"Obligated to whom?"
James stilled. "To the workers, who are members of this community, just like you and I are:" Not waiting for Tolliver's response, James stepped off the porch and started around the building, looking for anything that might be suspect. He was no expert on building a resort of this size, but he knew a few things about basic construction.
He stopped and looked up to the fourth story. This hotel was going to be impressive. It already was, even at only sixty percent completed.
Men poised on makeshift scaffolding high above the ground pounded lumber into place, speaking to each other in their native tongue. They kept working, looking down on occasion. James wished Molly Whitcomb were here with him so he could ask the workers some questions. Then again, he was hesitant to involve her. A construction site wasn't the proper setting for a woman, and translating for him certainly wasn't part of her job.
He'd asked her to lunch after they'd met with Angelo, but she'd declined, saying something about needing to get started on her teaching duties. But it was when she'd added that she'd probably be busy for some time that he'd begun to wonder if he'd said or done something to cause her to-
"Hey ... Sheriff?"
Tolliver caught up with him, and James pulled his focus back.
"I run a safe operation here. I've been in construction for nearly twenty years. Just let me do my job. I guarantee you'll be pleased. Because when I'm done, this resort stands to bring a lot of revenue to Timber Ridge."
As well as to your own pockets-which James didn't begrudge. It was the exorbitant amount of money that he had qualms with. Especially knowing firsthand how little Tolliver was paying his workers.
"I know what you're thinking, Sheriff. And I've never denied that I'll make a handsome profit. I'm a businessman, after all. Not some kind of-" he chuckled-"man of the people:'
The sarcasm in Tolliver's voice didn't kindle James's anger as much as the man's cavalier attitude. "I've wired Denver to send a building inspector:"
Tolliver's smile faded. "You have no right to do that:"
I have every right, on behalf of these men here. Keeping the people in this town safe is my job. And if the inspector from Denver finds anything that doesn't meet regulations, you'll have a week to fix it. Either that or I'll halt construction until you meet your obligations." James strode back to his horse, hearing footsteps behind him.
"This could end up causing a delay, which means I could be forced to change the date for the opening. Which will cost me a lot of money, Sheriff."
James untethered his mount and turned back. "You know, as I understand it ... that's all part of doing construction" He swung into the saddle.
Tolliver's expression hardened. "Do you have any idea how costly it is to build something like this way up here? To haul supplies up this mountain, I pay triple the shipping costs a builder pays in Denver:"
"What goes on in Denver isn't my concern. What goes on in Timber Ridge is" James fingered the reins. "The inspector will be here in the next couple of weeks. He'll file his report, and you'll have until the end of August to comply with his findings. And that's being generous:' He half expected Tolliver to explode. But he didn't.
Instead, a pensive look came over his face. "Say, Sheriff ... I hear that come election time next spring, Mayor Davenport's thinking about backing another man for your job. You heard that rumor yet?"
James said nothing.
"Something else you may not know ... Davenport has an interest in this hotel now. Just recently invested. Did you know that?"
He didn't.
Tolliver took a step closer. "My thinking, Sheriff, is that if we could work together on this, keeping costs low, keeping the project on schedule, then we all win. Me, the mayor, the town, even you:'
"You didn't mention the workers, Tolliver. The ones risking their necks to build this place:" James looked up at the men climbing in and out of the scaffolding, forty feet off the ground. "How do they win?"
"They have jobs, Sheriff. They're earning money:'
"Their wage is less than half of what you'd pay a man from town to do the same job:"
Tolliver's patience evaporated. "I pay these men well! Yes, they work more cheaply than men from Timber Ridge. But can I be faulted for hiring the cheapest labor? That's just good business sense:"
"Their families barely have enough to eat. And have you seen where they live?"
