Colorado Dawn

by Kaki Warner

  “Wound salve.” As he dropped to one knee beside her chair, he tipped the can to study the label. “Good for saddle sores, galls, wounds, and hoof rot. At least, I think that’s what it says. Hold out your hands.”

  She balled them into fists. “No. Truly. They’re fine.” Hoof rot?

  “It’s not just for horses, love. Tricks has benefited from it, too.”

  She looked at the tin, then up at him. “You’re jesting.”

  He smiled. It didn’t reassure her. “It won’t hurt. I promise.”

  He had to coax her fists open. But he was right—­it didn’t hurt, although it smelled ghastly and had the feel and consistency of axle putty. “What’s in it?” she asked as he rewrapped her slimy hands with another torn handkerchief.

  “A soldier’s hope. There. All finished.” He rose, slipped the tin into the pocket of his jacket, and wiped his greasy fingers on his knee-­high cavalry boots. “Good for leather, too, so it is.” Grabbing a knife stuck point-­first into the log beside her, he began carving on the turkey still spitted over the coals. “Grab a plate, Your Majesty. Supper’s ready.”

  She faltered, then did as he asked. “Mr. Satterwhite often said that.”

  “Aye. A remarkable man, your Mr. Satterwhite.”

  Blinking hard, she watched him pile succulent pieces of breast on the plate she held out. “Yes, he was. I shall miss him.”

  “I’m sure even now he’s frowning down at my poor attempt at cooking, but I couldna just let it burn.” After filling his own plate, he settled back on the log beside her chair. “I hope you dinna mind.”

  She gave a shaky smile. “I shall press bravely on.”

  “He would expect no less.”

  They ate in silence under the hopeful eyes of Tricks and Agnes. Watching the amount of food Ash consumed, she doubted there would be many tidbits left.

  “He had to make a new hub,” Ash said after a while. “The wheelwright. That’s what took me so long.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I would have come sooner, lass, had I been able.”

  A tired refrain. She was weary of it. But when she turned to tell him that, she saw the worry in his eyes and her anger faded away. What did it matter if Ash had come yesterday or today? Mr. Satterwhite’s heart would have stopped whether he had been here or not.

  “I’ll put on the new wheel first thing in the morning.” Leaning forward, he cut a drumstick from the rapidly dwindling carcass, then sat back. Tearing off a bite of meat with his fine, white teeth, he stared into the fire, his jaw working as he chewed.

  It was a nice jaw, despite the stubble. Strong and square, with a slight dip in the middle of his chin. Not quite a cleft. More like a wee fairy’s thumbprint, he had told her once when she had explored it with her fingertip. Then her lips. Then her tongue. And with that wayward thought, the memory of him burst into her mind—­the salty taste of his skin, the warm, male scent of him, the dark promise in those moss green eyes when she had raised her body over his.

  “What baby?”

  Startled, Maddie choked on a bit of potato, then coughed to clear it. “Pardon me?” she asked in a strained voice.

  He took another bite, watched her while he chewed, then swallowed. “You said you lost a baby. What baby? And why dinna I know about it?”

  Irritated by the challenge in his tone, she answered more sharply than she intended. “Because your father asked me not to tell you.”

  Suspicion gave way to surprise. “Why?”

  Appetite gone, she set her plate on the ground. Immediately Agnes pounced. Tricks would have, too, but halted at a word from Ash. “He felt you shouldn’t be bothered. ‘The lad has more important things to attend,’ ” she mimicked in his father’s gruff voice. “ ‘He canna help what he canna change.’ He was right, of course.”

  Ash muttered something in Celtic under his breath.

  Maddie didn’t need to understand the words to catch the meaning. “I’ll not argue with you on that score. But on this occasion, I agree with him.”

  Ash turned his head and looked at her. She saw the anger and pain in his eyes and wondered if it was for her, or the babe who would never be, or his father’s high-­handedness. It was a sad thing on all accounts. But remembering her own grief, she softened to his. “What could you have done had you known, Ash? You had only been back with your regiment for three months, and were newly promoted, at that. They wouldn’t have allowed you to leave again so soon. And even if they had, by the time you reached home, the crisis would have been long past. These things happen.”

