Color of the Wind

by Elizabeth Grayson

  Color of the Wind

  The Women's West Series

  Book Two

  by

  Elizabeth Grayson

  Award-winning Author

  COLOR OF THE WIND

  Reviews & Accolades

  "...a beautiful tale of redemption and reclaiming lost love. There is a power to Elizabeth Grayson's story that will move readers."

  ~Kathe Robin, Romantic Times

  "Each character suffers disappointment and loss—but in the end, they come together, learning what it means to be a family."

  ~Publisher's Weekly

  "...a compelling and rich story. This is one to savor."

  ~The Rocky Mountain News.

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-717-3

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 2014 by Elizabeth Grayson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover by The Killion Group www.thekilliongroupinc.com

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedication

  To my nieces Courtney Lynn and Jacqualyn Elizabeth, who were my inspiration for this novel.

  Acknowledgements

  Because a great deal more goes into putting a book together than a story, characters, and endless revision—which is all the author's work—there are a great many people to thank for their interest, input and expertise.

  On the research front, I am obliged to Charles Brown at the St. Louis Mercantile Library Association for leading me to just the right book at just the right moment. Also to Sally Hawkes, for her ability to ferret out the odd bits of information I don't know how I'd find otherwise. Her insight into the vagaries of British marital law is one of the things that made this story work. And special thanks for her friendship.

  On the art front, I deeply appreciate the insight water-colorist Jane Mason gave me into the way my characters would deal with this medium. I also owe a big thank-you to Joyce Schiller of the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Massachusetts for talking me through some of the ideas I used to create the heroine for this novel.

  John Villeneuve has once again offered his expertise on frontier weaponry.

  If I managed to write convincingly about horses, which I fervently hope I did, it was due to the guidance of these four ladies: Linda Madl, Ginny Schweiss, Kayla Westra, and most especially Tami Hoag. These were very dangerous waters for a confirmed city girl to navigate, and if there are errors in the sections of the novel that deal with horse breaking or horse behavior, they are my own and not for lack of good advice from these ladies.

  Eileen Dreyer gets a gold star and special accolade for her insight and her patience and for listening to me whine. The Divas deserve my thanks for support above and beyond the call. Also there are the friendships that mean so much: Carolyn Villeneuve, Libby Beach, Eleanor Alexander, Renee Witmer, Debbie Pickel, Debbie Dirckx-Norris, Johann Stallings, and so many others.

  My special appreciation goes to my new editor, Stephanie Kip, for her insight, and to my agent, Meg Ruley, for helping me to find my way to a safe harbor once again.

  And thank you to my husband, Tom, who supports me through fair wind and foul. Being able to share this with you makes it all worthwhile.

  He that hath wife and children

  hath given hostages to fortune;

  for they are impediments to great enterprises,

  either of virtue or mischief

  ~ Francis Bacon

  Prologue

  Early April 1882

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Only her sister's deathbed request could have wrung this promise from her. Ardith Merritt tightened her grip on her nephew's hand, bustling him and her other two charges across the lobby of Boston's busy train station. She had never set eyes on the children until a fortnight before, but now that Ariel's death had left them motherless, they were her responsibility—at least until she delivered them to the wilds of the Wyoming Territory. And to their father.

  Ardith grimaced at the thought and tugged six-year-old Khyber Northcross through the gate. "It's this way, children," she admonished them and glanced back to where Khy's fifteen-year-old sister China and his eleven-year-old brother Durban were trailing along behind.

  Out on the platform the coal smoke from half a dozen trains boiled upward to fog the grimy glass of the train shed roof. The engines huffed and wheezed, spewing steam. Bells clanged, metal shrieked against metal, and conductors called out destinations.

  Ardith sliced through the crowds and confusion like the prow of a ship through a choppy sea. She paused only when she reached the train that would take them on the initial leg of their journey west.

  The moment they paused, China struck a pose, adjusting the wide grosgrain bow of her bonnet that exactly matched the blue of her eyes. Durban scuffed his feet and scowled with exaggerated impatience. Khyber wiggled his fingers in Ardith's grasp, trying to slip away to go exploring.

  She tightened her hold on him and pushed up on her toes, looking for the gentleman who'd been kind enough to see them off. Ardith spotted him immediately. Broad across the shoulders and half a head taller than most of the people around him, Gavin Rawlinson wended his way through the crush on the platform.

  Ardith's chest constricted at the sight of him, and she let go of Khyber's hand to adjust the brim of her maroon felt hat. Gavin spotted her at the foot of the steps and flashed a smile. A flush of pleasure warmed Ardith's cold-reddened cheeks.

  Silly old maid! she admonished herself, but gave her hat an extra little tilt.

  It was good of Gavin to bring them to the station, and a good deal more than most publishers would do for one of their authors.

