Margaret Brownley (39 page)

You make people see what can’t normally be seen
. David’s voice ringing in her ears, she stared at the painting over the fireplace. She recalled thinking the same thing about her mother’s paintings. The thought of parting with them was too painful to contemplate but that wasn’t the only reason she held back. Secretly she suspected that the paintings held more sentimental value than monetary. Times were tight and most people could ill afford art. Many families could barely afford to pay her for their portraitures.

The
Rocky Creek Gazette
was financially beyond her means but she felt hopeful. Caleb’s future was assured and for that she was grateful. Obviously God had a plan for him and maybe, just maybe, he had a plan for her too.

Just please, God, let it include David
.

Twenty-eight

“Snapshot” is a hunting term meaning to take a quick shot without
careful aim. No worthy photographer would be so careless (unless,
of course, a client is particularly unpleasant or uncooperative).

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

L
ucy woke to loud mewing. Extra sat at her feet, glaring at her. She hadn’t even touched her tea. Alarmed by the amount of sunlight pouring through the windows, she raced to her father’s room.

The bed was empty. She whirled about to check the corner where she had placed her father’s boots hours earlier, but they were gone.

Surely he hadn’t left for work.

She knocked on Caleb’s door and when there was no answer, she cracked it open. Her brother had already left for the day.

She quickly dressed and pinned her hair up in back. Out of habit she grabbed her camera, though she had no intention of taking photographs. Chickens scattered out of her way as she hurried to the barn.

Caleb had already collected the eggs, mucked out the stalls, and fed Tripod, but there was no sign of him or her father.

After hitching Tripod to the wagon, she rode into town. Her father’s horse was nowhere in sight. Alarmed, she quickened her pace as she hurried up the steps of the boardwalk. Bells jingled on the door of Fairbanks General Merchandise.

Her brother looked up from the counter. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Why aren’t you home taking care of Pa?”

“Papa’s not home,” she said. “I thought maybe he was here.”

Caleb frowned. “I checked Pa before I left this morning and he was still asleep. Do you want me to help you look for him?”

“You stay here. I’ll find him. He’s probably wandering around Mother’s old stomping grounds. Don’t worry,” she said, more for her own benefit than his.

Outside she queried Appleby.

The crotchety old man spit a stream of tobacco before answering. “Been here all mornin’,” he said, the rocking chair creaking beneath him. “And I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him.”

From across the way, Sarah walked out of Jenny’s Emporium and waved. “Lucy.”

Carrying little Matthew in one arm, she waved what looked like a letter in the other. She was out of breath by the time she reached Lucy, her face flushed with excitement. “I heard from my brother,” she said. “I heard from George and . . . and glory be, he met someone. A young lady and she led him to the Lord.”

“Oh, Sarah.” She knew how much Sarah had prayed for her outlaw brother. They all had. “That’s such good news.”

Spotting Jenny’s sister Brenda across the street, Sarah excused herself and left before Lucy could ask about her father.

Lucy continued up Main Street, asking everyone she met if they’d seen her father. The number of people scattered along the boardwalk surprised her.

She spotted Barrel standing outside his barbershop. “Have you seen my father?” she called.

Staring at the sky, Barrel held his hand up to shade his eyes from the sun. “No,” he called back.

She gazed all the way to the Grand Hotel. Was it only her imagination or was everyone looking up? She tilted her head back but all she could see was clear blue sky with not a cloud in sight.

Emma Hogg raced toward her looking all discombobulated beneath her parasol. “Am I too late?”

“Too late for what?” Lucy asked.

Clearly out of breath from running, Emma folded her parasol. “Mrs. Hitchcock told me that the Suffra-Quilters were planning an important event and I had to be here.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Lucy said. “Have you by chance seen my father?”

For answer, Emma pointed at the sky. “What
is
that?”

Lucy followed Emma’s finger. “It’s just a bird.”

Cheers rose from up and down the street and some spectators waved their hats. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and looked up again. The speck in the sky had grown larger. At first it looked like a mere bubble in the air but gradually the shape and color of it became clear.

“Why, I do believe it’s a gas balloon,” Lucy said in awe. She’d never actually seen one except for the painting in Redd’s café. What an amazing sight. Considering the spectacle it made, it was hard to imagine how Union and Confederate armies used balloons to spy on enemy troops during the war without being noticed.

“My word,” Emma gasped, giving her parasol a good shake. “You don’t suppose Mrs. Hitchcock or Mrs. Taylor is in that, do you? I’m all for women’s rights, but there’s a limit to what I’m willing to do for the privilege of voting.”

As the balloon approached the ground, murmurs of astonishment turned into cries of dismay. The brightly colored aerial ship looked about to crash into the Wells Fargo bank. Dogs barked and Sarah’s infant boy Matthew let out a wail.

Marshal Armstrong, Caleb, and others ran toward the balloon and tried to grab the dangling cords the aerialist tossed over the sides.

Grasping the cords, the men held the balloon steady while onlookers gave a collective sigh. The shimmering red globe was so large it almost touched the buildings on both sides of Main. The wicker basket hovered but a few feet off the ground.

Lucy couldn’t take her eyes off it. It was truly a magnificent sight.

Behind her, Emma Hogg let out an ear-piercing scream. Lucy whirled around just in time to see Barrel fling Emma over his shoulder.

“Put me down at once, do you hear?” Emma yelled. She beat on his back with her fists, her parasol lying on the boardwalk where she dropped it.

Barrel didn’t even flinch. Instead he walked right down the middle of Main Street, hauling the indignant woman, and didn’t stop until he reached the hovering balloon.

Lucy stormed after him. What in the world was he thinking? “Kip Barrel! You put her down this minute!”

