Colorado Dawn

by Kaki Warner

  Three

  “Get off me!” Ash yelled over his wife’s shrieks. “Down!” From the corner of his eye, he saw Satterwhite running from the wagon, the rifle at his shoulder. “No! Don’t shoot! It’s my dog! Don’t shoot!”

  Finally getting a grip on the wriggling body straddling his chest, he shoved Tricks out of licking range and rolled to his feet. “You boggin’ noob!” he railed, wiping his dusty sleeve over his damp face. “I told you to stay.”

  Madeline let the stick of firewood she gripped in both hands drop to the dirt. “Th-­that’s a dog?”

  “Aye.” He glowered at the animal grinning up at him. “An Irish wolfhound, and he’s but a wee pup, so he has much to learn. You won’t be needing that.” He motioned to the rifle in the old man’s hands.

  Satterwhite slowly lowered the rifle. “I’ve ridden smaller burros. The thing must be eight or nine hands high.”

  “Aye,” Ash said proudly. “The lad’s big for his age, so he is.”

  “B-­But he attacked you.” His wife edged back from the panting dog, her brown eyes as round as buttons in her pale face.

  “Not my Tricks.” Bending, he brushed dust from his trousers and inspected his boots for new scratches. “He’s just glad to see me. Fair exuberant about it, so he is, but he means no harm.” He straightened to find both his wife and Satterwhite gaping at him. “What?”

  “Does he bite?” the old man asked.

  “Not unless I tell him to.” And Tricks decides to obey.

  Tentatively, his wife reached out a hand.

  Ash started to warn her, but the hound was already giving her fingers a thorough sniff, then anointing them with a slobbery kiss.

  “Good boy,” she crooned, smoothing back the wiry eyebrows that were almost as high as her waist.

  Ash watched, as perplexed by the hound’s affectionate behavior as his wife’s reaction. Few of the gently bred women of his acquaintance would extend a hand to such a ferocious-­looking beast, much less smile at his damp show of acceptance. But then, his wife had never been orthodox—­not in her emotions, or her photography, or her passions. At one time he had wondered if married women were allowed to be so open in their affections toward their husbands—­he had never seen such between his parents, or his brothers and their wives—­not that he had complained. In fact, the memory of that ardor had warmed him during many a lonely night.

  “Why Tricks?” she asked.

  “Because he does tricks.”

  “Indeed?”

  Trying not to sound boastful, Ash said, “He can bring down a wolf or a boar, or even a stag or horse. And he can rip out a man’s throat on command.” That was conjecture, of course, since it had never happened. But Ash suspected Tricks would do it if the occasion warranted. He ruffled a rough-­coated ear. “He’s a braw lad, so he is. Protective and intensely loyal. It’s in their natures.”

  “That’s not tricks. That’s savagery.”

  Ash shrugged. “He’s a war dog. That’s what they do.” Seeing she needed further reassurance, he added, “He can also sit and heel. He’s verra smart.” He lifted a hand. “Tricks, sit!”

  The dog flopped on his back and displayed his privates.

  “Oh, aye,” she mimicked with a smirk. “The braw lad is verra smart, so he is.” With a dismissive wave of her hand, she turned toward the wagon. “Come, Mr. Satterwhite. Let’s collect what you will need for your rabbit stew this evening.”

  Bemused, Ash watched her walk away, squinting through the dwindling haze of his headache at the way the breeze molded her skirt to her rounded arse. “See what I mean, lad?” he said, idly rubbing his temple. “She’s not like other women, who will do anything for a title. She’s unpredictable, so she is, and independent to a fault. A woman with ideas and the backbone to see them through. A potent combination.”

  When Tricks dinna respond, he looked down to find the dog staring after his wife, his jaws open in a toothy grin. “Shut your geggie, lad. You look like a drooling gawk. But I agree. We’ll not be giving up on her yet.”

  Maddie managed to make it up the steps and into her wagon before her wobbly knees betrayed her.

  Angus-­the-­dog rushed her, yipping and trying to climb her skirts. Dropping down onto her narrow bed, Maddie gathered her pet in her arms and pressed her heated cheek against the fluffy fur.

