Margaret Brownley (32 page)

“You talked to Pastor Wells?” This surprised her.

“Yes, and he asked me to draw up plans.” He spread the paper out and ran his finger over the drawing, naming the different areas. “This is the classroom. I put Pastor Wells’s office on the opposite side of the sanctuary so he won’t be disturbed by pupils. This, here, is the library.”

“It’s wonderful,” she said, though she had serious misgivings. Classrooms? Office? Library? Her heart sank. She would have to sell a whole lot more photographs to build such a fine church.

He rolled up the drawing and set it on the desk. “Come on, I’ll walk you outside.”

He grabbed her satchel and camera and led the way. They had just reached the courtyard when David suddenly pulled back inside.

“It’s the marshal,” he whispered. “He’s checking out your horse and wagon.”

Lucy’s heart pounded. How would she ever explain her presence at the deserted mission? Then she thought of something. She took her camera from him.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said. Without waiting for him to approve or disapprove, she followed the clay tile path to the front of the mission and greeted the marshal with a smile.

Marshal Armstrong lifted his hat. “Didn’t expect to see you, ma’am,” he said. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Taking photographs,” she replied. At least that much was true. “It’s a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky. A perfect day for taking pictures and—” No, she wouldn’t babble. He was bound to know she was nervous and hiding something. She forced herself to stop talking.

He hooked his thumbs on his gun belt. If he suspected anything, she couldn’t tell. “It’s not a good idea for a woman to be alone out here. We might have a killer on the loose.”

A killer? A soft gasp escaped her. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions but it’s been almost a week and there’s still no sign of Barnes.” Hands still on his waist, he looked around and she held her breath, waiting.

“I do have some good news for you,” he said. His gaze returned to her face. “I got a telegram from Houston. They’ve arrested three men who held up a stage there. The men fit the descriptions you gave me.”

“I’m so happy to hear that,” she said. Maybe now she could forget about the holdup. She hesitated. “Sarah was worried that one of them might have been her brother. I tried to tell her they weren’t but you know how she worries.” She was tempted to keep talking but she clamped her mouth shut.

“None of them resembled the Prescott gang,” he said. “I reckon I should stop by and put her mind to rest. Meanwhile, I think it would be best if you stay close to town until we find out for sure what happened to Barnes.” He made no mention of David.

“I . . . I’ll do that,” she said. She placed her camera into the back of her wagon and scrambled into the driver’s seat.

Marshal Armstrong swung into the saddle of his horse. He touched a finger to the brim of his hat and galloped away.

She waited until he was out of sight before she jumped to the ground and ran back to the mission.

David was nowhere to be found. Even his chair was missing.

She ran outside to the back. “David!”

She caught sight of him in the distance, standing at the edge of the woods. Finger to his lips he motioned her to join him with his other hand.

She hurried to his side. With a hushing sound, he led the way through the woods to the edge of a meadow where the white mustang grazed.

She gasped with delight, which brought a grin to his face.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispered. Even more beautiful in the sun than in the moonlight.

As if sensing their presence, the horse lifted its head. Raising his tail, he raced away and disappeared in the trees. All too soon he was nothing more than a memory.

“Too bad you didn’t have your camera with you,” David said.

“I couldn’t have gotten his picture anyway. There wasn’t enough time.” She turned to meet his gaze. “Maybe some things aren’t meant to be photographed.” It was a pity really. The white stallion had a beauty all its own.

“Why do you suppose differences in nature are valued but not differences in people?” she asked. She hated knowing that David and Lee Wong had to fight for acceptance. Or that colored children were required to go to separate schools. As a woman she knew some of what they went through, but not all. She knew what it was like to be judged for her gender but not by the color of her skin.

“People feel threatened by what they don’t know or understand,” he replied quietly. “No one feels threatened by a white horse.”

She smiled up at him. He looked so handsome it was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around him. “Not even a black horse?” she asked.

They shared a laugh before she grew serious again. “Just think what a wonderful world this would be if everyone learned to love more like God.”

“Or like you.” She blushed and he continued. “Your photographs . . . they’re special.”

Something in the way he said it filled her with joy. “Special?”

“That picture . . . the one of the lame man . . . I knew before you told me. Not about his leg but the sadness. I could see the sadness on his face. Your photographs don’t just capture an image, they tell a story. You’re an artist.”

An artist
. He called her an artist. No one had ever before called her that. Never could she imagine how sweet it would sound—or how deeply it would touch her.

“You saw the sadness because that’s all
he
sees,” she said. “In his mind, nothing exists outside his bad leg.”

“Ah, so he can’t see the forest for the trees,” he said.

Like you
, she wanted to say but didn’t. He saw the barriers that separated him from the rest of the world—from her—but failed to see the bonds that drew them together.

“I can’t stay,” she said. Biting back tears, she turned, anxious to make her escape.

“Lucy.” He caught her by the arm, trapping her with ironlike fingers. “Did I say something wrong?”

His hand on her arm sent tingles down her spine.
Don’t touch me
, she wanted to say.
Don’t look at me like that. Don’t make me love you any more than I already do
. When she finally found her voice she said none of those things.