  "Here are the claim checks for the children's trunks," Rawlinson said, and extended four shiny brass and leather tags. Ardith took them, relishing the brush of Gavin's fingertips even through the fabric of his gloves and hers. "Are you sure there wasn't anything else you wanted me to check for you?"

  "I have everything I need in this one valise," Ardith answered, patting her voluminous carpetbag. "It's not as if I'll be gone for long. Once we reach the Rock Creek station, I'll turn the children over to their father and board the next train home."

  "You don't even want to see the ranch your brother-in-law is managing?" Gavin asked her.

  Ardith shook her head, though it was not so much the ranch she was loath to see.

  "Visiting the Wild West doesn't hold any fascination for me," she lied and affected a delicate shudder. "I much prefer to sit in a comfortable chair drawn up to the fire and read about the frontier."

  "I'm glad to hear that," Gavin ans
wered, smiling again. And though she knew it was foolish, Ardith allowed herself to imagine his reasons for wanting her here in Boston were personal. He dashed the notion with his next words. "We need to get the newest 'Auntie Ardith' book printed up as soon as you finish the paintings, since all the others have sold so well."

  Ardith had been surprised and pleased that the children's stories she'd written and illustrated had been received with such enthusiasm. She was even more pleased that her words and her paintings of the imaginary community of woodland animals had inadvertently brought her into Gavin Rawlinson's sphere.

  He was breathtakingly handsome standing there before her, a few strands of his chestnut-brown hair fluttering in the April wind, and his golden eyes crinkling at the corners. She liked the drape of his silky mustache, the cut of his gray wool frock coat and pinstriped trousers. She liked his ivory-handled walking stick and the subtle tilt of his high top hat. He was exactly the kind of man she'd hoped she would find when she was younger—but never had.

  "O-o-oh! Aunt Ardith," China gasped, standing with one kid-gloved hand pressed to her flawless cheek. "Just look where Khy's gotten off to!"

  Ardith whirled around, realizing suddenly that while she was talking to Gavin, she'd relinquished her grip on the six-year-old. She didn't know how any child could disappear as quickly as Khy did, or get into so much trouble. This time she found he had scaled the towering pile of coal in the coal car.

  "Khyber Northcross!" she gasped. "Whatever are you doing up there?"

  "I'm king of the hill," he crowed, bracing his hands on his hips, his smile as broad and as dangerous as a pirate's.

  And so like his father's.

  Ardith glared up at him. "Young man," she demanded, "you climb down from there this instant! I simply won't tolerate—"

  But before she could finish, the concussion of cars being coupled to the end of the train sent the force shuddering toward the engine. When the coal car shifted beneath him, Khy lurched and flailed his arms, fighting for balance. Coal skittered beneath his feet, and he disappeared behind the side of the car in a puff of inky dust.

  Ardith stepped closer in alarm. "Khyber! Khyber, are you hurt, child?"

  "No, ma'am," came the muffled answer.

  Ardith hitched up her narrow skirt, preparing to climb the coal car's ladder to retrieve the boy.

  "I'll get him," Gavin offered.

  Ardith shook her head, appalled that a man like Gavin Rawlinson should have to dirty his hands on her account. But before she could protest, the engineer appeared, steadying a child smudged head to toe with black.

  "This yours, ma'am?" he drawled.

  "No," Ardith answered before she thought. "Yes," she amended. "He's—he's my nephew."

  "Well, it appears your nephew will need a bit of washing up," the man observed, assisting the boy down the iron ladder to the ground.

  "Indeed he will," she agreed. "I thank you for your help, sir."

  Once Khy reached the platform, she gingerly gripped his collar at the scruff of his neck. It seemed the only place that wasn't soiled.

  "Oh, Khy!" she admonished him. "Can't you stay clean and out of trouble for even a few minutes?"

  Khyber grinned as if being grimy and naughty were laudable accomplishments. He waggled his hands in his sister's face.

  "Stop that!" Ardith ordered, tightening her hold and feeling the coal dust grit even through the fabric of her gloves.

  "Don't you touch me, Khy!" China squealed and fled up the steps into the sleeping carriage.

  Khy reached for his brother instead.

  Durban froze him with a glance. "What would Mother say?" he asked with cool disdain.

  At the mention of his dead mother Khy burst into tears.

  "Durban!" Ardith admonished him, and she thought she saw a flicker of regret cross the older boy's face.

  Gavin didn't give him so much as a moment to apologize. He caught Durban by the elbow and maneuvered him up the steps so he could follow his sister inside.

  "Oh my dear!" Ardith breathed in exasperation and fished a tatted-lace handkerchief out of her reticule. It was ruined the moment she tucked the delicate square into Khyber's hand.

  "Get on the train," she instructed, wondering how she was going to manage these next few days. "And don't touch anything—and I mean anything—until I get there to help you wash up."

  Sniffing and snuffling and wiping his nose on her pristine handkerchief, Khyber disappeared into the sleeper car.

