by Kaki Warner
Maddie chose not to respond to that. Instead, she watched rain sizzle in the coals and tried not to listen to that voice in her head. The one preaching sin. Telling her that the wonderful kiss she had shared earlier with Ash didn’t have to be the end of it.
But it could be the beginning of the end. Perhaps if she gave in to these wild urges she could put the man out of her mind and her heart forever.
She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of that. She had scarcely been able to do that when he was six years and half a world away. How was she to put him out of her thoughts when he was within arm’s reach?
Thankful for the concealing rain, she brushed a hand over her stinging eyes. As soon as she was back among her friends in Heartbreak Creek, she would feel better. They would give her the strength to resist this foolish infatuation. And yet, weak creature that she was, on the next breath she was wondering if he had made it to the outpost before the rain started—if his side was hurting him—if he was thinking about that kiss, too.
She was beyond hopeless.
With a weary sigh, she pulled the canvas jacket tighter and wondered if this rain would ever cease. It had begun again not long after Ash had left, but had soon slowed to a relentless, misty drizzle. Clouds hung so low they draped the treetops, and even the mules that stood shivering under the wide boughs of a tall spruce seemed disheartened. It was a wretched evening to be sitting outside beside a steaming fire. She would have much preferred to be in her snug wagon with Agnes. But Mr. Satterwhite, out of some misguided concern for her reputation, had refused to come inside with her and out of the rain. And since she didn’t want to leave him out here cooking supper all alone, here she sat.
“Did you ever write to him, missy?”
So they were back to that again. “Several times. But when he didn’t respond, I stopped.” She tried to remember what she had written, and how many ps, and qs, and ds, and ts, and fs she had used.
“So you gave up.” He said it as if she’d done something wrong.
Sweeping a clump of wet hair out of her eyes, she turned to look at him. “You think I should have continued to write to a man who couldn’t be bothered to write back?” Or have someone else do it for him?
“He might have been a tad busy, being a soldier and all.”
“I cannot believe you’re defending a man you called a damned foreigner only five minutes ago.”
“Well, he is a damned foreigner—pardon my language. But he’s still—overall—a good man.”
First Agnes and now Mr. Satterwhite. She felt utterly abandoned.
“Can’t believe you’d leave the man just because he wouldn’t write you letters,” he muttered, idly massaging the muscles of his left arm.
“It was more complicated than that.”
He watched her, waiting.
“I was”—she paused, trying to find the kindest words, then decided on honesty—“a disappointment to his family. I’m English. One of the oppressors.” She said it in a derisive tone, although in truth, after the Clearances, the Scots might have had ample reason for their animosity toward the English. “In addition, my father was possessed of no great fortune. They wanted a Scottish woman from a more lofty family, preferably one who could bring either land or wealth to the family. Add to that my ‘ill-bred and unladylike’ passion for photography, along with my father’s democratic ideas, and ours was not the hoped-for alliance.”
“Yet His Majesty chose you. In spite of what his family wanted.”
“Well…yes.”
That admission clung to the back of Maddie’s throat like the taint of sour milk. She had made so many misjudgments, it seems.
“What about your own family?”
Realizing she had worried a thread loose on the lapel of her jacket, Maddie pulled her hand away. “I am an only child. My parents died in a carriage mishap two years ago. After I went to London to settle their affairs, I simply never returned to Scotland.
“Just like that? You just walked away?”
She could feel his censure. It made her defensive. “And what should I have done? A family who barely acknowledged my presence and a husband who hadn’t come home or written in over two years—what reason had I to stay?” Hearing the self-pity behind her words, she tried to deflect it with a laugh to show that their indifference had had little impact on her. But it sounded brittle and false even in her own ear.
“My defection, if you will, was unplanned,” she went on. “While I was in London, a friend suggested I take my photographs to her uncle, who was publisher of a London periodical. He liked them and asked if I would be interested in spending a year or two photographing the West from a woman’s perspective. He even said he would pay me.”
