by Kaki Warner
“Aye.”
“See, he did it again.”
“Did you kill a lot of people when you were a soldier?” the blond boy asked through a mouthful of half-chewed carrots.
A bit taken aback, Ash shrugged. “When necessary.”
“Ed killed Lone Tree,” the blond volunteered.
Edwina Brodie narrowed her eyes in warning.
“Slops,” her husband said and took a bite of roast beef.
While Joe Bill’s mother leaned over and whispered something in the boy’s ear that took some of the color out of his cheeks, R. D. continued his interrogation of Ash. “Sword or rifle?”
“Both.” Ash set down his fork and sat back, becoming uneasy. Not that he minded doing his duty as a soldier, but he dinna like discussing the gory aspects of it with a child.
“Were you ever wounded?”
“Aye.” Without looking over, he knew the Indian was listening.
“How many times?”
Ash wiped his mouth with his napkin and placed it carefully beside his plate. “Four. Perhaps five.”
Finally, the Cheyenne spoke. “What is the long gun you use?”
“When I was with the Rifles,” Ash said, “we used the Pattern 1853 Enfield muzzle-loaders. Later, when I transferred to the Hussars, we were issued shorter barreled, breech-loading Snider-Enfield cavalry carbines. They don’t have the range or accuracy of the long rifle but are easier to carry on horseback.”
R. D. pointed to a rifle hung over the door. “That’s a Sharps .50.”
“Aye. I recognize it. A fine rifle, I hear.”
“My, all this talk of guns is utterly fascinating, don’t you think, ladies?” Edwina punctuated the pointed remark with a dramatic roll of her cornflower blue eyes toward Maddie and Pru.
They grinned back.
“Ever shoot one of them?” R. D. asked
“No, but I’ve heard they’re verra accurate.”
“Not that one,” Brodie cut in with a look of disgust as he spooned a second helping of potatoes onto his plate. “Thing pulls left every time.”
Ash thought for a moment to determine which direction was left so he could mark it in his mind if he ever had a chance to shoot the rifle.
“Bet it wouldn’t pull left for me,” the boy argued.
“No, it would probably break your shoulder, instead,” his father retorted. “Get some meat on your bones, then you can try it.” He must have seen Ash’s look of interest. “You want, Ashby, you can try it after supper. But be warned. Thing kicks like a bluenose mule.”
Ash doubted it would kick harder than his carbine with its shorter barrel, especially if he loaded it with one of his special long-range cartridges.
The talk drifted to more appropriate topics for dinner conversation. Prudence Lincoln mentioned two new students who had joined her little school. Ash could see she was as passionate about her teaching as Maddie was about her photography. She apparently even lived in the building that housed the schoolroom. Her dark eyes seemed to glow with excitement and her beautiful face became more animated and less wary. He wondered what had happened to make her so reserved even among friends—was it because of her mixed blood? Those pale burn scars he could see on her wrist? Or her ordeal when she’d been abducted by Indians?
He studied the Cheyenne, who—as usual—was looking at Miss Lincoln. The Indian had said little during the meal, and when he did speak, his voice was as flat and expressionless as his dark gaze. Ash wondered at the admiration these people obviously felt for the silent, hard-faced man.
Then wee Brin said something that made him laugh, and Ash immediately realized the reason for their affection. That broad smile brought a shocking transformation to his starkly sculpted face and spoke of deep feelings for this family he apparently had adopted as his own.
Ash understood that. He had harbored a similar affection for the men under his command. Almost paternal. Intensely protective. Even now, he mourned those he had lost.
Conversation shifted to talk of Denver and all that would be needed for the trip. Since Edwina Brodie would be traveling with them, Prudence Lincoln would stay at the Brodie house to watch the children, while Thomas Redstone would take over sheriff duties in town—and watch over Prudence Lincoln from his room in the carriage house behind the Brodie’s house. He had a good start on that now, Ash noticed. The Cheyenne had scarcely taken his eyes off the pretty dark-skinned woman since they’d taken their seats.
An interesting group. Ash liked them and was even starting to enjoy himself when Brodie pulled a crumpled envelope from his back trouser pocket.
“Meant to give this to you earlier. Your first name is Angus, right? Angus Wallace?”
Ash nodded.
“Then this must be for you. Came in late today, in care of Heartbreak Creek sheriff.” He studied the envelope, then held it toward Ash. “Judging by the cross-outs, it’s been forwarded several times already.”
With a sense of dread, Ash took the envelope, wondering how he was going to hide from these people his inability to read.
“I never got a letter,” Joe Bill said morosely.
Brin sighed heavily. “Me, neither.”
“Wouldn’t matter, Brin. You can’t read yet anyway.”
Ash looked at the faces turned toward him. Most wore expectant expressions—letters were a rare happenstance, it seemed—but one person, Prudence Lincoln, seemed more puzzled than curious. His dread building, Ash opened the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper covered with small handwriting. Letters swam across the page.
“What does it say?”
“Brin,” Edwina scolded. “It’s none of your business.”
Ash studied the letters but could only make out a word here and there. Shame rising in his throat, he looked helplessly at the faces watching him. “I can’t—”
“Of course you can’t.” His wife snatched the papers from his grip. “And you shouldn’t, since it’s not even addressed to you.” She pointed to the name on the envelope. “A. Wallace.” To the others, she explained that Alexandra Madeline Wallace was her full name, but she signed her photographs A. M. Wallace. “Perhaps it’s from someone wanting to commission a portrait. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
While she scanned the letter, Ash sank back in his chair and wiped his damp palms on his thighs, aware that Prudence Lincoln was still studying him.
“It’s from a man named Aaron Zucker in Pennsylvania.” Maddie passed the letter to Pru, who looked it over then passed it on to Declan. “He’s trying to find his brother, Ephraim Zucker. He writes that he’s coming to Heartbreak Creek to question me about a photograph I took of his brother several months ago.”
