“Are you sure I’m brave enough to do this?” Ivy asked Catherine as they approached the new photography studio. There wasn’t a sign out front yet—she supposed Mr. Baker was having one made or would be soon—but she knew where the studio was located.
“Of course you are, and besides, he’s doing all the hard work in setting up the camera and so forth. You just have to stand there and be beautiful.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Ivy pulled in a breath. “Thank you for coming with me. I’m sure I’d faint if you weren’t here.”
“If I wasn’t here, you’d dig deep, find some courage, and march in there with your head held high. I know you, Ivy, and you’re not nearly as timid as you think you are.” Catherine put her hand on the door handle. “Are you ready?”
Ivy decided to try searching for that courage Catherine mentioned. “I’m ready.”
When they entered, they found Mr. Baker inside arranging a large curtain on the back wall. It didn’t seem to be a window curtain, but rather, a backdrop for the portraits.
“Good morning, ladies,” he greeted them. “I hope I’m not interrupting your workday too badly.”
“Naomi’s helping Titus prepare for lunch,” Ivy responded. “We’ll need to leave in a little bit to help serve, but everything’s all right in the meantime.”
“Excellent. This shouldn’t take long, I don’t think.” He pulled a corner of the curtain a little straighter, then nodded. “That will do. Now, let’s get you situated.”
Ivy stood there awkwardly while he walked around the room, studying her from every angle. Then he’d ask her to turn slightly, or take a step forward or back.
“I’m sorry,” he said after positioning her for the fifth or sixth time. “This is the first portrait I’ve taken here, so I’m afraid you’re a bit of an experiment until I figure out the best angles.”
“You moved in yesterday, didn’t you?” Catherine asked. Ivy was a little embarrassed at the question—she didn’t want Mr. Baker to know they’d been talking about him.
He didn’t seem bothered by the question, though. “Yes, and spent the night here last night. The building creaks a little bit—I think it’s settling on its foundation. Whatever the cause, for a few minutes, I wondered if I’d get any sleep, but the next thing I knew, it was morning. All right, Miss Ross, we’ve figured out just the right spot. Stay there, please, while I set up the camera, and just think of all the time you’ve saved me the next time I take a portrait.”
Ivy didn’t stir from her spot as he walked over to the corner of the room, picked up a camera on a tripod, and carried it back. He set it into position, adjusting the placement of the legs until everything was exactly the way he wanted it. Then he picked up a paper-wrapped plate of glass from the trunk and inserted it into the camera.
“What is all this, Mr. Baker?” Ivy asked.
“This piece of glass has been coated with a substance called silver bromide. It’s put on there as a gelatin substance, and it can stay stored and ready to go until I make ready to use it. When it’s exposed to the image, the image is burned onto the surface, and I can then take it into my dark room there in the corner and develop the plate, meaning, turning it into a picture that can be hung on the wall.”
“That’s fascinating,” Catherine said, perching on a stool in the corner. “What happens next?”
“Next we prepare our subject.” He turned to Ivy, and for the first time since she and Catherine had arrived, she felt like he was actually seeing her. He’d been bustling around, moving this thing and that, but now he stopped, smiled at her, and said, “Are you ready?”
“I think so,” she replied. “Should I take off my cloak, or . . .?”
“No, let’s leave it on. You’re presenting a lovely tale of winter. I think, though, that I’d like some visual texture . . .” He glanced around. “Hmm. I used to have a box of props, but it became too much to carry with me when I traveled. I might want to start collecting more.”
“Props?” Ivy asked.
“Yes—I had some fans and books and various other things for my subjects to hold to give their hands something to do.” He paused, contemplating. “May I borrow that?” he asked Catherine, motioning to the fur capelet she wore around her shoulders.
“Of course.” She unfastened the closure and handed it over to him.
He took it, folded it this way and that, then handed it to Ivy. “Hold it just so and slide your hands in . . .yes, exactly. Now it looks like you’re holding a fur muff. It adds a nice element there in the center of the frame.” He bent down, adjusted the way the fabric of her hem lay on the floor, and then straightened. “This will be lovely.”
Ivy glanced over at Catherine. “Do I look all right?”
“You look perfect.”
Ivy pressed her lips together, then tried to relax her face as Mr. Baker took his position at the camera.
“All right, Miss Ross. Here we go.”
He removed the lid from the lens, replaced it, and said, “There we go. You’re done.”