  He frowned, that one scarred brow arcing up, instead of down. “You sound as if it dinna matter to you. Did you no’ want the babe?”

  To cover a sudden, sharp swell of emotion, Maddie bent to pick up her plate. “Of course I did.” Hearing the wobble in her voice, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Of course I did. More than anything in the world. Especially since it will probably be my one and only chance to ever bear a child.” Setting the plate on the log beside her, she pressed her hands on her thighs to still the trembling.

  “It doesn’t have to be, lass. Come back to Scotland with me and I’ll give you all the bairns you want.”

  She tipped her head back to watch a flock of tiny yellow and gray birds flit by, hoping the breeze would dry her tears. “And leave me in the back of beyond to raise them on my own while you go haring off to who knows where? No thank you.”

  Muttering something under his breath, Ash abruptly stood. He paced all the way around the fire and stopped at her other side to loom over her, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Then what do you want from me, Madeline? I’m offering you position and luxury as a peeress of the realm. What more do you want?”

  “My work. My friends. Children. A real marriage. Not a life defined by duty.” Realizing they would never come to agreement on this subject, Maddie rose and brushed the crumbs from her skirt. “I would like to leave as early as possible tomorrow. I need to get back. I have another journey ahead of me and I must prepare.”

  “Denver.”

  She nodded.

  “You’ll not be going alone.” It was a statement, not a question, and the presumption of it irritated her.

  “I won’t be alone. Our sheriff is one of the delegates. His wife and the woman who owns the hotel will be accompanying me, as well.”

  He looked at her as if awaiting further explanation.

  “It’s some statehood thing.” She made an offhand gesture, battling a sinking weariness that went deeper than flesh and bone. Even her spirit felt bruised. “It’s been an ongoing struggle. But this time, the railroads are involved. I want to photograph it.”

  “It doesn’t sound safe.”

  Bending, she scooped up Agnes. “If things get out of hand, Sheriff Brodie is most capable. I’ll be quite safe.”

  “Aye, you will. Because I’ll be going with you as well.”

  Surprised at the edge in his voice, she studied him but saw nothing in his expression to explain it. “Why?”

  “You’re my wife. If you need protecting, I’ll do it.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is to me.”

  NEAR BRECKENRIDGE, COLORADO TERRITORY

  “What you doing?”

  Silas Cochran whirled in the chair to see his brother standing in the doorway of the rustic cabin. “N-­Nothing, Clete. I ain’t doing nothing.”

  “Yeah, you are, moron. You’re always doing something.” Cletus Cochran slammed the door closed behind him, and without taking his gaze from Si, took off his dripping hat and hung it on a peg beside the door. “What’s that you got there?”

  “Nothing.” Si tried to stuff the photographs back into his pocket with the other papers he’d taken from the dead man’s pack, but a blow to his shoulder knocked him sideways in the chair and sent the pictures flying across the rough tabletop.

  “Don’t lie to me, Si.”

  “I’m not, Clete, I swear
.” Hunching his shoulders in case Clete hit him again, Si struggled to gather up the pictures, but his hands were shaking so bad they kept slipping from his grip.

  “Tell me, Si.”

  “Just some pictures. That’s all.”

  “Pictures? Where’d you get pictures?”

  Si felt his older brother looming at his shoulder. The shaking spread from his hands throughout his whole body. “F-­Found them.”

  “Where?”

  “I d-­don’t remember.”

  “Yeah, you do.” Batting Si’s hands aside, Clete reached down and spread the pictures across the table.

  When Si saw the smudges his brother’s dirty fingers left on the shiny paper, he started to cry. Afraid Clete would see, he slumped deeper into the chair and kept his head down as tears rolled down his cheeks to drip from his wobbling chin. I hate you, he chanted silently, gripping his thighs so hard he could feel blood bump against his thumbs. I hate you, I hate you, bastard moron, shut up, I hate you.

