Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (3 page)

Navigating the steep ribbon of switchback trail, she was grateful he’d insisted they travel this portion of the journey afoot. Shale dotted the path and made the ascent more difficult.

The weighted pack on her back grew more pronounced, and she paused for a few seconds to stretch and readjust the load.

“No need for you to tote that, ma’am. I can strap it on Moonshine, or I can tote it for you myself, if ’n you let me. Like I said before, I be gentle with it.”

She waved him on ahead. “It’s not a bother, really. I just need to pace myself.”

“Pace yourself . . . ? Sounds like you back there pacin’ yourself right straight to death.”

She laughed, despite the truth in his statement. “You haven’t told me . . . why did you name that stubborn animal Moonshine?”

Josiah rubbed the bridge of his mule’s nose. “I named him after somethin’ my mama used to tell us kids when we was young. She used to say to us . . . that if ever we was to get parted from the other, we was to look up at the moon come night, and that no matter where she was, or where any of us was, we’d be together. Cuz we be lookin’ at the same moon God hung in His heavens.”

Elizabeth envied him that memory. What stories might her own mother have shared if she’d lived long enough to have the chance?

Josiah continued the uphill hike, and it took her three generous steps to equal his every two, her heeled boots and long skirt hindering her efforts. Her split skirt was in a trunk of clothing that still hadn’t arrived from Washington, but she looked forward to the freedom and practicality it would allow.

Walking behind Josiah, she again noted the broadness of his shoulders, and the raised welts on the back of his neck. Once deep wounds, now long healed by the looks of them, the scars extended above his coat collar and blended into his hairline, giving insight into his past. Josiah Birch’s physical strength was impressive, and he was proving himself an able assistant on these mountain treks. And quite entertaining.

But no matter how capable an assistant he might be, she always shouldered her own pack. Especially when it contained something so valuable. She’d saved for months to buy her camera, and it held the key to her achieving her dreams.

“Townsfolk don’t much use this path.” His deep voice carried to her over the plod of the mule’s progress. “Too narrow and steep for ’em. Mostly the Ute who pass this way.”

“The Ute . . . I’d like to meet—” Cold air prickled her windpipe as it fed down and filtered into her lungs. The higher they climbed, the thinner the air became and the more difficult to breathe. Studying the effects of higher altitude back east and now actually experiencing them were turning out to be two very different things. “I’d like to meet some of the Ute. If”—a painful stitch in her left side staccatoed her breath—“you could . . . arrange that.”

“Only one man I know has any contact with the Ute, Miz Westbrook, and he ain’t easy to find. I ain’t seen him in a while, and he only makes hisself known when he has cause to. Which don’t happen too frequent.”

Massaging a pain in her side, Elizabeth skirted a larger rock in the path, aware of the loose shale close to the edge and of how unaffected Josiah seemed by the altitude. “This man . . . he sounds peculiar. Like . . . some sort of hermit.”

“No, ma’am, he ain’t no hermit. Just keeps to hisself. Likes it best that way is how I figure it.”

A spasm started in her upper chest, forcing Elizabeth to slow her pace. It was a small one this time, and she managed to coax some breaths past the tangle at the base of her throat. She fixed her gaze to the trail and continued to climb. “How do I . . . contact this gentleman?”

“You don’t. More like he finds you, if he has a mind to. Which he most often won’t.”

“And . . .” She breathed slowly, in and out, as physicians had instructed since her youth—advice more easily followed when one wasn’t hiking up a fourteen-thousand-foot mountain. “Why is that?”

When he failed to answer, she looked up to find him halted on the trail, his arm raised, his rifle drawn.

She went absolutely still, grateful for the chance to gain her breath but with senses at alert. Crackling noises sounded from deep within the wooded ridge. Then the breaking of twigs, the faint rustle of branches. Wind whistled through the low-bowered pines and stalwart spruce, masking sounds that might otherwise have been detected.

She slipped a hand into her pocket as she scanned the wooded rise to their left—unsure whether her shortness of breath stemmed from her ailment or from whatever was out there . . . or perhaps both. Gripping the curve-handled derringer, an indulgent purchase she’d made before departing New York City, a measure of courage rose within her. Its .41 caliber ball would hardly deter a large animal, but it was better than facing one completely defenseless.