"That's unfortunate, Sheriff, but it's not my doing. I didn't ask them to come here. And just so you remember, I'm hiring them. That's more than most folks around here are doing. These people made a choice:"
These people ... James looked back at the hotel, sick to his gut. Tolliver's argument was nauseating, but he was right-there was nothing illegal about his paying the men who worked for him less than what he' d pay men from town. And then there was Davenport-willing to benefit from the Italians' backbreaking labor while they were here, while doing his best to see that they didn't stay.
James doubted whether Tolliver had visited the shanties where these men and their families lived. He probably considered it beneath him. But James had visited, and the living conditions were inexcusable. Rachel had wanted to go out there on her own to see what help she might be, but he'd discouraged her. It wasn't safe for a woman to go unaccompanied. He'd promised to take her with him sometime.
Staring down from his horse, James worked to set aside his personal feelings and to view Tolliver and these circumstances through the strict eye of the law. "These people made a choice to come here, that's true. But you've got a choice to make too, Tolliver. Improve the working conditions for your men, take greater precautions for their welfare-or wire New York and tell them your resort won't be opening on time:" James dug in his heels and the mare took off at a gallop.
He let her have her head, and they were halfway back to town before he finally reined in. Even then, she whinnied and tossed her head as though she still had some run left in her. He reached down and gave her neck a good rub. "I needed that too, girl:'
Tolliver's attitude toward the immigrants was frustrating, but Tolliver wasn't the only one in town who held that opinion. That was the problem. And James didn't know how to fix it.
He dismounted and led Winsome to a stream that ran alongside the road, to a shaded place where the water ran more tranquil and deep. The horse drank. He did too, and he knelt and washed the road dust from his face and neck. He'd been sheriff of Timber Ridge for nearly eight years, and he'd wager that most folks were pleased with the job he'd done. He'd made some enemies along the way ... no way not to in his job. And last year things had gotten rough for a spell.
He thought of Josiah Birch and what had happened to him, and his throat tightened. Finding Josiah beaten like that, left naked by the stream for dead, had shaken him. In his head, he knew that no sheriff could be everywhere, every minute. But he'd felt so responsible, so powerless to protect.
After sneaking Josiah out of town, he'd received threats on his life and on his home. Rachel's home. It was the first time as sheriff of Timber Ridge that he'd actually feared for Rachel's and the boys' safety. He hadn't said anything to her, then or since, but his deputies had known, and for weeks following, Willis and Stanton had helped keep watch.
The threatening notes had been anonymous. Anger kindled inside him again, remembering. Cowardly, gutless men who hid behind paper, afraid to sign their names. Same as the ones back home in Tennessee who hid behind sheets, afraid to show their faces.
He stood and sighed, and stretched the muscles in his shoulders and back. He knew what prejudice was. A person didn't grow up in the South ignorant of that. His father had owned slaves, and that was something that, he admitted-in the quieter, more honest moments-he'd never thought much about as a young man. When a fellow grew up with something as normal, he tended not to question it. He accepted it as part of life.
But there came a time when he did begin to question, when he saw things more clearly. And he'd wondered how he hadn't seen it befo
re. It had shamed him. He couldn't go back and change the past, however much he wished he could. But he could make a difference in Timber Ridge, in the lives of its townspeople. And he intended to do just that.
He stooped and picked up a couple of rocks and smoothed away the dirt.
He couldn't imagine doing anything else with his life other than being sheriff of Timber Ridge, and didn't know what he'd do if the door wasn't opened to him again. He didn't fear Mayor Davenport. David Davenport held influence in town, true. But in the end, when people cast their vote for the next sheriff, they'd vote for the man they trusted most. The man they thought would best protect them and their families.
And James pledged, again, to be that man.
But if he wasn't their choice, for whatever reason, he knew that nothing ever surprised the Creator of heaven and earth. As the circuit preacher had said a month or so ago, "God never leans over the balcony of heaven and gasps."
James lifted his head and settled his gaze on the Maroon Bells. He liked that thought-that nothing ever took God by surprise. There was comfort in it, and the possibility of so much good, even in the midst of bad.
