Margaret Brownley (10 page)

“No, ma’am, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. We rode clear to the next town and never found a trace.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

He sat on the sofa, stiff as a soldier on guard duty, his shoulder-length hair tied in back. A wooden leg replaced the one lost during the War Between the States. A far greater loss was his wounded spirit. The Reconstruction of the South was complete but the human heart required more than an act of Congress to heal. It required an act of God.

Lucy sat on a chair opposite him. “So what brings you here today?”

Timber Joe cleared his throat. “No sense beating ’round the bush.” He looked her straight in the eye like an actor confident of his lines. “It’s high time I got myself a”—he cleared his throat—“a wife.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. Timber Joe didn’t seem like the type to settle down.

“So what do you say?” he asked.

“What do I—” She stared at him. “Oh!” It never occurred to her that he had come
courting
. In fact, nothing could be further from her mind. “I . . . I hope I didn’t lead you on,” she stammered, hand on her chest.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing you said. The thought occurred to me out of the clear blue sky.” He lifted his rifle upward and tapped its butt against the floor for emphasis. “One moment I’m a happy bachelor. The next moment, I’m pining for a wife.”

Lucy didn’t know what to say. She had no intention of getting married to anyone, let alone a former rebel fighter who suffered from a postwar condition that made him act strange.

“Aren’t you a member of The Society for the Protection and Preservation of Male Independence?” she asked in an effort to remind him of the oath he’d taken upon joining the group. The society and its negative attitude toward women and marriage had caused much controversy around town ever since Old Man Appleby founded it a year earlier.

“I’ve handed in my resignation,” Timber Joe said. “I’ve heard that getting married is kinda like getting hanged. Neither is as bad as folks say it is.”

“I sincerely hope you’re right.” She didn’t want to hurt him, but there didn’t seem to be any way around it. “I’m most honored. I can’t tell you how much. But—”

He stopped her protests with a raised hand. “I’m the one who should be honored, ma’am. A loose lady such as yourself is hard to find.”

She was momentarily taken aback. “Loose?”

“Perhaps liberal is a better word. Nothing tight-laced about you.” He nodded for emphasis.

Lucy didn’t know whether to thank him or slap him.

He continued, “If I may be so bold as to ask you—”

Intent upon saving them both from embarrassment, she leaped to her feet, interrupting him midsentence. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He leaned back, startled. “I meant no offense, ma’am. I thought you would jump at the chance to make some money.”

Hands on her hips, she tossed her head. “If you think I can be bought, you are sadly mistaken.”

He slapped his hand on his thigh. “If that’s not a rare combination. A loose woman with a heart of gold.” He held his hands up, palms out. “But I insist on paying you. I wouldn’t think of asking you to take my photograph for free.”

“Your—” She flushed. “You . . . want me to take your photograph?”

“Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t my idea. I’d sooner face a firing squad than the lens of a camera. But the lady insists.”

Lucy slowly sat down. “What lady?”

“The lady from one of those mail-order bride catalogs. Says she won’t travel no thousand miles until she knows what she’s getting herself into.”

“You’re marrying someone out of a catalog?” Lucy shook her head. Ordering linens or fabric from a catalog was one thing. But a wife? What was the world coming to?

He shrugged. “What choice do I have? As you know, the pickings in Rocky Creek are pretty slim.”

“They’re not
that
slim,” Lucy protested, taking offense.

He ignored her protest. “So will you do it?” he asked. “Will you take my photograph?”

“I’d be happy to.” She hesitated and tried not to stare at his frayed uniform. “It’s just . . . some things don’t photograph well,” she said with every bit of tact she could muster.

The corners of his mouth drooped. “Are you saying I won’t take a good photograph?”

“I didn’t mean you,” she hastened to assure him. “I meant . . . your clothes.”

He glanced down at himself. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“They’re a bit . . . intimidating,” she said for want of another word. His rifle
was
intimidating.

He stiffened. “I heard it on good authority that women like men in uniforms.”

“To a certain extent,” she said carefully, not wanting to insult him. “The war has been over for quite some time. You don’t want to give the impression that you’re . . . stuck in the past.”

He frowned. “So you think I should change my clothes?”

“I think it would help.” A haircut and shave would help just as much.

Timber Joe scratched his head. “The only other uniform I have is at the laundry and it looks just like this one. I don’t own any other clothes. My disability pension doesn’t allow for luxuries.”

Lucy tapped her chin with her finger. Replacing a threadbare uniform with civilian clothes hardly seemed like a luxury. “You do know that having a wife can be rather . . . expensive,” she said gently.

“That’s why I got me a job,” he said.

“You have a job?”

“The Wells Fargo bank hired me to stand guard during business hours just in case those stagecoach robbers get any fancy ideas.”

“Oh, Timber Joe, I’m so happy for you.” Her mind raced. She was almost positive that her brother’s or father’s clothes would be too large.

“Why don’t you come back another day? Say, Saturday?” The bank was closed on the weekend, which meant he wouldn’t have to miss work. Surely she would have solved the uniform problem by then.