“What do you plan to do when you finish your business here . . . do you plan to stay?” She was treading on dangerous ground. If there was the slightest possibility they could be together, she would give up her plans to seek employment out of town in a flash, despite her financial problems.

Frowning, he released her arm. “I plan to go back to the Panhandle and help Combes’s son. I can’t stay here.”

She turned to face him. “Because of the bad memories?”

“Because of who I am.” His jaw tightened. “I’m part Indian and part white. Together they don’t make a whole.”

She threw up her arms in exasperation “You’re like the lame man,” she charged. “You see only one thing.”

He stepped back as if she’d slapped him. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Without giving him a chance to answer, she added, “Pastor Wells says we’re all children of God. We’re all the same in his eyes. I know that doesn’t change how other people think, but it’s a place to start.”

“You believe in a kind and forgiving God.” He shook his head as if the very idea of a loving God confounded him. “That’s not what I was taught.” He nodded toward the mission, his face grim. “They used to beat us for reciting a Bible verse wrong or growing restless during prayer.”

“That’s not the Christian way,” she said. She moved toward him and laid a hand on his cheek.

He took her hand in his and held it tight. “Maybe not, but it’s my experience that more people believe in a punishing God than a loving one.”

“They’re wrong,” she said. “God doesn’t care if we get the words wrong or we can’t sit still. If that were the case we’d all be in trouble. He doesn’t care about outer appearances. He cares about what’s inside.”

He squeezed her hand. “That’s why I like your photographs,” he said. “Because they show what’s inside.”

“Some people say the lens of a camera is like God’s eyes,” she said.

His mouth curved upward and something like a light passed between them. “You’ll make me believe in a loving God yet.”

“I certainly hope so.” She smiled back at him, and for the longest while his gaze held hers. Finally he lowered his head as if to kiss her, their lips barely a breath apart. Instead he pulled away with a groan.

“I can’t,” he said. “It’s not right.”

“What’s not right?” she whispered.

“Loving you.” She held her breath, his words washing over her like the warming rays of the sun. “I can’t help how I feel,” he continued, “but that doesn’t make it any less wrong.”

She gazed up at him. He loved her. He actually
loved
her. Her heart leaped with joy. “How . . . how could that be wrong?”

He shook his head sadly. “Lucy . . .” He said her name slowly, as if he didn’t want to release it. “You can’t possibly know what you’re asking.”

She pulled her hand away. “I don’t care what anyone thinks or says,” she lashed out. “That’s not who I am.”

“Do you think I want it this way? I’ve been run out of more towns than you can imagine. I’ve been spit on and shot at for simply being a half-breed. Even while working at Combes’s, I can’t show my face. I can’t put you through that. I won’t.” His face bleak, he stared at her a moment before turning to walk away.

She stared after him. Had he stomped on her heart it wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, hurt more. The gloomy future he described couldn’t be any worse than the bleak future she imagined without him.

Jaw held tight, David Wolf wielded the ax over his head and brought it down with a quick swing of the arm. The blade hit the chair with a bang, cracking the seat and sending wood chips flying around the room. He struck the chair again and again. He pounded with his ax until the last of the carving had scattered in tiny splinters. The carving—the wolf—had come from a part of him he had come to hate, a part that kept him from the woman he loved, a part he wanted destroyed.

Malcolm Combes said his way with wood was a gift. “Too bad it’s wasted on a half-breed.” Combes didn’t mean to be unkind. He was simply stating a fact. It was his way of saying that such talent would never be allowed to flourish in the open.

That part never bothered him before. He liked working behind the scenes, turning wood into beautiful yet functional pieces of furniture. It gave him great pleasure knowing that his creations were welcomed into people’s homes even if he wasn’t.

But it bothered him now. Not just the work part, but all of it. He no longer wanted to stay in the background. He wanted to live a normal life, to be front and center in Lucy’s life. For once it wasn’t his past that mattered. It was his future—the future he faced without Lucy.

Twenty-four

A lady should have her photograph taken but three times: once when
she’s born, once when she weds, and once for posterity.

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

L
ucy gathered up her camera equipment and checked her plates. Timber Joe’s future bride was scheduled to arrive on the eleven a.m. train from Dallas. Lucy had every intention of photographing the occasion despite his objections.

“One day Timber Joe will thank me,” she said, leaning down to stroke the cat.

As if to agree with her, Extra meowed loudly and rubbed against the hem of her skirt. Lucy sighed. “I just hope Barrel and Redd manage to get Timber Joe into proper clothes.”

She checked Extra’s water dish and grabbed her satchel. Camera in hand, she ripped open the door and was surprised to find Richard Crankshaw standing on her porch, his fist held high.

“I was just about to knock,” he said.

He was the last person she wanted to see, but she didn’t want to appear rude. “I’m sorry. I was just on my way out.”

“This won’t take long.” He pushed his way past her and took off his derby.

The moment Crankshaw entered the parlor, Extra stopped licking his paw and hissed, ingratiating himself into Lucy’s heart.