He led Winsome from the shade of the trees, climbed into the saddle, and rode on toward town, his mind more at ease. He considered stopping off at Molly's cabin to check on her, see if she needed anything, yet somehow didn't feel quite right about it. Uncertain his company would be welcome.
But there was another woman in town whose arms were always open to him, and whose peach cobbler could soothe just about any woe a man might have. And both of those things sounded mighty good right then.
12
olly peered into the mare's mouth, mindful of the horse's teeth. Which were rotten!
"I'll give you a good deal on her, ma'am. Just say the word:" The livery owner nodded to her from where he stood by the forge.
Molly shook her head. No doubt he would. Of the horses Mr. Atwood had shown her, she doubted any of them would live to see next year. Two of them appeared to be going lame.
"Thank you, Mr. Atwood, but I think I'll keep looking."
He intercepted her at the open double doors. "Hang on just a minute, Mrs. Whitcomb. I can't remember if I told you about the gelding I got in the back. He's a real beauty. I was thinkin' of keepin' him for myself, but I might could let him go. Would cost you a bit more. Then again.. " He stepped close enough for her to count the veins in his bulbous nose. "I'm thinkin' I could see fit to give a pretty little widow a break in price:'
Already having questioned the man's motives, Molly was finished with his games. "I've changed my mind, Mr. Atwood. I'm no longer interested in buying a horse today" And when she was, she wouldn't be buying it from him.
At the general store, she purchased a few items-a tin of ground coffee, a package of crackers, and other staples. She started back in the direction of her cabin, feeling better for having gotten out for a while, when an aroma enticed her off course. It smelled of comfort and home.
She took a deeper whiff, almost certain it was fried chicken and ... biscuits?
She walked to the corner, looked both ways, and spotted an outdoor cafe at the far end of the street. A banner with the name Clara's Cafe hung between two poles, and she headed straight for it.
Word about her arrival had indeed spread. As people passed her on the boardwalk, those who didn't call her by name-"Good day, Mrs. Whitcomb"-greeted her with silent nods accompanied with smiles. Adults' respect was evident in the way they dipped their heads. Children's showed in how wide their gazes grew.
In a way, she felt more esteemed here than she had as a professor at Franklin College.
Judging by the number of patrons, the cafe was well liked. Varioussized tables, most occupied, dotted the smooth dirt floor beneath a twisted-limbed tree whose trunk was as big around at the bottom as the cast-iron stove hulking off to one side. The leafed canopy overhead provided shelter from the late-day sun, and Molly lingered at the edge of its shade, a sack of groceries in one hand, her reticule in the other, uncertain of the custom. Should she wait to be seated? Or seat herself?
From the edge of her vision she saw someone standing stock-still across the cafe. Curiosity guided her attention and she turned to look.
It was a Negro woman, tall and slender, stately looking with skin the color of cream-laced coffee. Recognition sharpened the woman's expression, and Molly glanced to see who might be standing behind her. No one was there.
When she turned back, the woman was approaching.
She carried herself with quiet dignity, a faint frown on her face. "Dr. Whitcomb?"
"Yes, that's right"
"You're the new schoolteacher, ma'am."
"I am." Molly smiled. "Is this your cafe?"
"Oh-no, ma'am." Her soft laugh was lyrical. "I'm afraid I don't cook well enough for the likes of Miss Clara:"
Molly squinted, regretting her hasty speculation. "I'm sorry. I just assumed-"
"No harm done, ma'am" And still, that steady stare. "But I'll be sure to tell Miss Clara what you said. She'll have herself a good chuckle at that:"
"What will I be havin' a good chuckle at, Belle Birch?" An older woman bustled up beside them, her eyes bright and attentive, her apron nearly dragging the ground. Balanced on the curve of one arm were three bowls of the most appetizing peach cobbler Molly had ever seen. If it tasted as good as it smelled ...
Belle Birch edged closer to Miss Clara, a conspiratorial look in her eyes. "I was just telling our new schoolteacher here that you wouldn't dare let me into your kitchen:'
"Why, lands no! I want my customers to keep comin' back, don't I?"