  “He’s here, pup. He’s actually here.”

  The dog licked her face, then wiggled out of her arms and went to scratch at the door.

  “I can’t let you out, Angus. His great beast will eat you.” She pressed a trembling hand to her brow. “Oh, dear. I’ll have to change your name, won’t I?” Then she remembered that Angus-­the-­man was now Ash-­the-­viscount, so what did it matter? She stifled a laugh even as tears burned in her eyes. She didn’t know why she was laughing and crying but couldn’t seem to stop either. She felt giddy. And panicky. And terrified.

  My husband is here. Now. Just outside the door.

  Or had she dreamed it?

  Leaning over, she inched back the curtain over the small window.

  Definitely no dream. More like a nightmare. He stood where she had left him, talking to his overgrown dog. From the safety of the shadows, she studied him as she hadn’t dared do when they were face-­to-­face.

  He still cut a fine figure. Tall and lean. His long legs as muscular as she remembered, his shoulders as wide, and his back still ramrod straight.

  Insufferable, pompous ass.

  She had hoped he’d grown fat and bald and toothless. But other than deeper grooves around his mouth, fine lines fanning out from his remarkable green eyes, that scar across his eyebrow, and the gray in his hair, he was the same man who had haunted her dreams for the last six years. Except that now he was a peer of the realm. Lord Ashby.

  The bounder.

  Angus-­the-­dog whined and sniffed at the narrow gap under the door.

  Dropping the curtain, Maddie sat back, wondering what she should do. She had no interest in being a viscountess. Or in returning to Scotland and being dumped in that drafty castle so he could go galloping off to Edinburgh or London on some pursuit that didn’t include her. Over the last two years, she had carved out a life without him—­a fulfilling life—­a fine, happy life, thank you very much—­and she had no intention of giving it up.

  She sighed. “He can do it,” she told the dog still whining at the door. “Legally, he can force me to go back with him.” He could even beat her, or lock her in a mental hospital, or take control of her parents’ home and any money she made from her photographs. “So what am I to do?”

  The dog stretched up to bat at the door latch.

  “I know. I’m his chattel as surely as those two mules out there are mine. And he can make me do anything or live anywhere he wants.”

  Unless, of course, she did something to convince him that that would be a poor idea and she was not a suitable wife for a peer.

  Hmmm. Now there’s a thought.

  Leaning over, she lifted the edge of the curtain again. Now he was talking to Mr. Satterwhite, no doubt ordering the poor old man around like one of his troopers. With a sniff, she let the curtain fall.

  “It would have to be something that wouldn’t land me in jail,” she mused aloud. “Something that would bring harm to no one, especially myself, but would be so reprehensible he would gladly put me aside. Any ideas, pup?”

  Angus-­the-­dog squatted and puddled by the door.

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” she said, rising to clean the mess. “I’m not that desperate.” Not yet, anyway. But there must be something just as odious she could do to scare him off.

  Shadows lengthened as Maddie paced the tiny wagon, chewing her thumbnail, thoughts racing through her head. By the time Mr. Satterwhite knocked on the door to tell her dinner was ready, she had discarded a dozen ideas and had finally decided the whole notion was silly.

  But one thing was certain. She couldn’t—­wouldn’t—­go back to the sterile life she
had worked so hard to leave behind.

  At a yapping sound, Ash looked up from Satterwhite’s recitation of the merits of the Winchester repeater over his British Snider-­Enfield to see his wife peering out of the open door of her wagon with a wiggling ball of fur in her arms.

  “Will you please tie up your dog?” she called.

  “There’s no need,” he called back.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Aye.”

  Ash studied her as she came down the steps. His headache was almost completely gone now, allowing him to better see and admire the changes in his lady wife. She had lost none of her grace, he noted. She still moved with the regal glide that marked her a lady of quality—­back straight, head high, each step measured. She looked every bit the viscountess he needed her to be—­except for the squirming, yapping rat she clutched in her arms.

  He stood as she approached.

  “You’re sure it will be safe?” She eyed Tricks warily. “I can’t keep my dog locked in the wagon forever. We’ve already suffered one indiscretion.”

  “You or the dog?”

