Margaret Brownley (8 page)

She set her camera on the exact spot she imagined her mother must have sat. Trees had grown through the years, brush had thickened, the water was higher from the recent rains, but the outline of the rock was the same. She adjusted the lens until the granite eagle was exactly where it was in her mother’s painting.

Forgetting her original purpose for coming here, she took photograph after photograph, hoping by some miracle to shed light on the mysteries of her mother’s painting.
What were you thinking, Mama, when you sat here? Talk to me
.

She sighed. Not only was her life one big question mark, it seemed destined to stay that way.

Much to her dismay she realized she had used up all her plates. Her plan to capture a photograph of the intriguing stranger would have to wait.

She gathered up her camera and lugged it all the way back to her horse and wagon. Tripod whickered and greeted her with a nod of his head. Stroking the gelding’s slick brown neck, she sighed. With one simple photograph she could have put the persistent and often frightening rumors of a wild man to rest once and for all.

Since she had set her sights on publishing her photographs in the
Rocky Creek Gazette
, her work had been marked by one failure after another.
God, why are you making it so difficult for me?

It was the last day of the year for the children’s Bible class, and Lucy had agreed to take a photograph of Monica Freeman’s pupils. Photographing a stampede of angry cattle couldn’t have been any harder.

She barely saved her camera from the flailing arms of ten-year-old Jefferson Parker when little Timothy Hawk plowed into her. Never in all her born days did she imagine that photographing a group of children could be so difficult. She had used close to half a dozen negatives plates trying to capture a decent photograph, with no success.

Though the students got a liberal amount of reading, writing, and arithmetic with their Bible lessons, no one dared call it a school. The Texas constitution required that a separate building be provided for colored children, and Reverend Wells stubbornly refused to comply. He insisted that separating pupils based on the color of their skin went against God’s will. Since no such law governed churches, Rocky Creek was able to educate its young beneath a single roof.

Monica reached out to grab a wayward student by the collar, but the boy escaped. “Johnny Trotter, if you don’t get up here right now, I’ll have a talk with your pa.”

Twelve-year-old Johnny made a face, but he scampered back up the steps of the church, which doubled as the school, and took his place next to a boy named Arnold, who immediately punched him. Johnny pulled his arm back to return the favor, but Monica caught him by the elbow and moved him next to a tall girl with long blond ringlets and fringe bangs.

“Don’t you dare move,” Monica said, her finger practically in Johnny’s freckled face.

She then flitted from child to child, straightening collars, arranging hair, and giving stern warnings. “Put your tongue in, Skip,” she said. “Jennifer, do hold still. And Willie, don’t you dare cross your eyes.”

Watching her friend, Lucy couldn’t help but smile. When the former teacher, Miss Molly Freemyer, was offered a teaching position in Houston with better facilities and higher pay, Monica was asked to take her place. She almost turned it down, thinking she wasn’t qualified, but it was hard to think of anyone who could do a better job.

Now she took her place next to Scooter Maxwell, the tallest boy in the class, and faced the camera. “We’re ready.”

Lucy ducked beneath the black cloth. For no good reason, she imagined she saw the stranger through the lens, and all at once she remembered the feel of his arms around her.

“What’s taking so long?” the boy named Skip whined.

Shaking herself free of the invisible hold the stranger seemed to have on her thoughts, Lucy forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. “Ready!” she called.

She squeezed the black rubber bulb and captured the image of Monica and all fifteen freshly scrubbed students, including Skip, who’d waited until the last possible moment to stick out his tongue.

Sighing, she pulled her head out from under the cloth. Since she’d used all but one of the dry plates allotted to the task, Skip and his tongue would have to do.

“All done,” she said, and the children, who ranged in age from five to fourteen, let out cries of relief.

Skip Owen made a beeline for the camera. “Can I try it?” he asked. “Can I take a photograph?”

“May I,” his teacher corrected. “
May
I take a photograph?”

Ignoring Monica, Skip reached for the camera. Lucy stayed him with a hand to his wrist. At nine years old, he was a handsome lad. His rounded blue eyes peered at her from a freckled face with an innocent look that made it that much more difficult to say no to him.

The Owen family, which consisted of the widow Owen and her three sons, had fallen on hard times since the death of Marshal Owen. Mrs. Owen tutored and took in mending to support her family the best she could, but the boys gave her fits. Fortunately Pastor Wells, fulfilling his promise to Marshal Owen to watch over his family, provided moral guidance and male influence that the boys desperately needed.

“Pleee-ase,” Skip begged.

“We’ve talked about this before,” Lucy said.

“Ah, come on. You said you’d let me take a photograph when I got older. I’m older now.”

He was in fact seven days older than when they last spoke. “When I said older, I meant years, not days.”

He might have continued to plead with her had his teacher not prodded him to get his belongings.

Chaos followed as Monica’s pupils ran into the church to grab books bound together with leather straps. Pounding feet rattled the windows. The dilapidated walls of the church seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when at last the children lined up to say good-bye to their teacher.

While Monica was busy with her other students, Lucy took the occasion to question Johnny Trotter. “Could you tell me about the man who chased you?” she asked.

Johnny’s eyes grew round from beneath a fringe of straw-like hair. He’d shot up at least six inches in the last few months and could almost look her straight in the eye. He was all arms and legs and moved as awkwardly as a newborn colt.

