Colorado Dawn

by Kaki Warner

  A wiser woman would have retreated into the safety of the wagon. After all, Mr. Satterwhite was dead. But he was her friend, too. And while she hadn’t the chance to sit with her parents after they had died, she could at least do so for the man who had watched over her like a father.

  “You were wrong about Ash,” she said after a while. “He’s not a dependable man—­his absence tonight is proof of that. He could charm a bird out of the sky, yet was never there when I needed him. But you always were, weren’t you, Mr. Satterwhite? I thank you for that.”

  The fire hissed and snapped and whistled like a living thing. Far away, coyotes howled, calling the pack to hunt. Picking up the rifle, she rested it across her lap and stared into the darkness.

  “We were so taken with each other at first. I was only eighteen, you see. Defenseless against such a fine-­looking officer in his dashing blue uniform. And that smile…” She shook her head, remembering. “How could a gullible country maid not fall in love with a face like that?”

  She sighed and plucked at her tattered glove where the leather had stuck to a ruptured blister. “Why are men so inconstant, Mr. Satterwhite? Oh, not you, of course. You have been as steadfast as any friend could be. But other men. Handsome men like Ash. Is it due to some innate fickleness of heart, do you suppose? Or is the fault with we women who expect too much and are thus so easily disappointed?”

  Feeling a warm trickle on her cheek, she reached up to brush a tear away. “How tiresome you must think me, Mr. Satterwhite, to weep over a man who scarcely remembered my name. But he was dear to me once. In truth, I fancied myself in love with the man, naïve creature that I was.”

  More tears, hot on her cold cheeks. They infuriated her, evidence of a weakness she couldn’t put aside, and with a slash of her hand, she wiped them away. Steadying the rifle in her lap, she hiked her chin. “But you mustn’t worry about me, Mr. Satterwhite. I shall be fine. I have my friends, and my work, and my pride—­tattered though it is—­and they will see me through. So rest easy, dear friend. I survived the rogue once, did I not? I shall certainly do so this time.”

  A noise caught her attention, and she looked over to see the low branches of a spruce flutter violently. Quickly shifting the rifle to ready position, she watched down the long barrel, breath caught in her throat.

  A limb cracked as something ran through the brush. Something big, moving fast. Then suddenly, the branches parted, and a huge form burst into the clearing. Maddie almost fired, then recognized Buttercup, with Maisy crowded behind her. They ran past Maddie, then whirled and stared back the way they had come, heads high, nostrils flaring.

  Maddie scanned the brush but saw nothing amiss. Releasing an explosive breath, she lowered the rifle from her shoulder but kept it ready in her lap. “You silly chits! Where have you been?”

  They continued to stare at the shadows, ears pricked. But after a moment, even though Buttercup remained alert, Maisy lowered her head and began grazing on the frosted grass.

  “I should shoot you both for frightening me that way!” Pressing a shaking hand over her thudding heart, Maddie slumped back in the chair. As she did, she saw that the trees were more distinct now, rising in sharp silhouettes against the eastern sky. She laughed out loud, the sound hoarse and wobbly and carrying a hint of hysteria. More tears threatened, but this time they were tears of relief. “Look, Mr. Satterwhite,” she said, pointing toward the heavens. “We made it. The new day has come.”

  A sudden prickling sensation alerted her. A sense of being watched.

  She froze, eyes straining against the dim light. Movement. A low growl. Shadows shifting, drawing closer.

  The wolves had come, too.

  Ash was on his way just after daybreak, the wheel strapped across his back. It was slow going at first, since the rim stuck out past his shoulders and above his head and kept getting hung up on low-­hanging branches. But once the narrow track joined the wider road that led past the creek and meadow where he’d left the wagon, he was able to put Lurch into a ground-­eating lope.

  An hour later, as they started across the creek, the smell hit him. Not the putrid stench of a battlefield after the smoke has cleared and the burial parties are loading their carts. But the faint, yet unmistakable, reek of blood and the beginnings of decay. It was an odor familiar to every soldier, and smelling it now sent a jolt of panic through Ash.

