Margaret Brownley (5 page)

He stopped, his back toward her.

“I am an artist!” His failure to acknowledge that part of her felt like he was rejecting the very essence of who she was.

Without a word he walked outside, slamming the door behind him.

After he was gone she reached for the portfolio of her latest photographs. She pulled out a picture of her father.

He stood by the back fence, one foot on the rail, staring across the corral at some distant memory. He hadn’t seen her take his photograph, hadn’t even known she was there. She traced his profile with her finger. “What is it, Papa? What do you see when you stare like that? What is it that keeps us apart?”

Five

While posing for a photograph, spinsters should avoid looking
desperate or deprived. A serene smile will show that your
circumstances are by choice and not for lack of beauty or character.

—M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

N
ews of the stagecoach robbery put the little town of Rocky Creek in an uproar. By the time Lucy had bathed, changed her clothes, retrieved her camera and shoes from the tree where she’d left them, and driven into town to give her statement to Marshal Armstrong, Main Street was cluttered with wagons, shays, and buckboards. The line of vehicles extended from the Grand Hotel at one end of town to the Wells Fargo bank on the other. A mob of worried citizens bombarded her with questions as she pushed through the crowd and into the marshal’s office.

The crowd was still waiting for her when she emerged more than two hours later. This time, however, Marshal Armstrong came to her rescue.

“Miss Fairbanks has had a harrowing experience. For that reason I ask that you address your questions to me.”

Everyone started talking at once. Her brother Caleb sidled up to her. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“What did Papa say?”

“He said I should get married.”

Caleb shook his head and grinned. “Does he really think a husband’s gonna keep you out of trouble?”

She grinned back at him. Caleb knew her better than her father did. Better than anyone did, for that matter.

The crowd grew louder and the marshal’s patience was spent. “Quiet!” he bellowed. “One at a time.”

His command made no impact, but a blast from Timber Joe’s rifle did. Dressed in a tattered gray uniform and faded kepi hat, the former Confederate soldier stood on the wooden sidewalk next to the marshal, brandishing his weapon. A tall thin man with a coppery mustache and hair tied at the nape of his neck, he would have commanded attention even without his rifle.

“The marshal has something to say,” he shouted.

Though the War Between the States had been over for some seventeen years, Timber Joe still carried on like a full-fledged soldier. This was considered both a curse and a blessing. Some thought he was crazy. Others, including Marshal Armstrong, knew he had a soldier’s heart and tolerated his bizarre behavior. No one could deny Timber Joe’s ability to control an unruly crowd or convince a reluctant churchgoer to place a generous offering in the plate.

Taking full advantage of the silence that followed, Marshal Armstrong addressed the crowd. He had little tolerance for anyone who broke the law, though some said his recent marriage to Jenny Higgins had made him soft.

“I have already contacted the US Marshal, and I can assure you that the perpetrators will be tracked down and tried in a court of law.”

Old Man Appleby yelled out, “I don’t care about no perpet’ators, I want to know what you’re gonna do about the stage robbers.”

Armstrong glanced at Appleby. “If we play our cards right, we can kill two birds with one stone,” he said without irony. “The first thing we need is volunteers for a posse. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

Redd Reeder stepped onto the boardwalk. Owner of the Rocky Creek Café, his shock of red hair looked more orange than red next to the ketchup stains on his white apron. Since discovering F&J Heinz’s tomato ketchup, he used it with such great abandon that some complained eating at the café was like “eating on a bloody battlefield.”

“Marshal, I believe you’re going about this all wrong,” he said.

Marshal Armstrong pushed his hat back. “How is that, Redd?”

“Times are a-changing. We gotta stop doing things the same old way. Air, that’s the wave of the future.”

Marshal Armstrong hung his thumbs from his gun belt. “Air?”

“Our very own Eugene Gage is in possession of a gas balloon.” Eugene was always causing a ruckus with his wild inventions and modern ideas. Redd held up a sketch of an aerial ship. “From the sky, you’ll be able to see for miles. Once you spot those robbers, they won’t be able to escape.”

Appleby grunted. Apparently he lumped gas balloons in the same category as the telegraph and train, which he considered the start of civilization’s downfall.

Marshal Armstrong gave a polite nod. “I appreciate your suggestion, Redd, but I don’t aim to lift these boots any higher than it takes to mount my horse.” Without further ado, he pointed to every able-bodied man in the crowd. “You, you, and you.”

By the time he was done, twenty men had “volunteered,” including Redd, Kip Barrel, the town barber, and Lee Wong, who ran the Chinese laundry.

Caleb’s mouth drooped when the marshal overlooked him, and he started forward. Lucy pulled him back. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said.

“I want to help,” Caleb argued. “They tried to hurt you.”

Lucy felt a tug in her heart. Following her mother’s death, she had taken care of her father and brother. Not only had she cooked and cleaned for them, she oversaw Caleb’s lessons and made him practice his reading and writing every day after school.

Now he suddenly acted all grown-up and wanted to take care of her.

“You can help by staying here,” she said gently. “Please, Caleb. Those men are dangerous. Papa and I need you here.”

She reached out to him but he pulled back and stalked off.