  Clete separated one of the photographs from the pile and held it up to the faint light coming through the fly-­specked window. He frowned at it, his pale brows low over his mismatched eyes. “This is that guy. Ephraim Zucker. The one you killed before we could find out where his claim is.”

  Si swiped a sleeve over his runny nose. “It was an accident, Clete. I told you.”

  Clete punched him between the shoulder blades, driving Si hard against the edge of the table. “Did I say you could talk?”

  Clutching his chest, Si fought to draw in air.

  “Did I?”

  Si shook his head, gasping, still not able to speak.

  “Then don’t, moron.”

  For a long time, Clete looked through the pictures one by one.

  Si watched him, knowing each picture by heart—­the dead guy smiling and sitting on a stump, or standing by his mule, or leaning on a pickax handle outside his little sod cabin. But it wasn’t the man that Si liked best. It was the pretty country where the man was. The little creek, the grassy meadow, white-­trunked aspens, and mountains so high they wore clouds for hats. He especially liked the peak behind the cabin that looked like a face turned sideways. That was Si’s favorite. Whenever he felt sad about killing the smiling man, he would look at that picture and imagine being inside it, standing next to the smiling man in that pretty place far, far away from Clete. And that always made him happy.

  “This may not be a bad thing,” Clete said after a while.

  Si watched him pick up his favorite picture of the peak with the sideways face, and he had to ball his hands into fists to keep from snatching it from his brother’s grip.

  “This could be the key.” Staring off out the window, Clete tapped the picture against his dirty thumbnail. “The way we find that claim.” He stopped tapping and squinted at the tiny white letters in the corner of the picture. “A. M. Wallace. You know who A. M. Wallace is, Si?”

  “No, Clete.”

  “ ’Course you don’t. You’re a moron. A freak of nature. I swear, if you had dung for brains, you’d be twice as smart as you are right now.”

  Si watched him, rage bubbling like puke in his throat.

  “Lucky you got me to watch out for you, ain’t that so, Si? Ain’t it?”

  “Yes, Clete.”

  “Damn right.” Suddenly Clete laughed and clapped Si so hard on his back it made him cough. He tossed the pictures onto the tabletop. “Pack up, moron. We’re leaving.”

  Relieved to get his pictures back, Si quickly gathered them up and stuffed them into his pocket. “Where we going, Clete?”

  “Where do you think, moron? To find us a photographer.”

  HEARTBREAK CREEK, COLORADO TERRITORY

  By the time Ash and Maddie neared Heartbreak Creek late the next day, dusk had sucked the sun’s warmth from the air and a chill breeze out of the north had already left a dusting of white across the high peaks.

  “Turn here.” Maddie pointed to a rough track that cut behind the hotel and ran parallel to the main street. “The livery is just past the blacksmith’s shop. I usually leave the wagon there. Fred Driscoll will take care of the team.”

  Ash remembered him from when he’d been through before—­a short, bowlegged man with a quiet demeanor that had easily won Lurch’s trust.

  He reined the team onto the track, then glanced over at his wife.

  She had hardly spoken ten words all afternoon and now sat on the edge of the bench seat, staring intently ahead, her fingers worrying the empty fingertip of her glove.

  His glove, actually, which he had insisted she wear to keep dirt out of the wrappings over her blisters. They dwarfed her trim hands and made her appear more vulnerable than he knew her to be. But he sensed it wasn’t only the poor fit of the gloves that had deepened that furrow in her brow the closer they had come to Heartbreak Creek. Regrets, perhaps?

  He had a few of his own.

  He should have settled the question of their marriage before they’d left neutral ground. Heartbreak Creek was her territory. He was the intruder here and that put him at a distinct disadvantage. Now, in addition to having to allay Maddie’s misgivings about returning to Scotland, he would have to contend with her friends and convince them it was the right decision. Something he wasna even sure of himself.

  And in addition to that, he had overexerted when putting on the repaired wheel that morning, and now his side had stiffened from sitting so long, and his head felt like someone was pounding nails into it from inside.

  “Out front is fine,” his wife said as they pulled up to the livery. Ash reined in and was wrapping the reins around the brake when Driscoll came out of the open double doors into the barn.

