Margaret Brownley (26 page)

“I’m sorry the church fire has caused you so much trouble. I heard what they said. I just want you to know I’ll make this right. You shouldn’t have to pay for helping me.”

“It was partly my fault,” she said. She didn’t want to talk about the church. Not now. There were too many other more pressing matters. Out of necessity, she pushed him away. It was the only way she could think clearly.

“What have you done with Barnes?” she asked, hands clenched.

Arms at his side, a puzzled expression crossed his face. “What are you talking about?”

“Barnes is missing and the marshal suspects foul play.” Now
she
was beginning to sound like a dime novel. “There’s talk in town . . .” She hesitated, hating the question that played on her lips. “Did you . . . ?”

His face darkened. “I can’t believe you would think such a thing of me.”

“What would you have me believe? You asked if I knew a man with a scar and I told you about Barnes.”

“I did nothing to harm him,” David said. “I didn’t even know he was missing.”

She wanted so much to believe him, she did, but too many images flashed through her head. “I saw you the night he disappeared. Near town.”

“I remember,” he said.

A voice floated from the distance. “Lucinda?” It was Crankshaw. He was the only one who called her by her given name, and she hated it.

She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh no.”

David squeezed her arm. “Meet me later at the old mission.”

She gazed up at him. Her heart believed him but she couldn’t quiet the misgivings of the mind.

“Trust me,” he pleaded. “I’m telling you the truth.” With that he was gone.

Lucy turned just as Mr. Crankshaw stepped into the small clearing. His long pointed face anchored by a neatly trimmed goatee, he looked every bit an Easterner in his striped trousers, semi-cutaway coat, and tall silk hat.

He patted his forehead with a handkerchief and greeted her with a nod. His family had made a fortune in railroads, which allowed him to dabble in oil, a crazy idea at best.

Though he claimed to have produced several thousand barrels, the price of oil was not high enough to justify his efforts. Everyone expected him to give up and return to New York, and it couldn’t be soon enough for her. Unfortunately he was as stubborn in his pursuit of devil’s tar, as some called it, as he was in his pursuit of her hand.

“Lucinda?” She cringed.

He glanced around as if he suspected she had not been alone. He stuck his handkerchief in his coat pocket. “Are you all right? You look flushed.”

“It’s j-just the heat,” she stammered.

“Yes, of course. Let me take you home.” He took her by the arm with a familiarity that irritated her.

“Thank you for your kind offer,” she said, pulling her arm away. “But I came with my brother.”

She turned and walked away, but he fell in step beside her. “I spoke to your father,” he said. “Did he tell you?”

“He mentioned something.”

“Something?” He grabbed her by the wrist. “Something?” He glared down at her. “‘Do you think a man’s proposal of marriage is some sort of joke?”

Regretting her dismissive tone, she shook her head. “I didn’t mean to suggest . . . I do appreciate your offer.”

“I don’t want your gratitude,” he said, moving his hand away.

“What I mean to say is . . . I’m afraid you would find me wanting as a wife. My photography takes up much of my time.”

“I’m sure we can allot time for your leisurely pursuits,” he said.

She kept her voice even. “I’m afraid my
profession
takes up more time than you know,” she said.

“Your profession?” The tolerant look on his face contradicted the dismissive tone of his voice. “It’s not like you have regular employment.”

That part was true, but it irked her that he saw fit to point it out.

Caleb called to her from a short distance away, waving his arm to gain her attention. Relieved that she had a legitimate excuse for cutting the conversation short, she waved back.

“I’m sorry. My brother is waiting.”

She picked up her skirt and ran to her brother’s side. Moments later she sat in the driver’s seat and took hold of the reins. She glanced back to find Crankshaw staring at the wooded area where she’d briefly met David.

He knows
. The thought sent an icy chill through her body.
He knows I wasn’t alone
.

Twenty

Saloon girls, soiled doves, and suffragettes should take special care
with dress and composure when being photographed so as not to
advertise, boast, or otherwise draw attention to one’s scandalous
profession or controversial causes.

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

I
t was late that afternoon before she was able to sneak away and drive to the mission. The building had been deserted for years and had fallen into disrepair. Was this where he was staying? Is that why he asked her to meet him here?

The adobe Moorish-style building was surrounded by weeds, a crumbling fountain, and the remnants of an aqueduct built to transport water from the river to the crops once grown there. Long narrow windows were carved in between support columns. The bell tower had toppled, but the outdoor stone staircase used by former bell ringers remained.

In 1716 Captain Domingo Ramón came to Texas with a small army of soldiers and friars to build and establish missions. The purpose was to bring Christianity to the Indians. No proof existed that the captain had built this particular mission but tradition dictated that he had.

Though the sun was warm, Lucy shivered. This was the closest she had ever been to the mission. She’d heard numerous tales about the structure through the years, stories about ringing bells and unexplained lights. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but today, even in the bright afternoon sun, the eerie silence unnerved her.

She sat parked in front for several moments. She wanted so much to go to him, to believe that his whispered words were true, that he had nothing to do with Barnes’s disappearance.

But if not Wolf, then who?

Afraid to trust her instincts, she snapped the reins and drove away.

Old Man Appleby obviously did not take kindly to Lucy’s temporary studio outside her father’s store. “How’s a man supp’se to git any peace and quiet with all these comin’s and goin’s?” he complained.