“What? I thought it would take much longer than that,” Ivy replied.
“With today’s modern advances in technology, it only takes those few seconds. It used to be that you’d have to remain motionless for fifteen minutes for a good picture.”
“My mother told me that about her wedding day,” Caroline replied. “She said she thought she’d faint before they were finally allowed to move.”
“It seems new advances are coming along regularly.” Mr. Baker stepped over to his trunk again and brought out something that looked like a leather-bound box. “This was recently produced by a man named George Eastman. It’s a box camera, and you can take one hundred pictures with it. Can you imagine being able to carry this around with you as you travel instead of one of those things?” He motioned toward the camera he’d just used to take Ivy’s picture.
“So why didn’t you use it for me?” she asked.
“I wanted a richer result. Someday, I’m sure a box camera will do a better job, but for now, I consider the results less professional.”
“And when can we see Ivy’s portrait?” Catherine asked.
“Late this afternoon. I’ll develop it now, and then it will need some time to dry.”
Ivy folded her hands together to keep them from shaking. She was so nervous to see the outcome. “Thank you, Mr. Baker. This has been quite thrilling.”
“Not as terrifying as you thought?”
“I didn’t say that.” She chuckled. “We’re needed at the restaurant now, but we’ll come back after the lunch rush, all right? And we’ll bring you something?”
“I’d appreciate that, Miss Ross. That’s very kind of you.”
Ivy gave the capelet back to Catherine, and then they left the studio and began their walk to work. “That was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Catherine said as she skirted around a snowdrift.
“What was?” Ivy asked.
“You. Mr. Baker.” Catherine gave Ivy an incredulous look. “Gracious—I can’t believe you don’t see it. The man is besotted, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”
Ivy kept her gaze on the ground, not wanting Catherine to see her face. “Maybe I’m scared to believe it,” she said at last. “What if I believe it, but it’s not really true, and my heart gets broken?”
Catherine put her arm around Ivy’s shoulders. “Granted, we’ve only just met Mr. Baker, but he doesn’t seem that sort of man to me. I don’t believe he could fake that sort of admiration, and I don’t believe he would have any reason to do so.”
“I want to think that you’re right.” Ivy took another few steps before deciding to confide in her cousin. “When he first came into the restaurant, I thought he was odd and I didn’t want much to do with him, but when I saw him again, my heart gave this little leap and my knees got shaky, and when I took him his food, there was something there—like a tingling feeling racing back and forth between us. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
“That’s attraction, and if it’s meant to be, it will grow into love,” Catherine told her. “It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, isn’t it? Why do you think I’ve been looking so hard for the right man here in Creede?” She gave Ivy a little squeeze. “Let yourself enjoy this moment. If it starts to feel wrong, you don’t have to keep seeing him, but why not give it a chance and see what might happen?”
Ivy nodded. Her cousin was saying everything she’d hoped she would—she wanted to give Mr. Baker a chance. The way his eyes met hers took her breath away, and she wondered what possibilities might lie in their future. It was a very heady thought.
***
Caleb chuckled at himself and his priorities. When he’d reached his new home last night and carried everything inside with the kind help of a young man who’d been passing at the time, his first thought had been to set up the studio portion of the building. He’d barely assembled his bed and needed to do it over again because it was lumpy, and he’d forgotten to purchase a coffee pot to make his coffee. However, all his equipment was arranged just how he wanted it, his darkroom was organized with the chemicals lined up in a row, and now that he’d experimented with the light, he was prepared to take photographs even if he couldn’t find his other pair of brown socks.
One thing at a time, he reminded himself.
As he measured out the chemicals needed to develop Miss Ross’s picture, he noticed that his fingers were trembling. This might be one of the most important portraits he’d taken in his life, and not just because it would advertise for his business. He’d had the very strong sense that this picture would change Miss Ross’s life in some way, and also his.
Once the picture had been set to drying, he exited the darkroom and found Adolphus Waverly sitting on the stool, waiting for him.
“Hello,” Caleb said, drying his hands on a towel. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again.”
“You received my message well and you’re doing your best to fulfill your task, so ordinarily, I would be on my way, but I thought you might need a little extra encouragement,” Mr. Waverly said. “Oftentimes when people set about the business of doing good, they start to wonder if it’s really worth it. They doubt that their efforts are bearing fruit. They feel as though perhaps they’re wasting their time—no one’s changing, no one’s listening. What they should realize is that no effort to do good is ever wasted, even if they don’t see the results for years to come.” He stood up and put his hat back on. “You’ll make a difference in people’s lives, young Caleb, just as you’ve already begun to make a difference for that young lady. It will show in your children and their children and so forth.”