  Climbing onto the bottom step Ardith turned back to Gavin, meaning to thank him and bid him good-bye. He was fighting a smile—and standing so close that she could smell the sweet, smoky scent of sandalwood that clung to his clothes and skin. She could see the razor-fresh turn of his cheek and wondered what it would be like to test its smoothness with her lips. The air fluttered for a moment beneath her breastbone, before she let it out on a sigh.

  These were such silly notions for a woman like her to be having. A plain woman. A woman noted for her mind and not her beauty. A woman four years older than the man she fancied.

  Then Gavin's gaze shifted from where Khyber had disappeared to her. "Are you sure, Ardith, that you'll be all right traveling alone with those three? I'd feel so much better about you going all that way if you had a maid or someone with you."

  "I'll be fine," she assured him, though she, too, was wishing she had some other adult to depend on.

  But who might that have been? When Ariel died, the governess who had accompanied her and the children from England had demanded passage back to Bristol. After her uncle's many kindnesses, Ardith dared not ask him to disrupt his lecture schedule to accompany her. And if their long-time housekeeper in Concord thought Boston was at the edge of the Earth, what would she make of Wyoming?

  Ardith forced herself to smile at Gavin. "All I have to do is get the children through these next five days. Their father will be at Rock Creek station to claim them. Certainly I can keep them together and out of trouble for that long." Yet the words rang hollow in her ears.

  Gavin laughed softly, down deep in his chest. "Of course you can; you're 'Auntie Ardith.' You know all about children, don't you?"

  Before she could deny it, the bell on the engine clanged, and billows of steam wheezed out around the wheels.

  "'Board!" the conductor called out. "All aboard!"

  Gavin smiled and handed her the wicker hamper he'd been carrying.

  "What's all this?"

  "Just some sandwiches and things I thought might make your journey a little easier."

  Ardith smiled back, touched by his concern. "Thank you, Gavin."

  He reached out and caught her free hand. "Have a good trip, Ardith dear. I'll see you when you get back. I imagine you'll have some very diverting tales to tell me."

  Ardith nodded her head. Now that the moment was upon her, she didn't want to take the children to Wyoming. She wanted to stay here, finish the book Gavin was so eager to have from her, and bask in the warmth of this man's smile. It was soft and intimate enough to keep a body warm all winter.

  Regret gathered in her chest, and she tried to conjure up some appropriate parting words. Just then the train began to move.

  As it did, Gavin let go of her hand. She could feel the imprint of his fingers and resisted the urge to press that warmth to her cheek.

  The train pulled out. The space of a yard opened between them, three yards, ten. Ardith waved. Gavin smiled and waved back.

  Though she knew she was a fool, Ardith savored the moment, wishing there was more to it than there was. Still, she shamelessly indulged herself, standing there a moment longer than was necessary, clutching her valise in one hand and the hamper in the other. Then she turned and climbed the steps.

  Once inside she trundled down the aisle of the sleeper car and saw that her charges were settled in seats halfway back. China had turned around and was smiling and chatting most engagingly with the man in the seat behind her. Durban had his nose jammed in a book. Beside him Khy
ber sat waiting, long white tear streaks scored through the soot on his face.

  Ardith sighed, the pleasant glow of Gavin's good-bye evaporating.

  Only the promise to the sister she thought she'd lost long ago could have brought her to this, to chaperoning these three motherless waifs as far as Wyoming—and to confronting their father after all these years.

  Chapter 1

  So this is exile. Baird Northcross shifted on the seat of the rumbling farm wagon and stared toward a cluster of hardscrabble buildings nestled into the base of the mountains. This dung-heap of a ranch was a full five thousand miles from the leather and tobacco scent of his club in St. James, from the taste of aged brandy and saucy kisses from Drury Lane's opera dancers, from cold fogs off the Thames and the warmth of coal fires burning in London's most fashionable drawing rooms. He'd been exiled to this godforsaken wilderness because his family was quit of him, because his cousin Bram had paid with his life for trusting Baird to act quickly and shoot straight.

  Baird's chest tightened as he remembered. He had barely returned from Burma when his uncle, Earl Northam, had summoned him to his London townhouse. But beyond expressing his profound regret at having been responsible for his cousin's death, Baird had had nothing at all to say for himself.

  His uncle had skewered him with cold blue eyes, eyes whose unusual cobalt color was known as the "Northcross Stamp."

  "You're thirty-nine, nephew," the earl had begun, "and in all your years of living you've done nothing but seek your pleasure. You've squandered every opportunity the family has given you and every penny of your wife's inheritance on these harebrained expeditions."

  "They've all been for the Royal Geographical Society, sir," he'd put in.

  His uncle went on as if he hadn't heard. "It's high time you stopped all that running about and accepted some responsibility."

  "For Ariel's property in Northumberland, you mean?" Baird asked hopefully, knowing that even at the isolated manor he could find his own diversions.