Josiah cocked his head to one side as though listening for something.

The first time he’d done this on the trail three days ago, she’d questioned him. After spotting the mountain lion, she’d swiftly learned to keep her silence. He’d shot at the animal and missed—by a wide margin if the splintered bark held truth—but his actions had apparently convinced the lion that they were unworthy prey.

It was unrealistic, she knew, but one photograph of that sleek, muscular predator would have all but guaranteed her the much sought-after position at the
Chronicle.
But in the flick of a second hand, the cougar had disappeared, taking her opportunity with it. And they’d spotted no wildlife since, other than the occasional bird and furry marmot—hardly prey capable of enticing travelers and game hunters west.

Josiah gradually lowered his arm and murmured low, a sound she’d heard from him before. “Felt somethin’ on the breeze.” His focus remained on the shadows beyond the trees. “Don’t no more.”

Elizabeth tried to respond but couldn’t. A familiar ache wedged itself inside her throat, lodging like a fist in her windpipe.

Josiah looked her direction. His eyes narrowed. “You all right, ma’am?”

Elizabeth shook her head and groped at the high collar of her shirtwaist. The first two buttons slid free, but the effort earned her no relief. Each attempt to breathe ended in a pathetic wheeze, and her world took on that strange spiraling sensation she knew only too well.

She clenched her eyes tight—as if surrendering the ability to see might persuade her lungs to function.
Stay calm . . . steady breaths . . .

“It be happenin’, miz?” The deep cauldron of a whisper sounded close beside her.

Frantic, she nodded, furious at her body’s betrayal. She’d warned him about this, just in case it happened while they were together. She hated being seen as weak; people treated her differently. She’d pushed too hard this morning. She’d known better.

Strength left her legs. . . .

Josiah eased her to the ground and pulled the pack from her shoulders. “Tell me what to do, ma’am! You got that medicine? One you told me ’bout?”

She shook her head, unable to answer. It was back in her room, and only a little remained. She’d been rationing it, waiting for a new shipment. No matter how many times she’d experienced this, it still terrified her.

He eased her onto the ground, her throat closing by the second. She stared into the sky, trusting God could see. She didn’t doubt that. She only wondered if He would intervene. He had every time before, but it didn’t mean He always would. She’d learned that early in life—when her mother died.

Her throat felt the size of a rye grass straw, and what little air she could inhale and expel hung in anemic wisps in front of her face. Elizabeth squeezed Josiah’s hand and felt his flesh give beneath her nails. Yet he never let go. The panic in his eyes mirrored hers, and her body jerked as she fought for breath.

2

A
moment passed. Maybe less, maybe more. Elizabeth couldn’t be sure. But it felt like an eternity. Then the thinnest, most precious ribbon of air slid through the knot in her throat, loosening its hold.

Second by second, the spasm lessened.

Gradually, her throat relaxed and the sweetest rush of cool air trickled down into her lungs. Like a field hand parched from thirst, she was tempted to gulp it in but knew better. She filled her lungs slowly, deliberately, still suspended in that dreamlike state somewhere between consciousness and having been pulled under.

Josiah gently patted her hand. “This one don’t seem to have hung on like the others you told me ’bout.”

She nodded, his voice sounding far away. She couldn’t speak, but he was right. This episode had been bad, but not as severe as the ones she’d endured on the journey west, the travel exacerbated by soot and ashes from the train and swirling dust from the stagecoaches.

For several heartbeats, she simply delighted in her lungs’ obedience. And, as always in these moments afterward, there lingered the uninvited question of whether she would suffer the same fate as her mother, and at nearly the same age. Pushing away the thought, she indicated she was ready to stand.

Josiah offered assistance and held her steady for a moment, then retrieved her canteen from the mule. “Didn’t I say you looked a mite peaked this mornin’, ma’am?”

She took a long draw of water, choosing to ignore him. The western territories were more uncivilized than she’d anticipated, but the water here . . . She’d never tasted anything so cold and clean. She smoothed her shirtwaist and took another drink, choosing to leave the top two buttons at her neckline unfastened.

She dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “How much farther before we reach the ridge?”

Josiah shook his head. “It be just round this bend, ma’am.”

He bent to lift her pack, but she motioned for him to leave it.

“You’s the stubbornest white woman I know, Miz Westbrook.”

She laughed. “So I still have some competition in that area, is that what you’re saying?”

He scoffed and turned, mule in tow. She retrieved her pack and followed him around the corner, and found her breath nearly stolen away again. But this time for an altogether different reason. He had been right. . . .

The Rocky Mountains’ renowned twin sisters, the Maroon Bells, rose like ethereal monuments against the pale azure sky. Capped in snowy brilliance, the north and south peaks splintered the morning light into a thousand sparkling prisms. Standing there, taking it in, she wished she could thank Wendell Goldberg again for giving her this opportunity, and for letting her choose this destination instead of sending her to California or to the Wyoming Territory, where the other two candidates for the position had been sent.

A lake, clear and smooth, filled the valley’s floor, acting as the mountains’ footstool and perfectly mirroring their splendor. If only her camera lens could capture the riot of nature’s colors instead of portraying them in dull shades of gray.

She busied herself with helping Josiah unload the equipment from the mule. Then heard something in the distance . . . a rushing noise. It rose above the wind and their shuffling as they unpacked. She searched, and spotted it across the canyon—a waterfall cascading over boulders, some the size of a small house, down into a pool at least five hundred feet below. Gorgeous . . .

Wendell Goldberg’s hunches were right. Easterners would pay an exorbitant amount of money to vacation here—
if
they could be afforded the same luxuries they enjoyed at home. Which, right now, was certainly not the case. But it soon would be once Chilton Enterprises constructed their new hotel.

“Why didn’t you tell me there was a waterfall near here, Josiah?”

He dropped the folded canvas tent on the ground and looked at her as though she were daft. “Cuz you didn’t ask me.”

She dismissed his response with a smile. She hadn’t confided in him about her association with the
Chronicle
for the same reason she hadn’t told anyone else in Timber Ridge. All he knew was that she wanted to take pictures of nature, and he’d already agreed to accompany her on her expedition south to the cliff dwellings.

“Well, from now on, if there’s a waterfall or hot spring or . . . anything like that within view of where we’re standing, would you please tell me about it?”

Again, that look. “Yes, ma’am. I can do that.” He went back to work. “ ’Course, I guess I’m wonderin’ why you can’t just see it for yourself with your own eyes. God gave you two good ones, and it makes sense to me that . . .”

Ignoring his muttering, Elizabeth knelt and untied the straps to her shoulder pack and withdrew her camera, followed by glass plates cocooned in fabric and an assortment of bottles, each wrapped separately to prevent breakage. A glance confirmed that Josiah would soon have her dark tent set up and her supplies arranged inside. As expected from his previous routine, he’d pitched the tent as far away from the edge of the mountainside as possible, and on the most level patch of ground.

She readied one of the camera plates for exposure, cleaning the glass with a mixture of pumice and alcohol. She poured collodion onto the readied surface, tilted the plate at various angles until the entire area was coated with the transparent solution, drained the excess back into the container, and reached for a cloth.

Collodion stuck to nearly everything. She doubted whether she possessed a skirt, shirtwaist, or outer coat that didn’t bear stains from the various chemicals used in her trade—a fact that irritated her father something fierce, fastidious as he’d once been with his blue woolen uniform and still was with his jacket and trousers for Senate meetings.

“It’s all ready for you, Miz Westbrook.”

Josiah lifted the front flap of the tent, and she crawled through the opening, wet camera plate in hand. A candle flickered burnished yellow in the darkness.

On her knees in the familiar half glow, Elizabeth dipped the plate, now tacky to the touch, into a light-sensitizing bath Josiah had prepared as she’d taught him. Twelve parts water to one part silver nitrate. Minutes later, once the surface of the glass was uniform and creamy white in color, she removed it from the bath, wiped the back of it with a clean cloth, and slid it into a lightproof wooden holder.