“My children? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Mr. Waverly said, “that you’ve just taken a portrait of your future wife.” He gave a nod, then disappeared just as he had before.
Caleb blinked a few times, not only to adjust his eyes to Mr. Waverly’s sudden disappearance, but as he tried to think through what he’d just heard. Yes, he certainly found Miss Ross attractive, and yes, he very much wanted to get to know her better, but to be told in no uncertain terms that he was going to marry her? He felt like he’d just been handed a beautifully wrapped unexpected Christmas gift, one he certainly didn’t deserve.
Of course, there was always such a thing as free will, and while Mr. Waverly might have made the pronouncement, Miss Ross could decide she’d rather not. Caleb knew he would be better off not counting on it as a sure thing, but it was a delightful possibility to consider.
He put the stool back in the corner, straightened his backdrop a bit, and did a few other things to make the studio look tidier generally. He’d like a desk and a few more chairs, but those would come as he started to bring in some money. For now, he’d best be working on his window display.
He was contemplating where to find an easel when the door opened and KC Murray came in, followed by another man who also wore a badge.
“Hello, gentlemen,” he greeted them. “How are you today?”
“Fine, just fine,” Murray replied. “Mr. Baker, I’d like to introduce you to Marshal Henry Wheeler.”
Caleb shook Marshal Wheeler’s hand. “I’m glad to know you.”
“As am I.” Wheeler looked around. “No furniture yet, I see.”
“I’m sorry, no. Just the one stool.”
“Well, that’s all right. I’ve been on horseback all morning—standing up will do me some good.” Wheeler gave a nod as if encouraging Murray to go ahead.
“Mr. Baker, we have ourselves a little bit of a tricky situation,” Murray said. “I’ve spent some time between yesterday and this morning following up some leads and chatting with people. I went ahead and met with Mr. Ross’s niece just to be sure I understood her statement, and sure enough, she said she was given that dollar bill by Ab Helm. I had a talk with Mr. Helm, and he says he got that money from Wendell Thurgood—Mr. Thurgood was purchasing a small item from Mr. Helm. So then I went over and met with Mr. Thurgood, and he said he received that bill from you—seems you gave him some money to rent this building.”
“Yes, I did,” Caleb said, his mind starting to spin.
“Now, I told Murray that it seems unlikely to me that you’d be our counterfeiter—not after all the help you were yesterday,” Wheeler said in a long, low drawl. “That wouldn’t make sense at all unless you were feeding in some false information to throw us off the scent.”
“So, which is it, Mr. Baker?” Murray asked. “Are you somehow caught up in this as an innocent bystander, or are you the man we’re actually looking for?”
Caleb licked his lips, which were suddenly dry, then pressed them together. “I assure you, I’m not the counterfeiter,” he said after a moment’s pause to make sure his voice was steady. “I invite you to investigate me as much as you need to—I have nothing to hide.”
“You see that, KC?” Wheeler turned to Murray. “I told you he wouldn’t be involved.”
Caleb knew the two of them were working together to break down his defenses, and he wouldn’t have expected anything less. “I remember where I got that bill,” he offered. “I received it in change from the stationmaster when I bought my train ticket to Creede. That was in Cheyenne, Wyoming.”
“Cheyenne, eh?” Murray looked thoughtful. “Seems we’ve had a couple other people in town arrive by way of Cheyenne.”
Wheeler nodded. “I think I might catch a train and head up there myself. Hannah might not like me being gone that long, especially now that Bob seems to have disappeared, but when I tell her it’s all to clear Mr. Baker’s name, I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“Bob disappeared?” Murray asked.
“I thought I told you. We haven’t seen him for the last little bit—it’s the weirdest thing. I thought he was glued to Hannah’s side. She’s been pretty upset about it, but she said something about him being needed somewhere else. Not quite sure what that meant, but it gave her some comfort.” He turned back to Caleb. “Bob’s my wife’s rooster,” he said by way of explanation.
“Rooster?”
“That’s right.” Wheeler looked over at Murray. “I’ll pack myself a bag and then head up to Cheyenne. If I clean out that ticket booth and find more counterfeit bills, we can probably assume Mr. Baker’s innocent.”