  He reined in on the other bank, struggled out of the rope harness, and heaved the wheel into the brush, startling Lurch into a hopping sidestep.

  “Find!” he ordered Tricks as he leaped to the ground. But the wolfhound was already disappearing into the brush, hackles up, head low.

  With shaking hands, Ash retrieved his pistol from his saddlebag and checked the load. Not wanting to take time to load the Enfield, he pulled the short double-­edged bayonet from its sheath inside his boot, and armed with both blade and gun, ran after Tricks. Dreading what he might find, he stopped just inside the trees and quickly scanned the clearing.

  Other than a pile of rocks and canvas beside the fire ring, the camp looked no different from when he’d left. No sign of the mules or Satterwhite. Maddie sat slumped in her chair beside the cold fire, Satterwhite’s repeater in her slack hands. No blood. Asleep? He saw no movement except for Tricks and Agnes at the edge of the brush on the other side of the clearing.

  He returned the blade to his boot and ran toward his wife.

  At the sound of his approach, she jerked awake, the rifle coming up.

  Ash grabbed the barrel as it swung toward him, but when he tried to pull it from her grip, she fought him, a whimper rising in her throat.

  “Maddie, ’tis me. ’Tis Ash. Let go of the gun.”

  “Have they come back?” She looked frantically around, her eyes wild. “Are they here?”

  He shifted to follow her gaze, and saw Tricks nosing a crumpled form by the edge of the woods. Not human. Dark, smaller than a bear. A wolf? Another lay near the wagon. Definitely a wolf. Bluidy hell. And where was Satterwhite?

  As he swung back to Maddie, his gaze fell on the pile of rocks and canvas on the other side of the fire pit. Not a pile. A canvas-­wrapped form and a half-­dug grave. He realized then what had happened—­Satterwhite had died—­the wolves had been drawn to the scent of death—­Maddie had held them off to protect her dead friend. Had he not done the same thing during that grisly winter at Sevastopol when the wolves had poured nightly out of the hills to feast on the day’s dead?

  Setting the pistol nearby on a rock, he went down on one knee beside the chair, his hand still on the barrel of the rifle. “It’s over, love. You and Satterwhite are safe now. I’m here.”

  “Ash?”

  “Aye. ’Tis me.” This time she dinna resist when he took the gun from her hands and set it aside. “Are you hurt, lass?”

  “You didn’t come back.”

  “I did. I’m right beside you, so I am. Are you hurt?”

  “My h-­hands.” That wild look was starting to fade from her eyes, but he could tell she was still confused by the way she looked at her shaking hands as if seeing them for the first time. She was wearing gloves, torn in places and showing dark stains on the worn leather. “I have bl-­blisters.”

  “Let me see, love.” He tried to be gentle, but the leather had dried to her crusted skin, so he had to pull to loosen it. When he finally got the gloves off and saw the ruin of her hands, he had to work hard to keep his voice calm. “Tell me what happened, Maddie.”

  “Mr. Satterwhite died.” Her voice wobbled on the words. “His heart, I think. It happened so fast. He just fell. I tried to bury him, bu-­but I couldn’t. I didn’t even have a chance to say good-­bye.”

  As she spoke, he pulled out his handkerchief, ripped it in two and carefully wrapped the pieces around her hands to keep out dirt until he could clean them properly. “You got these blisters from digging?”

  “There were so many rocks. I tried. I did. But I-­I couldn’t. So I waited for you.” She lo
oked up at him, her brown eyes glittering and wet. “But you never came. Why?”

  Not trusting his voice, he said nothing and continued binding her hands. He felt a tremor move through her. Then another. Her breathing changed, and after he tied off the wrapping, he looked up to see the bleakness in her eyes had been replaced by such fury it was like a slap in the face.