  He thought he saw a smile before she pinched it off. He had missed that smile and the way it involved her whole face, and how it had made him feel when she’d directed it at him.

  After positioning her chair away from the smoke, he held it while she settled, then returned to his seat on the log beside Satterwhite, who was stirring a bubbling pot suspended over the coals. “If I tell Tricks to leave your wee dog alone,” he said, raising his voice over the constant yapping of the rat, “he will obey. As long as I’m not threatened.”

  “Like he obeyed your command to sit?”

  Satterwhite snickered. Ignoring him, Ash reached down to pat the wolfhound reclining beside his leg, his dark eyes fixed on the rat. “Tricks isna vicious. He will do as ordered.” Unlike you, he almost added.

  “In case he doesn’t,” Satterwhite offered, one eye looking hopefully toward the wagon, the other aimed at Ash, “want me to get my pistol?”

  “Not unless you want me to have it. Come, lass. Put your dog down. I’ll watch Tricks until they’re acquainted.”

  Hesitantly, she lifted the dog from her lap.

  Ash felt the wolfhound tense under his hand and murmured softly in Gaelic until the dog relaxed.

  As soon as the rat touched dirt, it charged.

  Madeline leaped from her chair.

  “Wooee!” Satterwhite hollered, lifting his scuffed boots out of the raging mite’s path.

  “Hold fast!” Ash ordered.

  His wife obeyed. The rat dinna.

  Without rising to his feet, Tricks lifted his head out of the frenzied creature’s reach as the dog yipped and jumped in his face.

  “Easy, lad. The thing is mostly hair and gristle and wouldna go down easy anyway.”

  Eventually the wee beastie wore itself out. Panting, its pink tongue drooping from its open mouth, the rat settled on its haunches and attempted to stare down the bigger dog.

  Tricks responded by lifting a hind foot and scratching his ear.

  “See, lass? All is well.”

  “I thought for sure the big one would eat the little one.” Satterwhite sounded disappointed.

  Ash studied the rat, trying to determine its ancestry. “One of those Mexican dogs, is it?”

  “Half.” Still watchful, Madeline sank back into the chair. “The mother was a Corgi of low virtue who was also a sound sleeper. An unfortunate combination,” she added with a pointed look in his direction.

  He ignored it. “I find it odd,” he said pleasantly, “that you named your wee dog after me. I might even have been flattered, had the animal been male.”

  “Angus is a girl?” Satterwhite bent to study the dog’s furry underparts. “I never knew that. ’Course I never looked that hard, either.”

  “She is.” His wife focused her attention on smoothing the skirt draped over her knees. “And her name is Agnes.”

  “Agnes? You said it was Angus, missy.”

  “I fear you misheard, Mr. Satterwhite.”

  Ash watched her lips twitch. A smile, perchance? It gave him hope that the fine sense of humor he remembered might still lurk beneath that starchy reserve. “A common mistake, so it is.”

  “Indeed.”

  Turning to the old man, Ash said in a friendly tone, “In the future, Satterwhite, you willna call my wife ‘missy.’ She is a viscountess and should be addressed as my lady or Lady Madeline or Viscountess Ashby.”

  “Oh, rubbish,” his wife interjected. “And I suppose next you’ll insist I call you Lord Ashby. Don’t be such a stick. Missy is fine, Mr. Satterwhite. We are friends, after all.” Turning back to Ash, she added as if he were a blithering numptie, “Americans do not recognize titles, Angus. And as I have not yet accepted yours, I choose not to use it.”

  He managed to keep his voice calm. “It’s not a matter of choice, Maddie. I am Viscount Ashby. You are wedded to me. Thus, you are Viscountess Ashby. And even though it’s customary for peers to be addressed by their titles rather than their given names, if Ashby is too lofty for you, I’ll answer to Ash.” He punctuated that with a wide grin.

  She looked away, her lips pressed in a thin, flat line.

  Again, Ash wondered why she was fighting him on this. Most women he knew would jump at a title. Yet, she wanted none of it. Why?

  Or was it him she wanted naught to do with?

  “Stew’s done, Your Majesties,” Satterwhite announced. “Grab your plates.”