“When was that?”
“September of sixty-eight.”
“Two years ago.”
The unspoken message was clear. It was time to go back.
“Did you tell His Majesty of your plans?”
“I wrote to his family, told them I was leaving for a while, and instructed them to pass the message along if Lord Ashby should ask.” But how could he? she realized, that twinge of conscience now gnawing in earnest. Lying injured in his hospital bed, Major Ridgeway no longer there to write for him, and unwilling to risk ridicule to ask help from someone else? Still, he could have sent word…somehow. “It was a wonderful opportunity, Mr. Satterwhite. The dream of a lifetime.”
“Then why are you crying, missy?”
Surprised, Maddie lifted a hand and felt wetness on her cheek. She quickly blotted it away. “It’s raining, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” he muttered, rubbing his arm again. “But here’s the thing. You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding behind your camera. You’ve got to start living life. Go home with His Majesty—or make him stay here—just do something. I can’t be carting you around forever. It’s hard work and I’m getting too old for it.”
“Don’t be silly.” Maddie gave a scoffing laugh to cover how deeply his words had hurt her. Hiding? Was that all her work amounted to? “You’re not old, Mr. Satterwhite. Seasoned, perhaps. A man of great vigor—”
“I’m seventy-three. That’s way past vigor.”
Something in his voice caught her attention. Pushing her hurt aside, she studied him from beneath the brim of her parasol. He did look tired. The day had been a difficult one. And seeing the way he winced as he rubbed his left hand made her wonder if he had injured himself while helping Ash with the wheel. “Are you well, Mr. Satterwhite?” she asked, growing concerned. “Is your hand hurting you?”
“No. In fact, it’s a bit numb. Probably the cold. And don’t try to change the subject and think I won’t notice.”
“What subject?” Even though she tried to make a jest of it, she was becoming more worried by the minute. She shouldn’t have insisted Mr. Satterwhite come on this trip. She should have hired someone else. But she had always felt so safe with her old friend—heavens, hadn’t she just blurted out the whole sorry tale of her disastrous marriage, something she had only recently shared with the ladies in Heartbreak Creek? The fact was, Mr. Satterwhite had become more than a friend and confidant. Over the months, she had come to think of him as a substitute father.
But looking at him now, she could see she had been selfish in the extreme to have pushed him so hard. “Have I done you a disservice, Mr. Satterwhite? Should I have let you rest this one out?”
He gave a bark of laughter that ended in a cough. “And leave me sitting outside the assay office playing checkers with that old cheat, Chalmers? Not on your life. These last few months…” His voice faltered.
He looked into the fire, blinking hard, the quiver in his whiskered chin betraying his emotion. “I wouldn’t have missed them for the world, missy.”
Maddie heard the good-bye in his voice and wanted to weep. How would she manage without his steady presence, his kindness, his wry humor…even his wretched cooking? Reaching out, she put
her hand on his shoulder. “Nor I, Wilfred. You’ve been a godsend.”
He turned his head away, but not before she saw the glitter of tears in his faded, crooked eyes. “What I’m trying to say, missy,” he went on in a gruff voice, “is that I’m getting too old to be spending my days on that hard driver’s bench and my nights on the cold ground. You need a younger, stronger man to look out for you and keep you safe.”
“I need you.”
“You need your husband. And a life that’ll amount to more than a collection of tintypes in some dusty book on a stranger’s shelf. And that’s all I’ll say about that.” Leaning forward, he wrapped his kerchief around the handle and lifted the stew pot from the fire. “Supper’s ready, Your Majesty. Grab a plate.”
With a sigh of contentment, Ash tipped his head back against the high rim of the oversized wooden tub and closed his eyes. Steam curled about his head, dampening his eyelashes and beading on his freshly shaven face. On the other side of the drape, the voices of other patrons of Mrs. Renfroe’s Chinese Laundry and Bathhouse faded to a distant, low rumble, punctuated now and then by a woman’s soft laughter. He could almost feel the hot water loosening the knotted muscles in his back and legs, and soaking away the ache in his side from his long, wet ride.
