy to speak. He continued, “What you wrote . . .”

“I didn’t write that article.”

“It was your photograph,” he said, his voice thick with censure.

“Yes, it was,” she admitted. “And Barnes promised to print what I wrote, but he didn’t.”

His gaze sharpened. “What
did
you write?”

“I wrote that the rumors were false and that you kept the stagecoach from being robbed.”

He grimaced but didn’t respond. Had he heard what she said? And if he had, did he even believe her?

She stepped forward. It was then she saw the spot of fresh blood on his buckskin trousers. “Your leg.”

“It’s infected,” he said.

“Ohhh!” Her mind scrambled. “I’ll take you to the doctor.”

“No!”

Startled by the fervor in his voice, she tried to think what to do. “An infection is serious. You could lose your—”

“No doctor!” he said sharply.

“But . . . all right,” she said reluctantly, not wanting to upset him any more than he already was.

He groaned. She reached out to comfort him but fell short of touching him. “I’m so sorry you landed in jail. I should never have trusted Barnes.”

He said something but she couldn’t make out what it was. An insult, no doubt. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, his lips slightly parted.

She reached over the side of the wagon and gently shook him. “Mr. Wolf?”

No answer.

“David?”

Nothing.

Worried, she laid her hand on his forehead. He was burning with fever. What if he died? It would be her fault. Oh, why had she trusted Barnes? She forced herself to calm down.

Caleb! He would know what to do.

Climbing into the wagon bed, she arranged a folded prayer shawl under his head, then gently brushed his hair aside. “God, please don’t let him die.”

Since he was burning with fever, she didn’t dare cover him with the blanket. Instead, she rearranged her photographic equipment to better hide him from view and protect him from the sun.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, she quickly turned the wagon around and raced back to town.

One prayer was answered at least. Caleb was outside loading boxes of supplies into a customer’s cart. She parked a distance away from the store so her father wouldn’t see her.

She called to her brother and when he looked up, she signaled with a frantic wave. He finished loading the last of the boxes before joining her.

He looked irritated. “Now what? Don’t tell me you and Mr. Barnes had another argument.”

“Shh.” She glanced around. Much to her dismay, Mrs. Weatherbee walked out of Jenny’s Ladies Emporium. She looked like she was talking to herself. It seemed like the woman grew stranger every day.

In an effort to act normal, Lucy smiled and waved. The woman looked about to ignore her. She started down the street, then stopped. Apparently recalling that her son was running for office, she lifted her hand in a halfhearted wave.

Lucy turned back to her brother. “Mr. Wolf is in the wagon,” she whispered. “Don’t look. He needs medical care. His leg is infected
. Don’t look
.”

A shadow of alarm flitted across Caleb’s brow. “I’ll go fetch Doc Myers.”

“No!” In a softer voice she added, “I promised him I wouldn’t involve the doctor.”

His face clouded in disbelief. “Have you any idea how serious an infection can be?” Despite her warning, he glanced at Wolf and shook his head. “He needs medical care.”

“That’s why you have to help me.”

“I’m not a doctor,” he said, his voice adamant.

She glanced around. The longer they stood arguing, the greater the chance that someone might walk by and spot Wolf in her wagon.

“I don’t have time to discuss this now. I need something for the infection. And bandages and bedding.” She ticked off what she needed on her fingers. “Blankets. Pillow. Meet me at . . .”

Where? She needed a place nearby but didn’t dare take him home. Thanks to Barnes’s article, folks still thought he was a wild man. There was no telling what they would do if they knew he was still in town.

“The church,” she said. “Meet me at the church. There’s an anteroom off the altar for storage. I don’t think anyone uses it now that school is out for the summer. He’ll be safe there, at least for a while.”

Caleb started to say something but she cut him off. “Please, Caleb, we’ll talk about this later. Now hurry. And don’t say anything to Papa. Go!”

Just then, her friend Monica walked out of Jenny’s store carrying a package. Upon seeing Lucy her face lit up. “Oh, do look what I bought,” she called, stepping off the wooden sidewalk.