She stopped upon seeing Redd inside the wicker gondola. With a wink at Lucy he leaned over to grab Emma out of Barrel’s arms. The upper half of her body inside the basket, Miss Hogg’s legs stuck straight up to reveal a shocking display of bloomers.

Then, before anyone could object, the Marshal, Reverend Wells, and Caleb let go of the cords. Gas roared and the balloon rose into the air.

Once her initial shock wore off, Lucy couldn’t help but laugh. She clapped her hands in approval. Redd had literally swept Emma Hogg off her feet. “Good for you, Redd. Good for you.” She only hoped that Emma liked ketchup.

Her camera! Clutching at her skirt, she raced to her wagon. She had no intention of letting a photographic opportunity like this slip away. But by the time she grabbed her camera, the balloon was a mere dot in the sky.

Undaunted, she hopped onto her wagon seat and tore out of town, almost colliding with Barrel, who flew past on his horse. Others had the same idea, and soon the road leading out of town was filled with horses, wagons, and shays. As the balloon drifted farther away, people began pulling back, and soon Lucy had the road to herself.

The balloon looked like a bubble in the sky. The bright red globe drifted right, vanishing behind the trees. She pulled up on the side of the road, jumped to the ground, and reached for her camera. Maybe she could get a photograph of the balloon over the river. What a prize that would be.

Not even the call of a bird could be heard as she ran through the woods, scanning the sky. As she neared the river, the whooshing sound of water grew louder. She stopped just short of the meadow and peered through the trees. The tall grass was dotted with wildflowers and reminded her of one of her mother’s paintings.

On the far side of the meadow, the mission looked less menacing than it had on previous occasions. The red tile roof glistened in the late morning sun. The tall narrow windows seemed less prisonlike.

All at once a huge shadow glided past her and her mouth dropped open in delight. The balloon hovered not more than a thousand feet overhead. Rocking gently in the breeze, the red silk gleamed in the sunlight. Lucy fumbled with the hook of her camera and pulled out the bellows. Shaking with excitement, she set the camera next to a fallen log and aimed the lens upward. She then covered the back with a black cloth and ducked beneath. She gasped at the sight of the balloon in her viewfinder. It looked truly magnificent. If only it were possible to take a colored photograph! She’d never hired a colorist before but perhaps this once she would.

She changed the view from landscape to portrait. The balloon rocked slightly, which required fast exposure time to prevent blurring. She opened the lens wider.

“Hold still,” she muttered. She squeezed the bulb and held it as she counted. “One thousand and one, one thousand and two . . .”

She released the bulb and pulled the black cloth away. “Got it!”

She looked up. Redd and Emma Hogg stood side by side, waving and smiling. They looked like miniature dolls.

Lucy jumped to her feet and waved back with both arms. The balloon drifted away until she could no longer see it for the trees.

Recalling her original reason for riding into town that morning, she gasped. “Papa!”

How could she have forgotten? Chiding herself for getting caught up in all the excitement, she quickly retracted the bellows and latched them inside the case.

Startled by a woman’s high-pitched voice, she turned toward the river. The voice sounded vaguely familiar but she couldn’t put a name to it. Unable to make out the angry words, she walked toward the river’s edge and ducked beneath the bushes that served as a barrier.

She followed the winding trail around a bend. The musty smell of decaying leaves permeated the air. Mushrooms poked through the decomposing foliage like little white buttons. A carpet of water hyacinths allowed her to walk faster without making a sound.

The sight of her father’s horse startled her. What was he doing way out here?

She suddenly recognized the voice as belonging to Mrs. Weatherbee, which puzzled her even more. Was that the person Papa said he had to meet? And why did she sound so angry?

Confused, Lucy moved closer.

“Millard isn’t going to suffer because of you,” the woman shouted. Cursing, she continued, “I worked too hard to let the likes of you ruin his future.”

Lucy strained her neck but couldn’t see her father. All she could see was Mrs. Weatherbee, who appeared to be talking to herself again. Maybe her husband’s disappearance had affected her more than anyone knew. Concerned, Lucy stepped around the bend.

“Mrs. Weatherbee?”

The woman swung around, pointing a gun straight at Lucy.

Startled at the sight of the weapon and the wild look in the woman’s eyes, Lucy tried to make sense of the strange scene that greeted her. “It’s just me, Lucy. I’m not going to—”

Spotting her father in a rowboat, his hands and feet tied, Lucy gasped. The scene in front of her seemed unreal. Her father looked dazed, blood trickling down the side of his head.

“You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Mrs. Weatherbee rasped.

Her father said something, his voice barely carrying above the sound of the river.

Lucy pulled her gaze away from him. “Why . . . why are you doing this?” she stammered.

Mrs. Weatherbee scoffed. “I’ll do anything to protect my son.”

“Millard?” Why did he need protecting from her father? From anyone? “I don’t understand.”

“He’s got a chance at success. State senate is only the first step. One day he’ll be governor, maybe even president. I’m not letting you or anyone get in the way.”

A knot formed in Lucy’s stomach. The woman wasn’t making any sense.

Mrs. Weatherbee’s eyes glittered in contempt. “After all these years, he couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

Lucy shook her head. “Who?” she asked. “Who do you mean?”

“My fool of a husband.” She all but spit the words out.

Lucy grew even more bewildered. “What’s this got to do with Millard?”

Millard couldn’t have been the fourth youth. He would have been too young.

The crazed widow sneered. “Everything,” she said, her voice unnaturally high. “If word gets out what his stepfather did, Millard’s political career will be over.”

“Mr. Weatherbee?” Lucy stammered. Millard’s stepfather? Was he the fourth youth? A ne’er-do-well man who couldn’t hold a job, she would never have guessed him capable of anything, let alone a dark secret.