He must have dozed off, because the next thing he heard was a dog’s low growl. Opening his eyes, he saw a scantily clad woman standing just inside the drape, holding a bottle of amber liquid in one hand, two shot glasses in the other, and staring in horrified disbelief at the wolfhound stretched on the floor beside the tub.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A dog.” He pointed at the bottle in her grip. “What’s that?”
“Whiskey. Does he bite?”
“If he must. Scotch whiskey?”
“Rye.”
Ash sighed and pushed himself upright, sending a splash of water over the edge of the tub. “Beggars canna be choosers, I suppose. Pour a wee dram for us both, lass, and we’ll send up a toast to our fallen brothers.”
“I don’t got no brothers.” Still eyeing Tricks, she edged into the room, her bare feet slapping on the wet floor. “I’m Betty. Some call me Betty Will, but it’s really Williams. What kind of dog?”
“Wolfhound.”
She was young. Too young to have such weary eyes. Ash had seen a thousand such faces—in every port, every camp, behind every supply train that followed the troops. As common in a soldier’s life as flies.
Stopping beside the tub, she filled a glass and bent to pass it over, giving him a fine view down the front of her corset. “You talk funny,” she said, moving back to perch on the edge of the tub. “Not from around here, I’m guessing.”
Ash tossed back the whiskey, shuddered, then held up the glass for more. “Scottish by birth, British by law, Highlander by the grace of God.”
“That up by Denver?”
“Just east of it.” He downed his second drink, licked lips that were already going pleasantly numb, and handed back the glass. “My thanks, lass.” He settled back, sending another wave over the rim.
“You want company?” Smiling coyly, she drew a tattered corset string through grimy fingers with nails chewed to the quick. “I’ll show you a real good time.”
Ash tried to imagine it but could only picture Maddie’s flushed face, her lips pink and swollen from his kiss, her eyes slightly out of focus, and her fine, clean body pressed against his. Would he truly quash that passionate nature if he took her back to Scotland? Was there not some way they could reach a compromise?
“It’s fifty-cent night,” Betty said, cutting into his thoughts. “A dollar would get you the bottle, too. How ’bout it?”
He put on a regretful smile. Despite her youth, the poor lass had probably been cocked more times than his carbine. He wanted no part of that, especially with a woman like Maddie waiting. “Tempting, love, but not today.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“I’ll be gone tomorrow.” At least he hoped he would.
When he had explained his specifications for a replacement wheel, the blacksmith had allowed that he had a forty-two by two-inch steam-bent hickory wheel out back somewhere, but it needed repairs on the hub. To Ash’s inquiry about how long that would take, the dour man had replied he would get it done when he got it done. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.
Ash was not surprised to learn the man was Scottish.
After leaving the smithy, he had gone to the only hotel in town, secured a room, then had come here to Mrs. Renfroe’s for a shave, a bath, and a change of clothes—and apparently a rogering, if one’s standards were sufficiently low—which his were not.
Tossing Betty a coin for the whiskey, he sent her on her way.
An hour later, after dousing a vigorously protesting Tricks in his bathwater, he and the wolfhound left the bathhouse, clean, refreshed, and mostly dry. Standing on the boardwalk, he looked around.
The rain had dwindled to a fine mist, and other than the lights shining through the windows of the vice palace at one end of the street and the hotel at the other, the town looked deserted.
Hoping the kitchen was still open, he crossed to the hotel, which also housed the only eating establishment in Becker’s Fort.
Naturally, Tricks caused a stir when they entered the dining room. But after Ash explained that the dog might get upset if they were separated, and promising that they would both behave, they were allowed inside. The meal was surprisingly good, even if the meat was suspect. After enjoying two plates each, he and Tricks went upstairs, where he watched spiderwebs flutter from the ceiling over his bed and tried to figure out how he could convince his wife to trade in her camera for a life with him in Scotland.
