Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01]
Read Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] Online
Authors: From a Distance
T
AMERA
A
LEXANDER
F
ROM A
D
ISTANCE
TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS
Praise and honors for Tamera’s first series,
F
OUNTAIN
C
REEK
C
HRONICLES
“Tamera Alexander’s characters are real, fallible, and a marvelous reflection of God’s truth and grace. Her stories unfold layer-by-layer, drawing you in deeper with every page.”
Armchair Interviews
“[A] tenderhearted story of redemption.… Rarely does a debut novel combine such a masterful blend of captivating story and technical excellence. Alexander has introduced a delightful cast of winsome characters, and there’s a promise of more stories yet to be told.”
Aspiring Retail
“This second book in the Fountain Creek Chronicles reveals the power of love and forgiveness. All of the characters in the story are interesting and complex, even if they play minor roles. A warm-hearted inspirational story.”
Historical Novels Review
“Alexander again delivers a most amazing story. The characters are more than words on a page; they become real people.”
Romantic Times
“This follow-up to
Rekindled
and
Revealed
is a rich historical romance by possibly the best new writer in this sub-genre.”
Library Journal
(Starred Review)
Rekindled
was named to
Library Journal
’s Best Books of 2006 list,
was a nominee for
Romantic Times
’s
Best Inspirational Novel of 2006,
and was a finalist for the 2007 RITA Awards for
Best First Book and
Best Inspirational Romance.
Revealed
won the 2007 Romance Writer’s of America RITA Award
for Best Inspirational Romance.
F
ROM
A D
ISTANCE
Books by
Tamera Alexander
F
ROM
B
ETHANY
H
OUSE
P
UBLISHERS
F
OUNTAIN
C
REEK
C
HRONICLES
Rekindled
Revealed
Remembered
T
IMBER
R
IDGE
R
EFLECTIONS
From a Distance
Beyond This Moment
T
AMERA
A
LEXANDER
F
ROM A
D
ISTANCE
TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS
From a Distance
Copyright © 2008
Tamera Alexander
Cover design by Studio Gearbox
Cover photograph by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.
Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations identified NIV are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION
®
. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Alexander, Tamera.
From a distance / Tamera Alexander.
p. cm. — (Timber Ridge reflections.)
ISBN 978-0-7642-0389-3 (pbk.)
1. Women photographers—Fiction. 2. Colorado—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.L3563F76 2008
813'.6—dc22
2008002405
To Kelsey,
I’m so thankful God gave you to us.
But even more, that you
gave yourself to Him.
“All these people were still living by faith when they died.
They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance.”
H
EBREWS 11:13A NIV
Contents
1
R
OCKY
M
OUNTAINS,
C
OLORADO
T
ERRITORY
A
PRIL
15, 1875
E
lizabeth Garrett Westbrook stepped closer to the cliff ’s edge, not the least intimidated by the chasm’s vast plunge. Every moment of her life had been preparing her for this. That knowledge was as certain within her as the thrumming inside her chest. At thirty-two, she still wasn’t the woman she wanted to be, which was partially why she’d traveled nineteen hundred miles west to Timber Ridge, Colorado Territory. To leave behind a life she’d settled for, in exchange for the pursuit of a dream, for however long she had left.
A chill fingered its way past her woolen coat, into her shirtwaist, and through the cotton chemise that lay beneath. She pulled the coat closer about her chest and viewed the seamless river and valley carved far below, the mountains heaved up and ragged, draped in brilliant dawn to the limits of sight. She peered down to where the earth ended abruptly at the tips of her boots and the canyon plunged to breathtaking depths.
The
Chronicle
offices in Washington, D.C., were housed in a four-story building, and she estimated that at least ten of those buildings could be stacked one atop the other and still not reach the height of the cliff where she stood. She’d never before experienced such a sense of possibility. Standing here, she felt so small in comparison to all of this, yet in awe that the same Creator who had orchestrated such grandeur was also orchestrating the dissonant fragments of her life.
The competition had been rigorous, but she’d made it—one of three final candidates being considered for the position of staff photographer and journalist at the
Washington Daily Chronicle.
The other two candidates were men—men she’d met, liked and respected, and who knew how to frame the world through a lens as well as they did with words—which meant she would have to work extra hard to prove herself.
A breeze stirred, and she brushed back a curl. She inhaled the crisp, cold air, held it captive in her lungs, and then gave it gradual release, as the doctors had instructed. Hailed for its purity and ability to heal, the mountain air was even thinner than she had expected, and more invigorating.
Refocusing on her task, she strapped on her shoulder pack and checked the knotted rope encircling her waist for a second time, then untied her boots and placed one stockinged foot onto the felled tree.
She tested her weight on the natural bridge and judged it would more than hold her. Even though the tree looked solid, she’d learned the hard way that things were not always as they appeared. She trailed her gaze along the length of the gnarled trunk to where it met with the opposite ledge some twenty feet away. Heights had never bothered her, but once she started across, she purposed to never look down. Better to keep your focus on the goal rather than on the obstacles.
She adjusted the weight of her pack, concentrating, focusing, and took that crucial first step.
“Don’t you go fallin’ there, Miz Westbrook!”
Startled by the interruption, Elizabeth stepped back to safety and turned to look behind her. Josiah stood on the winding mountain trail, gripping the other end of the rope that was secured to a tree behind him.
Uncertainty layered his mahogany features. “I’s just offerin’ one last warnin’, ma’am. ’Fore you set out.”
Heart in her throat, she tried to sound kind. “I assure you, I’m fine, Josiah. I’ve done this countless times.” Though, granted, never over so great a height. But be it eight feet or eight hundred, the ability to traverse a chasm successfully lay in focus and balance. At least that’s what she kept telling herself. “But it
would
help me if you would stop your screaming.”
His soft laughter was as deep as the canyon and gentle as the breeze. “I ain’t screamin’, ma’am. Womenfolk, now, they scream. Us men, we yells.”
She threw him a reproving look. “Then, please . . . stop your
man-like
yelling.”
He tugged at the rim of his worn slouch hat. “I won’t be havin’ to yell if you’d start actin’ like a normal-headed woman. Instead of some . . . hoople-head traipsin’ herself across a log for some picture of a bird’s nest.”
The felled tree was large, nearly fifty inches in circumference, hardly the
log
Josiah referred to, and crossing it to the opposite ledge would provide a better vantage point of the eagle’s nest. The aerie was built on a precipice jutting from the side of the mountain, slightly below the level of the cliff and some thirty feet beyond. The photograph of the nest with the chasm below and the mountains in the backdrop would be breathtaking—if she didn’t fall and break her neck first.
She’d crossed wider drop-offs on much narrower tree bridges than this. Doing such things always made her feel a little like a girl again, and took her back to a time when she hadn’t yet been told that certain things were impossible.
“May I remind you that I’m paying you, very well”—she raised a brow, appreciating the ease of banter they’d shared since the outset of their association—“to carry my equipment and assist me in my work, not to offer opinions on my decisions.”
“Ain’t no extra charge for them, ma’am. They’s free.”
She shook her head at his broad smile. For the past week Josiah Birch had followed her instructions to the letter, as well he should. When properly motivated, the
Washington Daily Chronicle
had deep pockets.
Two other men had applied for the job as her assistant. They’d both seemed capable, but there was something about Josiah Birch that she innately trusted. He wasn’t an educated man, but he knew how to read and write, and he’d learned to handle and mix the chemical solutions for her trade as fast as she had. And that he weighed twice what she did and held the excess in lean hard muscle and in an honest, open gaze had only bolstered his nonexistent résumé.