  “What took you so long?” she accused. “You said it would only be a day and a night. Why didn’t you come back?” With each word, her voice had risen and the shaking had grown worse.

  Sitting back on his heels, he watched her and waited. He’d often seen such violent reactions in young soldiers once the rush and horror of battle was past, and he knew it would eventually play itself out.

  Still, he was surprised when she hit him.

  “Why aren’t you ever here when I need you?” She hit him again, apparently oblivious to the pain it must have brought to her injured hands. Tears were running down her face now, and her words were so garbled it was difficult for him to make them out. But the rage was unmistakable.

  “You weren’t here when Mr. Satterwhite died—­or when my parents died—­or when I lost the baby. You’re never around when I need you!”

  Baby? What baby?

  Afraid she might further hurt herself, Ash leaned up and put his arms around her, trapping her against his chest. “Ssh, lass,” he whispered against her ear. “You’re safe. I’m here now.”

  She began to sob, great, wrenching cries that made her whole body shudder. “No! You aren’t! You never have been!”

  She fought him for a moment more, then as abruptly as the rage had come, it just as quickly burned itself out. Weeping, she slumped against him—­not so much in surrender, as in defeat, which Ash knew were two verra different things.

  He rose, lifted her from the chair, and carried her to the wagon. After stripping off her jacket and boots, he loosened the collar of her dress, then helped her into the bed, covering her shivering body with the quilt.

  She dinna fight him, dinna speak. But her drooping eyes never left him, and the defiance he saw in them was clear: their first skirmish might have ended, but a war still raged in her head.

  By the time he’d gotten the wee stove going, she was asleep.

  Straightening as best he could in the cramped, low-­ceilinged quarters, he studied her. Her eyes looked bruised. Dirt streaked her cheeks, following the path of long-­dried tears. Her hair was a knot of auburn tangles around her ashen face. Poor lass. She looked like a discarded doll, roughly used and cast aside by a careless hand.

  Something unfamiliar clenched in his chest. Regret, remorse, maybe even pity. He should have taken better care of her. She was his wife and he had failed her too many times.

  Disgusted with himself, he turned and left the wagon.

  Moving through habits so engrained he dinna give them a thought, he retrieved Lurch and the wheel from where he’d left them in the brush, unsaddled the horse and watered him. At the big gelding’s whinny, the mules came running back. After staking all three away from the wagon so they wouldn’t disturb Maddie, he turned his attention to the dead wolves.

  They weren’t as big as the grays in the Crimea, but they were prime animals, and it sickened him to think of the damage they could have done if Maddie hadn’t been armed. Trailed by Tricks and Agnes, he dragged the carcasses deep into the woods and heaved them into a ravine, then headed back to camp, gathering wood along the way.

  The wagon door was still closed.

  Once he had the fire going, he picked up the shovel and set to work on the grave his wife had started.

  What baby?

  Noon came and went. After patting down the dirt over Satterwhite’s grave, he checked on Maddie and found her still asleep.

  Unable to stay idle, he busied himself with other chores through the early afternoon—­gathering more wood, taking Lurch and the mules for an afternoon drink, feeding the fire, cleaning his weapons. Routine tasks that wore out his body and dulled his mind. But not his appetite. Realizing he hadn’t eaten since before dawn, he grabbed Satterwhite’s repeater, tied Tricks and Agnes to the back steps, and went to hunt up something for supper.

  This time he got a turkey. After dressing it back at camp, he tossed the offal to the dogs and skewered the split carcass on a spit over the coals.

  He went to check on Maddie again. Still asleep.

  Since he couldn’t reset the wheel with her inside the wagon and he’d run out of things to do, he sat in her chair, arms crossed over his chest, boots braced on a rock beside the fire.

  What baby? And why hadn’t he been told about it?

  He could understand her anger over the rest of it. He had neglected her sorely, so he had. But he’d told her of his affliction and explained why he hadn’t written, and she’d seemed to accept that. As for his other lapses, he’d been in the hospital and hadn’t known of her parents’ deaths until she’d told him a few days ago. And he’d been gone when Satterwhite had died.