Lucy watched him disappear inside their father’s store. Spotting Jacoby Barnes scurrying away, she promptly forgot about Caleb and followed the newspaper editor back to his office.

Extra, the newspaper’s robust marmalade cat, scurried beneath the desk when Lucy entered the small, overstuffed building. The air hung heavy with the smell of ink.

For once Barnes greeted her with a smile. He heaved his bulky body into a chair behind his desk. Rubbing his hands together in eager anticipation, he regarded her through thin-rimmed spectacles.

“What have you got for me, girl?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t get a photograph of the white mustang.”

He waved her apology away. “Forget the stallion. What about the stage? Where is the photograph of the robbery?”

“Well, I—”

His eyes sharpened. “What? Speak up!”

“I was ready,” she explained. “I even had the bandits in my lens.”

Barnes leaned forward. “Are you telling me you failed to get a photograph of the holdup?”

“I tried,” she said. “But I fell from the tree. I’m lucky to be alive.”

His eyebrows rose. “Tree?”

“I was sitting in a tree,” she explained. “Fortunately, my camera wasn’t damaged and—”

He leaned forward. “A photograph of the holdup would have tripled circulation!” he shouted.

“Yes, yes, it would have,” she cried excitedly. At last, he saw the potential.

“Quad-tripled.”

Finally, finally, he understood.
Thank you, God
. “Yes!”

Ever since the
New York Daily Graphic
published a photo of Shantytown, Lucy had badgered Barnes to hire her as a photographer. The squatter’s camp was the first half-tone photo published in an American newspaper, and it had created quite a stir.

Claiming that photographs were for people too lazy to read, Barnes had fought her all the way. It wasn’t until he discovered how the photograph had increased the
Daily Graphic’s
circulation that he began to see the light.

“You failed the test,” he said.

“But I—”

“You’re fired!”

She gasped. “Fired? But I wasn’t even hired.”

“I told you what would happen if you failed to complete an assignment.” His eyes glittered. “No photograph, no job.”

Her back ramrod straight, she boldly stood her ground. “Forget the holdup,” she said. “Forget the stallion. There’re bigger fish to fry.”

He pulled back. “Bigger than a holdup?” He shook his head. “There’s nothing bigger than that.”

“Nothing?” Her lowered voice was no less determined. “What would you say if I told you that I saw the man Trotter said chased him?”

He scoffed. “You failed to get a photograph of the white stallion. You even failed in your attempt to photograph the bandits. Now you’re making up stories about the wild man.”

“I saw him with my own eyes. Only—”

“Only what?”

“He is
not
wild.” Untamed, perhaps, but definitely not wild.
And he kisses like
—she clamped down on her thoughts. “He speaks perfect English and is as normal as you and I.”

He shook his head. “Even a parrot speaks English, if it’s trained.”

“I’m telling you, he’s not wild. If we ran his photograph in the newspaper, we could dispel those myths. It’s not right for people to have to lock their doors and look over their shoulders. It’s time to put the rumors to rest.”

Barnes’s expression grew hard as granite. “It’s not my job to dispel myths or put rumors to rest. It’s my job to sell newspapers. A wild man, a
real
wild man will sell newspapers. Dispelling myths will not.”

She gritted her teeth in frustration. There was no reasoning with the fool! But reasoning with him was one thing; working for him quite another. And she wasn’t about to let her chance for a job, however tenuous, slip through her fingers.

“I’ll get your photograph of the white stallion!” she said. “As for the ridiculous wild man rumors, I’ll save
that
story for the
Lone Star Tribune
.”

She spun around and headed for the door.

“
Miss
Fairbanks!”

She froze, her hand on the doorknob, her back toward him.

“You get me a photograph of this”—he cleared his throat—“
man
, and I’ll put it on the front page. That is, if I can figure out the convoluted directions you gave me for printing photographs.”

She allowed herself the luxury of a quick smile before turning, face all serious.

“And you’ll print the truth about him?” she asked.

He rubbed his chin. “You write the story and I’ll print it.”

She nodded. “I’ll get you your photo,” she vowed.
If it’s the last thing I do
.

She could barely contain her excitement. She left the office just as the marshal and his motley posse rode out of town.

The marshal’s wife, Jenny Armstrong, stood in front of Fairbanks General Merchandise with a frown on her face. As usual, she was perfectly groomed. Her hair was pulled back into a fashionable bun, every shiny blond strand in place, her skirt and waistcoat immaculate.

Lucy glanced down at her own multipatched skirt. Each colorful square hid a hole or rip garnered during a photographic opportunity too good to pass up, even though it meant running through nettle or climbing over fences.

If Jenny noticed the sorrowful condition of Lucy’s skirt, she gave no indication. Instead, she greeted Lucy with a worried look. “I heard about your terrible ordeal. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Lucy said. Except for a few bruises and a sore shoulder, she was none the worse for wear.

Jenny sighed. “I’m still not used to being married to a marshal. I worry every time he takes off after another outlaw.”

Appleby shifted in the rocking chair parked in front of the general store where he spent most of his time and discounted her concern with a well-aimed stream of tobacco juice. “You needn’t worry about the marshal. No one can outdraw him”—he shrugged—“except maybe Masie Parsons showin’ off her grandbaby’s phota-graph.”