He scrunched up his face as if trying to recall an image of the man. “He was dressed in buckskin, like a mountain man.” His voice cracked and dropped an octave lower as if it couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to be tenor or bass. “And he rode a black horse.”

Johnny’s physical description fit the man who saved her from the highwaymen. “Did he say anything?”

Johnny shook his head. “He can’t talk.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Men who were raised with bears or wolves or other wild animals can’t talk,” he said, obviously an authority on the subject. “Everyone knows that.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “And what makes you think he was raised with animals?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I just know.”

She leaned closer. “Johnny, do you understand that making up stories and spreading rumors about others is wrong? Some people are afraid to leave their homes since you started the wild man rumor.”

Johnny lowered his eyes. “I didn’t mean no harm. I was just looking at his things, but he chased me away. The other boys saw me runnin’ away and I didn’t want no one to think I was chicken.”

“So you made up the whole story? About a wild man?” Lucy asked.

“I was just lookin’ at his things. I wasn’t gonna take anythin’, honest.”

“But you did take something away from him, Johnny, when you made up a story that wasn’t true.”

“It was kinda true,” Johnny argued. “He did chase me and he looked really angry.” One of the other pupils called to him and he took off without saying good-bye to his teacher.

Lucy watched him until he was out of sight. She should probably talk to his father but she doubted it would do much good. Brad Trotter had his hands full with his invalid wife.

“How come everything’s upside down?” a child’s voice rang out behind her.

Lucy glanced over her shoulder. Skip stood behind the camera, the black cloth bopping up and down. The tripod swayed and she dived forward to keep it from toppling over.

“Skip Owen,” Monica said firmly, arms crossed. Skip peered up from beneath the cloth at his disapproving teacher and took off running.

With a weary wave of her hand, Monica slumped against the door frame. “That boy will be the death of me yet.” She shook her head. “Your patience behind a camera never fails to amaze me.”

Monica wasn’t the only one to express that particular sentiment. Restless by nature, Lucy confounded those who knew her by her ability to wait sometimes for hours to capture a picture of a baby chick emerging from its egg, a young butterfly unfolding its wings, or, in this case, a bunch of restless pupils.

“I like photographing children,” Lucy said, though she much preferred photographing them individually.

Monica shook her head as if she couldn’t imagine anyone liking such a job. “I have a daguerreotype of my parents as children and they were standing perfectly still. That was when you were required to pose for lengthy periods of time. Do you suppose children were calmer back then?”

Lucy shook her head. “Not calmer—drugged.”

Monica’s eyes widened in alarm. “What?”

“Children were often given laudanum to keep them still while they were being photographed.
Punch Magazine
even suggested that photographers give children chloroform. Can you imagine?”

“That’s . . . that’s terrible!” Monica exclaimed.

The shocked look on her friend’s face made Lucy smile.

“The town is lucky to have you as a teacher.” Lucy felt equally lucky to have her as a friend. Monica’s mother died the same year Lucy lost hers. Though Monica was four years older than Lucy, their shared losses brought them together, and they had been close ever since.

Lucy stepped behind her camera and refocused her lens. “Look this way.”

“What?”

“I want to take your photograph.”

“Whatever for?”

“Practice,” Lucy said.

“You don’t need practice.” Monica eyed her with suspicion. “You’re up to something. I can tell. You’ve been hopping around like you found the mother lode ever since you got here.”

“I told you, I’m working for the newspaper,” Lucy said, omitting the fact that her job depended on her producing a certain photograph.

Monica looked unconvinced but changed the subject. “Oh, Lucy, I still can’t believe how you survived your ordeal.”

Monica had arrived on Lucy’s doorstep the moment she’d heard about the holdup and demanded to know all the details. Lucy was happy to provide them, except the details of a certain kiss that she kept to herself. Though she told both Marshal Armstrong and Monica that a stranger had saved her from the outlaws, she was purposely vague on the details. She decided to keep it that way, at least until she had a chance to dispel the ridiculous wild man rumors.

“To think that you escaped three outlaws—it’s incredible. About the man who saved you . . .”

Lucy quickly ducked behind the camera and yanked the dark fabric over her head before Monica had a chance to question her further. “Hold it,” she sang out, focusing her lens on her friend. Monica was dressed in a simple gray skirt and plain white shirtwaist that emphasized her tiny waist. The sun was low in the sky, and the golden red rays softened the sharp angles of Monica’s face. Her hair was parted in the middle and pulled back. A few strands of brown hair escaped from her severe bun, blurring the sharp lines of her jawbone. But her forehead was creased and she looked tense and self-conscious.

“Think of someone special,” Lucy called.

“What?”

“Someone special. You know. Someone you really care about. What you’re thinking will show in your face. Come on, now. Think.”

All at once a beautiful, wistful expression spread across Monica’s face, erasing the lines of fatigue from around her eyes and mouth. It didn’t take a mind reader to know that Doc Myers was responsible for the miraculous transformation.

“Perfect,” Lucy called, squeezing the bulb. She had plans for the photograph, big plans. If this photograph didn’t cause that stubborn old fool of a doctor’s blood to stir, then nothing would!