“Or we could just assume he’s not,” Murray said, his voice mild. “Sooner or later, our culprit’s going to make a fatal mistake, and if we happen to be keeping a close eye on all our suspects, we’ll find out about it that much sooner.”
“I leave the entire matter in your capable hands.” Wheeler gave a nod to Caleb and left the building, his boots echoing on the wooden floor even louder than they normally would because of the lack of furniture.
“Well, Mr. Baker, I’d best be on my way too,” Murray said. “I do appreciate your input on the case yesterday and I hope we’re able to clear your name quickly. If we’re not, well, maybe you’ll get a lenient judge.” He too nodded, then left.
Caleb leaned against the wall, feeling as though the breath had been knocked clean out of him. He had passed along a counterfeit bill—how had he not realized it? Yes, he’d been exhausted from travel, but even that tired, would he have made a mistake like that? Wouldn’t he have known the very moment the bill was handed him by the stationmaster?
He exhaled. There was very little he could do now. He’d either be arrested or he wouldn’t, and he couldn’t change the outcome. He’d simply push forward as though everything wasn’t teetering on the balance at that moment.
Now, what had he been planning to do?
The window display. Yes, that was it. He locked the door to his building, pocketed the key, and stepped into the road, heading for the general store. He was sure Mrs. Jackson would be able to help him.
“Mr. Baker!”
He heard his name as soon as he reached Main Street. He turned and saw an older woman scurrying toward him as fast she could for all the many layers she wore. “Yes? May I help you?”
“Mr. Baker, my name is Seffi Morgan, and I understand you’re a photographer.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Morgan, I am.”
“I’d like to come in this week and have a portrait taken of myself with my three sons. They’ve been my entire life since my husband died, but they’re each starting lives of their own, and I thought it would be nice to have some sort of memorabilia of us together before they’re so busy with their own families that they’ve forgotten about me. Do you have time, Mr. Baker? Maybe on Friday afternoon?”
“Absolutely. Would one o’clock suit? The light should be ideal then.”
“Yes. I’ll make sure they’re all there. Thank you, Mr. Baker. I believe you’re a godsend.”
He smiled as he watched her bustle away. He wasn’t sure what had sent him to Creede in particular, but he knew he was being used for good here, even if he didn’t understand it all yet.
When he entered the general store, he spotted Mrs. Jackson right away. She turned to him with a smile. “Hello, Mr. Baker. How can I help you today?”
He explained what he was looking for, and she nodded. “I don’t carry easels here, but there are several carpenters in town. Aedan Casey comes to mind—probably because there he goes now.” She nodded toward the front windows of the store, where Caleb could see a man walking past outside.
“Excuse me,” Caleb said, then turned and headed outside. “Mr. Casey!”
The man turned around. “Yes?”
“My name is Caleb Baker, and I’m in need of an easel. Mrs. Jackson said you might be able to build me one.”
Mr. Casey scratched his chin. “Well, I’m swamped with work right now, Mr. Baker—just heading off to my next job now. But if you’re handy with a hammer, I have some scrap pieces of wood I was getting ready to throw out, and you could likely build something yourself depending on how tall it needed to be.”
Caleb thought about that. It didn’t need to be fancy, and he was decent with his hands. “Thank you, Mr. Casey. I’d appreciate that a lot.”
Mr. Casey nodded. “Head over to my current project and tell Frank, one of my men on that job, that I sent you to collect some pieces of wood and to borrow a hammer. He’ll set you up right.” He rattled off an address, and Caleb thanked him.
By the time Miss Ross returned to the studio carrying a basket, Caleb had constructed an easel, although a fairly basic one, and he’d pulled a frame from his trunk.
“You’re just in time, Miss Ross,” he said as he opened the door for her. “I was about to check on your portrait.”
“You were? Oh, I’m so excited to see it.” She entered the building and set the basket on the floor. “Can we look at it right now?”
He chuckled. “Yes, let’s.”
He felt her same excitement as he opened the door to the darkroom and brought the picture out into the light of the main room. Not only had it turned out the way he’d hoped, but it actually transcended his expectations—her face once again appeared angelic, and the softness of her expression tugged at his heart. Once again, he thought about Mr. Waverly’s words, how this was his future wife, and he realized just how much he wanted that to be true. He needed this kind of beauty and softness in his life.