Maddie stood in the dark beside the remaining front wheel, hands on hips, and struggled to keep her voice from betraying her exasperation. “Mr. Satterwhite,” she called up to the old man teetering on tiptoe as he struggled to attach a length of canvas to the overhanging roof above the driver’s box. “I must insist you stay inside tonight. It is far too cold and damp out here and I know you’re not feeling well.”
He muttered something she didn’t catch.
“Or we can set up the tent.”
“And have the wagon fall over on me in the night? No thanks.”
“Then as I’ve said innumerable times,” she went on at increased volume, “if you won’t set up the tent, and you’re not comfortable staying with me in the back of the wagon, I will be happy to take the driver’s bench for the night.”
“Will you?” He peered over the side of the wagon. “And will your oversized husband be happy when he returns to find you sleeping out here in the cold and me cozying up in your bed?” He squinted an eye at her. “The bed he’s not even allowed in, I might add.”
“Oh, bother.” She waved the notion aside. “That doesn’t signify in the least since he’s not truly my husband.”
“No?”
Taking a moment to pluck a wet curl from her cheek, Maddie struggled to maintain composure. “What I mean to say, Mr. Satterwhite,” she continued in a less strident tone, “is that Lord Ashby and I are estranged. And he will certainly understand the necessity of your moving into the wagon. I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to become ill, either.”
“You’re right about that,” he agreed, turning back to his task. “He’ll want me hale and hearty when he snaps my neck.”
“He would do no such thing! Lord Ashby is a gentleman.”
“So now you’re defending him?”
Maddie threw up her hands. “Fine! Sleep out here, if that is your wish! But don’t come coughing to me when you wake up with a chill.”
“That’s a promise.”
Contentious curmudgeon.
Somewhere in the distance a wolf or coyote or some such howled, which brought an answering yip from Agnes in the back of the wagon. At least the rain had stopped for a while. Maisy and Buttercup had moved from beneath their sheltering spruce canopy to graze in the meadow,
and stars were peeking through the tattered clouds. If it continued to clear, the temperature would probably drop below freezing.
Too weary to continue a losing argument, Maddie sighed in defeat. “How many more blankets would you like?”
“Three if you got ’em.”
As the weather promised, it was a long, cold night. Maddie spent most of it huddled under the covers, either worrying about Ash or worrying about Mr. Satterwhite. At least she knew Mr. Satterwhite was all right, since his whiffling snore could be heard quite clearly through the wood partition that separated the driver’s box from the back of the wagon. But Ash could have gotten lost or been accosted by a wild animal, or upon reaching his destination, found that Becker’s Fort was little more than a ghost town. He could even be ill from riding so far in the cold rain.
You twit. He had survived six years without her worrying about him. He could certainly make it through one more night. Not that she was worrying, of course.
Flopping over onto her back, she pulled the pillow over her head to muffle sound, and prayed that morning would come soon, lest she stuff a pillow over Mr. Satterwhite’s snoring head, too.
She awoke to frosted windowpanes and someone calling her name. She rolled over, blinking in confusion, wondering if she had actually heard a voice, or if it was another of those unidentifiable sounds Mr. Satterwhite made in his sleep.
Agnes crawled out from under the covers and yawned, her ears pricked toward the door. Still only half awake, Maddie leaned up on her elbows and listened.
There it was again. Muffled. Weak. “Missy.”
Alarmed, she flipped back the covers and stepped to the window. Wiping the frost away, she peered out.
At first she saw little but the fog of her own breath. Then she noticed movement on the other side of the smoking fire. Mr. Satterwhite, his hands clutching his chest. As she watched, he sagged to the ground.
Whipping a blanket off the bed, she threw it around her shoulders, yanked on her walking boots, and raced from the wagon.
“Mr. Satterwhite,” she shouted, almost slipping on the icy grass as she ran to kneel at his side. “Wilfred, can you hear me?”