  They ate the burned food beside the fire. Although it was still early evening, the sun had dropped behind the trees and long shafts of dappled light slanted across the wispy grass. Already the air was cooling, and Maddie was grateful when Angus—­Ash—­added another log to the coals.

  Ash. It suited him. As did the gray hair. With his imposing figure and handsome face, and now a lofty title, he would have no trouble finding another woman to be his viscountess. Then she would be free to take her pictures and travel when and where she wanted, and answer to no one.

  She frowned. Put that way, it sounded rather lonely. Was that truly what she wanted? To dwell on the fringes of her friends’ lives? To rock their children to sleep without ever holding her own? Could she be content to never again feel a man’s arms around her?

  If it meant having control of her own life…​absolutely.

  Ash had been a skilled lover, and she had missed that intimacy these last six years. She liked men. She liked the way they moved and laughed and smelled—­the texture of their skin, the strength in their bodies, the power they took and gave in the marriage bed.

  They? He.

  Memories eddied through her mind as she looked across the fire at the only man who had ever made love to her. Would it be the same with other men? Would she ever find that wonder and bliss again?

  Perhaps she should find out. There were several men in Heartbreak Creek who had shown interest—­admittedly, most had been patrons of the Red Eye Saloon next to the hotel, and their attentions had been more like harassment than true interest. Even Mr. Satterwhite had made an offer, although Maddie knew the only reason he had done so was out of his determination to see her protected. Mercy sakes, the dear man was old enough to be her father. Her grandfather, even.

  Still, the idea bore consideration. Perhaps if she encouraged advances from other gentlemen—­not Mr. Satterwhite, of course—­Ash would become so disgusted with her he would go on his way and leave her to her tintypes. She could continue to reside in Heartbreak Creek near her dear friends Lucinda and Prudence and Edwina, and all would be as it was.

  With a sigh, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and stared with disinterest into her plate of stew.

  Unless Angus—­Ash—­was so intent on getting his heir, he dragged her back to Scotland to suffer the arduous task of petitioning Parliament for a divorce so he could marry someone who could give him a son.

  It was all so wretchedly unfair. She fingered the heavy
signet ring on her finger and wondered why she still wore it. The man who had given it to her was long gone. A figment of a lonely young woman’s imagination.

  Suddenly aware that her husband was watching her, she forced herself to take a nibble of the dry-­as-­dust hardtack that Mr. Satterwhite insisted on serving with every meal.

  Not that she could do any better. She was an artist—­not a cook. When she had interviewed Mr. Satterwhite for the position of driver and cook and he had proclaimed himself excellent at both, she probably shouldn’t have taken him at his word. But after spending several months in his company, she was glad she had. He was a dear old thing, even if he was a ghastly cook. And she had greatly enjoyed his companionship on her treks through mining camps, Indian reservations, army posts, and lonely homesteads. With his help, she had captured the spirit of the West so vividly that after Mr. Chesterfield at The Illustrated London News had received her first shipment of whole plate negatives, and carte portraits, and stereoscopic panoramic slides, he had written immediately back, demanding more and hinting at a leather-­bound compilation of her work.

  She was making a name for herself—­by herself. Mr. Satterwhite was part of that success, and she couldn’t give up on him, no matter how poor a cook he was, any more than she could give up on her work, no matter what Angus—­or Ash—­said. Somehow, she would make her husband understand that having known the joy of independence these last two years, she would never willingly give it up. Not even for a husband, or a title.

  She watched Ash sneak pieces of stringy meat to his dog when Mr. Satterwhite wasn’t looking, and tried to stay mad at him for his cavalier treatment of her. But gentler memories kept intruding.

  Her husband wasn’t a bad man. As a young cavalry officer, he had been brash and energetic and perhaps too ready to rush to the next adventure. Not that she blamed him. She had lived with his family. She knew how suffocating and judgmental they could be. But in the years since she had last seen him, he seemed to have settled somewhat. This older man she now had to think of as Lord Ashby was more subdued, perhaps a bit jaded, and there was a weariness behind his green eyes that hinted at painful experiences. The rough edges were gone, leaving behind a seasoned, hard-­faced ex-­soldier who was accustomed to getting his way.