  “Evening, ma’am. Ashby.” He tipped his battered hat, then looked around. “Where’s Wilfred?”

  “Gone. It was so sad, Mr. Driscoll.” As she handed Agnes down to the liveryman, Maddie told him of Satterwhite’s death, omitting the part about Ash being gone and her ordeal with the wolves. “I shall miss him terribly. He was such a dear. But”—­she swiped a hand over her cheek—­“it was my good fortune that this gentleman”—­she shot Ash a smile that carried a hint of warning when he came to lift her down—­“kindly helped me get the wagon back home.”

  “Evening, Driscoll,” Ash said over Maddie’s head as he lowered her to the ground. “Get that mule back on its feet?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. And thanks for your advice.” He showed tobacco-­stained teeth in an evil grin. “I had words with the smithy. Promised to use the right size horseshoes next time.”

  At Maddie’s look of curiosity, Driscoll explained that the farrier had used shoes that were too narrow, which put undue pressure on the hoof and decreased circulation to the frog on the underside. “Didn’t see it myself,” he added with a shake of his head. “But as soon as Ashby popped off those shoes, Muriel perked up fine. Saved me a good mule, he did.”

  “Indeed.” Maddie pulled off Ash’s oversized gloves, unwound the wrappings, and stuffed them into her coat pocket. “If you would be so kind to tend the animals, Mr. Driscoll, I shall be back in a day or so to ready the wagon for my next trip.” She handed Ash his gloves and started walking back the way they had come. “Come along, Agnes.”

  Ash took a moment to remind the livery owner about Lurch’s deafness and hand over enough coin to cover the cost of extra grain for all the mounts. Then slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder, he went after his wife.

  With his much longer stride, he and Tricks were on her heels before she’d crossed the rutted road. “Why are we in such a hurry, lass?” he said to her stiff back.

  She stopped and turned so abruptly he almost plowed into her. Pulling back, he pressed the fingertips of his left hand against his pounding temple to slow the spinning.

  “When you came through Heartbreak Creek earlier looking for me, who did you talk to?”

  Letting his hand drop, he squinted at her through his narrowing vision. “The woman who owns the hotel and the sheri
ff. Why?”

  Leaning closer, she dropped her voice. “What did you say to them?”

  Amused despite the grinding pain in his head, he bent and whispered, “About what?”

  “Us. Why you were looking for me.”

  “I told them I had news of your family in Scotland.”

  She gripped his arm. “You didn’t tell them your name? Or that you were my husband?”

  He caught a whiff of old smoke and the flowery soap he remembered from their brief time together. And Agnes. “It wasn’t their business.”

  “Thank God.” Releasing his arm, she turned and continued walking.

  Thank God? No longer amused, he put out a hand to stop her. “You don’t want your friends to know we’re wed? You’re ashamed of me, lass?”

  “Oh, no,” she said hastily. “It’s not that at all. But they—­well—­I may have said things.”

  “Things?”

  “About you. Our marriage. Your…​em, desertion.”

  He opened his mouth to correct her on who had deserted whom, but she shushed him with a finger pressed to his lips, which made him forget what he’d been about to say. Uncanny, that.

  “Let’s not get into that now,” she warned in a low voice, taking her hand away. “And don’t call me lass. Or love. Just Maddie. Or better yet, Madeline. It wouldn’t do to arouse vulgar speculation until we settle the marriage thing, don’t you agree?”

  No, he dinna. But rather than get tangled in an argument in the middle of the street, he said no more.

  When they reached the back stoop of the hotel, the Hathaway woman swung open the door. “We were starting to worry. We expected you back two days ago.” Her welcoming smile faltered when she saw Ash and Tricks. “I see he found you.”

  Ash nodded in greeting, but before he could speak, his wife planted herself solidly in front of him.

  “I have the most dreadful news, Luce. Mr. Satterwhite died. His heart, I think. It was so unexpected.”

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry to hear that. I know how fond you were of him.” Stepping aside, the blonde motioned them into the back hallway, giving Tricks a thorough inspection as he went by. “But I don’t see how it could have been unexpected. The man was at least ninety.”