“I’m sorry, but it is for a good cause.” Lucy checked the money in her box. Funds for the new church dribbled in much slower than she’d hoped, but she refused to be discouraged. “To make up for your inconvenience, I’ll take your photograph for free.”

Appleby grimaced. “This here face stays right where it is, and I ain’t wanting to see it on no paper.”

Lucy sighed. There was no reasoning with the man. “Would you like me to move your chair to another place? Perhaps in front of the barbershop?”

“You want me to get my ears blasted?” He made a face. “All the barb’rs in the country, we have to git stuck with one that sings opera.” He glanced up the street and made a face. “Argh. Would you look at that?”

Lucy followed his gaze. Mrs. Taylor led a small band of women down the middle of Main Street. The women, all members of the Rocky Creek Suffra-Quilters, carried signs and chanted, “Equal rights, equal rights.”

Appleby took off, running along the boardwalk like his pants were on fire. Lucy couldn’t help but laugh.

The marching women drew near and their chants grew louder. Millard Weatherbee, obviously thinking that supporting women’s rights would somehow help him get elected to the state senate, followed close behind. Women didn’t have the vote but they did exert influence on the men in their lives.

Other women ran to join them, some dropping their shopping bags en route. Miss Emma Hogg held on to her hat as she ran down the street trying to catch up. Jenny Armstrong came out of her shop to wave, her sisters Mary Lou and Brenda by her side.

Lucy longed to join the march but she didn’t want to leave her camera. Instead she called for them to stop so she could take their photograph.

Mrs. Fields, a birdlike woman with drab brown hair and pointed nose, shook her head and frowned. “That might hurt our cause. A camera is so much kinder to men than it is to women.”

Mrs. Taylor scoffed. “Nonsense. The camera treats both men and women with equal disdain. That makes it more democratic than our legislature.”

She faced the camera and the others followed her lead. Lucy tried her best to get them to smile but her efforts only made the women more self-conscious.

Mrs. Hitchcock straightened her hat. “That nice Englishman Mr. Garrett . . . Mr. Garrett . . . told me that whenever he faces the camera he simply relaxes and thinks of England. Thinks of England.”

“How interesting,” said Mrs. Taylor. “I believe that’s the same advice Queen Victoria gave her daughter on her wedding night.”

No one said a word after that but the tittering smiles on their faces spoke volumes.

No sooner had Lucy snapped her photograph than the bat-wing doors of Jake’s Saloon swung open and Appleby and the other members of The Society for the Protection and Preservation of Male Independence came marching out.

The men chanted, “No votes for women.”

The women yelled back. “Women’s rights, women’s rights.”

The saloons all along Main Street emptied as men ran outside to see what the ruckus was all about.

Mrs. Taylor’s voice rose above the rest. “We will fight to have our votes counted until the crack of doom.”

“I reckon that makes you a crackpot,” Appleby bellowed back.

His remark was promptly met by Mrs. Taylor’s banner, which somehow managed to land on top of his head. Suddenly, all Hades broke loose. Hats and banners flew up in the air and several onlookers jumped into the fray.

Lucy watched in horror as Mrs. Hitchcock pushed one of the saloon owners down on the ground and sat on top of him. The town’s blacksmith, Link Haskell, tried to grab her arm but accidentally hit Millard Weatherbee in the nose instead. The young candidate responded in kind and the two men fell to the ground.

Lee Wong, the slightly built owner of the Chinese laundry, flipped Redd head over heels as if he were nothing more than a feather pillow. Caleb, who had run out of his father’s store upon hearing shouts, stared with open mouth.

Crying out, Lucy leaped off the boardwalk and rushed to his side. “Redd! Are you all right?” She fell to her knees and cradled his head with one arm while motioning to her brother with the other. “Caleb! Come quick!”

“I’m all right,” Redd said, though he didn’t sound like it.

Caleb slid next to her and she moved away so he could examine Redd.

“Wow,” Caleb said, his voice in awe. “Mr. Wong whirled you around like a whirligig. How did he do that?”

Lucy elbowed him with a hush. Just then Barrel ran out of the barbershop and was met by a fist to his jaw. Lucy gasped when her second friend hit the ground.

She started forward but Caleb held her back. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’ll be fine. The jawbone’s the hardest bone in the body.”

Something inside her snapped. “Stop it, all of you,” she shouted, but no one could hear her for the grunts, groans, and insults.

“You ole windbag.” Appleby grabbed Mrs. Hitchcock’s feathered hat.

Miss Hogg tripped him with her foot. “You ninny hammering fool.”

“You buffle-headed . . .”

Caleb cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Hey, watch the clavicle.”

“Don’t tell me,” Lucy muttered, “that’s the easiest bone to break.”

“One of them,” Caleb said. “Careful,” he bellowed, “that’s his femur.” To Lucy he said, “Remember when I broke mine? It really hurt.”

Redd sat up with a groan and grabbed the back of his neck. “I sure hope your brother never has occasion to fight in a war.”

Caleb ran his hand up and down Redd’s back checking for injuries. “Doc Myers said if more people practiced preventative medicine he would get more sleep.” He lifted his voice to address an overzealous lady battering the blacksmith with her fists. “Careful of the ribs.”