He frowned. “I won’t have any other clothes on Saturday, either. I don’t get paid till the first of June and that’s still a couple of weeks away.”

She smiled and gave his arm a reassuring pat. “Leave everything to me.”

“Very well,” he said with considerably less enthusiasm than he showed earlier. He stood. “You really think changing clothes will land me a bride?”

She glanced at his ever-present rifle and sighed. “It’s a start.”

Close to an hour later, she pulled on the reins of her horse and set the brake on her wagon. This was the exact spot where the stranger had come to her rescue. Recalling her hair-raising ride and terrifying encounter with the bandits, she glanced around in apprehension.

The sun glinted off the Rocky Creek River. In the distance, river drivers fought to break up logger jams with long steel poles. The lumbermen were too far away to come to her aid should misfortune strike, but their presence offered a measure of comfort, however false.

She climbed down from the wagon and followed a path through the woods, careful to watch where she was going. The ground was still waterlogged from the recent rains and made squishy sounds beneath her feet. The area was also prone to sinkholes due to eroding limestone, so she was alert for telltale fissures or cracks in the ground

She followed the same path the stranger took. The trees grew so thick that little sun reached this area. Still, she could find no cabin or campsite. The only building anywhere in the area was the old mission. Would he have been able to make it there and back in the short time it took him to fetch salve for her wound? Possibly.

Convinced he was close by, she found a relatively flat open space away from the road and set up her camera, then slid a dry plate into place.

Taking some deep breaths, she tried to calm her fast-beating heart. “This better work,” she muttered.

Confident that the lumbermen were out of hearing range, she cleared her throat, held her arms rigid by her side, and let out a bloodcurdling scream. She then ducked beneath the black cover and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long.

The stranger appeared in the clearing directly in front of the camera lens. Instantly she squeezed the black bulb. She didn’t dare allow for more than a few seconds of exposure time and her only hope was that it was long enough. She lifted her head from beneath the black cover.

Standing in front of her camera, he glanced around before leveling his puzzled gaze on her. A muscle flickered at his jaw. “Do you mind telling me what you are doing?” He looked her up and down. “Why did you scream?”

He was every bit as tall and handsome as she remembered. Forcing herself to breathe, she ran her damp hands down the front of her skirt. “I wanted to talk to you,” she confessed nervously. “I will only take a couple of minutes and—”

“You screamed because you wanted to talk?”

The incredulous tone of his voice made her blush. “I . . . I didn’t know how else to find you,” she stammered. “Just so you know—my interest is strictly professional.”

He considered this for a moment. “I can think of only one profession that requires a woman to pursue a man.”

Her mouth dropped open. Twice in the course of a single day she’d been accused of being a loose woman. Recovering quickly, she drew herself up. “All I wanted was your photograph and to ask a few questions. Rest assured that I have no interest in you personally—”

“Why?” he demanded, cutting her off midsentence.

She tossed her head, mustering as much dignity as she could. “For one thing, we haven’t been properly introduced.”

He looked momentarily taken aback. “I meant why do you want my photograph?”

“Oh.” She took a deep breath. “I’m a photographer.” Though others were either shocked or impressed upon learning of her profession, he showed no emotion one way or the other.

“A photographer?” he asked. “You mean like Mathew Brady?”

“Yes, like Mr. Brady,” she said, pleased at the comparison. Not only was the nameless stranger not wild, he was also quite knowledgeable.

Mathew Brady and his crew had done something that had never been done before by photographing war scenes, thus providing a visual history of the War Between the States. Brady’s New York exhibit stirred up considerable controversy. No one had ever seen photographs of war, and most people were shocked by the graphic images.

“Except he and his men took pictures before and after a battle, never during,” she said. At least that’s what she’d read. “A terrible oversight, don’t you agree?”

His gaze burned through her. “Sometimes it’s wiser to stay out of the line of fire,” he said. “Which is something, apparently, you know nothing about.”

She glared back, “I work for the local newspaper. It’s my job to be in the line of fire.”

His lips thinned with annoyance. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re harassing me.”

She blinked. Never before had she been accused of harassment. “I’m doing you a favor.” More accurately, she was doing the town a favor by exposing the truth.

He took a step back. “If you believe that, you’re definitely in the wrong business.” He turned to leave.

She had her photograph and that was all she had. No name. Nothing. Berating herself for the way she handled things, she chased after him. “Wait!”

He stopped so abruptly, she almost ran into him. “There’s been talk . . .” she began, hoping to whet his curiosity. “And I—”

He swung around to face her. “What kind of talk?”

“Just t-talk,” she stammered. “About a wild man.”

He tilted his head. “Sorry, I can’t help you there. But if I should I run into one I’ll let you know.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I believe the rumors are referring to you.”

“Me?” The corners of his mouth turned up and his eyes softened in amusement. “So what do you think, Miss Fairbanks? Am I wild?”

The fact that he remembered her name unnerved her. She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. Mysterious, perhaps, but certainly not wild. He was, however, all man and that made her very aware of being a woman.

“A boy said you chased him,” she explained.

“Ah, you must be referring to the youth I found going through my things.”