As Molly laughed along with them, she watched the two women and felt an old familiar longing. Since reaching college age, and in the years following, her friendships with women had been scarce. And those she'd had were more competitive in nature. Nothing like what she saw before her now.
She'd secretly dared to hope that such a close friendship might develop between her and Rachel Boyd, given time. But James's tie to Rachel complicated that possibility.
Miss Clara waved to a nearby table before scooting off to another task. "Take a seat right there, you two. I'll be over to serve you soon:'
Pleased not to have to eat alone, Molly started toward the table but felt a touch on her arm.
Belle's expression held apology. "I wish I could join you, Dr. Whitcomb, but my husband, Josiah, is waiting for me at home. And I make it a point never to be late in meeting my husband. Time with him is precious to me:'
Molly found herself the one staring this time. What a sweet way for a wife to state her affection for her husband. And the woman's voice-it was rich and deep, oak-tree strong. Hearing her give a recitation or deliver a lecture would be sheer pleasure. "I completely understand. It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Birch. And I hope we have occasion to speak again:'
"I'm sure we will, ma'am. And before I go ..." Her brown eyes softened. "May I say how sorry I am about your husband. I heard about his passing from Mrs. Mullins at the store:"
Molly looked anywhere but at Belle. "Thank you," she whispered. Belle walked on, but Molly stood there for a moment, still and silent, searching her heart-and not liking what she saw.
With the exception of Mayor Davenport and his brute of a brother-inlaw, the people she'd met here were so kind and accepting, and it made her wonder.... If she'd chosen differently in Sulfur Falls, if she hadn't purchased the ring-she twisted the band on her finger; it was already losing some of its luster-might she have found acceptance in this town anyway?
But in her heart, she knew the answer.
She took a seat as Miss Clara had indicated and looked around. She was the only person dining alone. Not that she'd never dined alone before. A woman didn't reach the age of thirty-one without eating by herself on occasion. But being new in town, and everyone knowing it, made her feel more conspicuous.
She made eye contact with an older couple sitting closest to her, then with another couple two tables away. S
he smiled, and they did likewise. Two women at a table by the stove glanced in her direction, smiles noticeably absent, and leaned close to speak to each other.
Molly's imagination kicked in and began filling in the blanks. Then she caught herself. It was probably nothing. Though chances were fairly good-given what Rachel had said about her arrival being such a buzzthat those women were talking about her. But that didn't necessarily mean their conversation was negative.
Perhaps they were simply acknowledging her arrival. Or were sharing their surprise in discovering she was widowed. Molly looked down. Did they recognize this black dress as belonging to Rachel Boyd? The gown was lovely, after all. And memorable. Perhaps they were wondering why she was wearing a borrowed dress. "Maybe she doesn't have enough money to buy her own clothes," she imagined the dark-haired woman whispering. "Or maybe she's not a widow at all and simply purchased a ring in Sulfur Falls to cover up her being with chi-"
"Here we are!"
Molly nearly jumped out of her seat.
Miss Clara set a plate of food before her. "Now don't you fill up on this. Once you're done"-she patted Molly's shoulder the way a grandmother might-"I have some peach cobbler with your name on it, Mrs. Whitcomb:"
"I wouldn't dream of it;' Molly assured, her heart still pounding in her throat. "That cobbler looks too good:"
Beaming, Miss Clara moved to other tables, addressing every customer by name. And from their responses, they all seemed to know her well too.
"Pardon me, ma'am."
She looked up to see a young boy holding a cup and pitcher.
"Would you like some water? Or maybe hot coffee? I'll get it for you:"
"Water will be fine, thank you" The server was a handsome boy, or young man, judging by his size. Maybe thirteen, fourteen? Anyone looking on would have labeled him a Negro, but that description, while partly true, didn't take into account the lighter color of his skin, nor the striking green of his eyes. Molly guessed at his lineage, not something hard to do having been raised in the South.
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 02] Page 11