  But the baby? Why had she not told him of that?

  Unless it wasna his baby.

  No. He couldna—­dinna want—­to believe that.

  Nine

  Maddie awoke to late afternoon sunlight and the sound of the door opening. Sweating and disoriented, she tried to roll over but was so tangled in skirts and blankets she could scarcely move. Wondering why she would be abed at this hour, and fully clothed, at that, she leaned up on one elbow and looked over her shoulder to see Ash peering through the doorway.

  “So you’re awake then, lass?” Without waiting for a response, he came all the way in, turning to wrestle their biggest bucket through the narrow opening. Setting it down not far from the woodstove, he straightened, wincing when his head bumped against the low ceiling. “I thought you might want to wash.”

  Maddie blinked at him, trying to clear the fuzziness from her mind.

  “Do you…” He motioned vaguely in her direction. “Need help?”

  She looked down, saw her wrapped hands, and it all came rushing back—­Mr. Satterwhite, the wolves, Ash returning. “No.” Kicking her feet free, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The sudden movement made her head spin. She started to slide.

  His arm caught her. “Steady, love.”

  Sagging weakly against his grip, she waited for the dizziness to pass. When it did, she straightened, breathing deeply to clear her head.

  He continued to hover over her, his big form taking up all the space in the cramped quarters.

  “I’m fine,” she said, pressing a trembling hand to her forehead.

  He took a step back but was still a looming figure that dominated the small room.

  She felt him. Felt the weight of his gaze. She didn’t need to look up to be keenly aware of each breath he took, of the scent of him, of the danger he posed to her in this weakened state.

  “You needn’t stay.”

  He didn’t respond. She was afraid he might question her about things she barely remembered saying to him earlier just after he had returned. She had been angry and exhausted. In her distraught state, she might have said more than she should have, revealed more than was wise.

  “I’ll get water, then,” he finally said.

  Before he could close the door behind him, Agnes rushed in and leaped onto the bed, wiggling and hopping in her face for kisses. By the time Maddie got the exuberant dog under control, Ash was back with two buckets of steaming water. He poured them into the bigger bucket, then straightened, bumping his head again. “There’s food,” he said, rubbing the top of his head. “Will you be coming out, or eat in here?”

  Fearing he might want to join her in the wagon, she shook her head. “I’ll come out.”

  He started for the door.

  “Mr. Satterwhite? Is he…?”

  He paused in the open doorway, his shoulders as wide as the opening. “I buried him.” He looked back at her. “You did a fine job protecting him, lass. It’s sorry I am that I wasna here t
o help you.” Then before she could think of a response, he left, quietly closing the door behind him.

  A half hour later, she left the wagon, clean, refreshed, and a trifle nervous, although she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because Mr. Satterwhite was no longer there to act as a buffer. Or because being out here alone with Ash created a feeling of intimacy that made her uneasy.

  She remembered how furious she had been with him earlier—­the harsh words she had said. Even now, remnants of that anger and sense of betrayal still smoldered inside her.

  But she also remembered his gentle care of her. And that confused her. The man, himself, confused her. It seemed for every step they took forward, something happened to pull them back. She could make no sense of it, and even though she had slept the afternoon away, she was still too weary to puzzle it through now.

  As she came down the steps, Maddie glanced over, saw the mounded grave, and felt sadness mingled with relief. At least Mr. Satterwhite was finally at rest.

  Ash rose from her chair as she approached. “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” And suddenly quite hungry. The smell of roasting meat reached all the way to her empty stomach, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in over a day. “What have you there? Turkey?”

  “Aye. Along with two shriveled potatoes, four carrots, and a can of peaches. A feast.”

  He held the chair as she took her seat, then bent and picked up a small round tin that was resting on a rock beside the fire. “But first, we must tend those hands.”

  When he took the lid off the tin, a foul odor escaped. “What is that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.