“Do you remember this Ephraim Zucker?” Edwina asked.
Maddie shook her head. “Apparently he planned to meet his brother in Omaha, Nebraska Territory, several weeks ago, but Ephraim never showed up.”
Brodie handed the letter back to Maddie. “Says he’ll arrive in Heartbreak Creek sometime next week.”
“He’d best hurry, then.” Folding the letter, Maddie slipped it into her skirt pocket. “Or he’ll have to wait until we return from Denver.”
When the meal ended, Declan took down the rifle over the door, and trailing children like goslings, took Ash and Thomas out back to set up a shooting area. Between the Brodie house and that of their nearest neighbor, Jeb Kendal, was a long open stretch that backed up to a brushy hill. As they walked out, Maddie heard Declan tell R. D. and Joe Bill to alert Jeb to what they were doing, then make sure no one was prowling the brush they’d be shooting into. Ash said he would get his British carbine from the buggy so they could try that, too.
As soon as the tromp of heavy footfalls descended the porch steps, Edwina pounced.
“So what’s going on, Maddie? Tell us everything.”
“About what?”
“You know what. Your husband. And whatever it is that put that rash on your neck. Looks like beard rash to me.”
“Edwina!” Pru rose and began clearing the table. “You are the nosiest creature alive, I swear.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Maddie hiked her shoulders and tried to shorten her neck, but knew it was to no avail. It was most inconsiderate of Ash not to shave before he snuck into her room last night and—
Edwina laughed and shook a finger at Maddie. “Then why are you grinning like a possum eating persimmons? Him, too. Why, that man was all but drooling into his plate whenever he looked at you.”
“Was he? I didn’t notice.” A lie, of course. She had noticed everything about him, including his almost palpable dread when Declan had handed him the letter. An affliction, he’d called it. And also a horrible shame for a man as capable and intelligent as Ash to be unable to perform such a simple task as reading. Maybe there was something she could do to help him. Perhaps if she tactfully asked Pru…
As she rose to help Pru clear the table, Edwina started up, too. “No, you rest,” Maddie said, motioning her back into her chair.
Edwina returned to her seat with a grateful sigh. “Don’t try to change the subject, Maddie. It was obvious the minute you came up to the house. Didn’t I say that, Pru? Something has changed. That’s what I said.”
“I believe your exact words were, ‘Doesn’t Maddie look fetching in that dress?’ ”
“Exactly. And it was obvious why you look so fetching, so don’t bother to deny it.”
“Deny what?”
“That you and Ash…you know…”
Maddie did know but was going to force Edwina to say it aloud. For all that she was an accomplished flirt, the southern belle was more modest than Queen Victoria ever thought of being. “Know what?”
“That you and Ash…consummated.”
“Oh, Lord,” Pru muttered.
Taking Maddie’s silence for confirmation, Edwina pointed that finger again. “You did, didn’t you? I knew it. Not that I blame you. He is your husband, after all. And almost as handsome as Declan.”
Maddie thought Ash the handsomer of the two but let the comment pass unchallenged.
Pru set a stack of plates onto the plank counter, then turned to Maddie, a troubled frown on her beautiful face. “Does this mean you’ll be going back to Scotland, after all?”
Edwina cut in before Maddie could respond. “Of course not. She’ll stay right here. Why, look at how well her photography is going. She’s practically almost famous! And she just has to be here for when the baby comes, and for the christening, and by then—”
“Edwina,” her sister admonished.
Edwina’s face crumpled. “But I don’t want her to leave.”
Hearing the wobble in Edwina’s voice, Maddie rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder, trying to avoid a scene that would only lead to tears for all of them and do no one any good—especially Edwina, who was volatile enough even when not in a family way. “I don’t want to leave you, either.”
“So what will you do?” Pru asked.
Edwina sniffed into her table napkin. “She’ll make him stay here, that’s what.”
Maddie picked up more dirty dishes and carried them to the counter. “As I said before, that’s not possible. He’s heir to an earldom, and earls carry great responsibility.”
“But he’s not an earl yet, is he?” Edwina argued. “So why can’t he stay here until he inherits?”
Pausing at the sink, Maddie looked out at the men walking toward the open field. Ash looked so tall and proud, his long legs moving in a graceful, rolling gait, his heels coming down with authority and purpose. A big, able man, hobbled by duty and bound by honor. He would make a magnificent earl.
Turning away, she scraped plates into the slop bucket. “He has duties.” But even as she said it, she thought of Glynnis, and all that Ash’s sister did for Northbridge. She was the true manager of the lands. It was because of Glynnis’s hard work that the earl and his two other sons had been able to spend weeks, even months, in Edinburgh and London. Did Donnan truly need Ash when he had Glynnis there to run Northbridge?
Maddie thought of London—damp, noisy, redolent of too many people crowding the narrow streets, and the pervasive odor of coal fires, refuse, and the river Thames hanging over the city like a dark cloud. “Did you know that in London, between the fog and rain and coal soot in the air, we often went weeks without ever seeing the sun? And Scotland was no better.”
“In Louisiana we had our rainy seasons,” Edwina put in. “August was always a veritable steam bath. Then those awful hurricanes. Remember that year, Pru, when all the cabins along the bayou washed away?”
Maddie glanced out the window at the clear, crisp sky. How could she take photographs in the rain? Would she have to wait weeks for the sun to show itself, or hide under an oiled canvas to frame her images? What about all the nuances of light and shadow that created depth and mystery?
Or would she even be able to pursue her photography at all?
“So,” Edwina announced. “Now that we have Maddie and her Angus back together, we must get to work on you and Thomas, Pru.”
“Oh, Lord.”
Maddie watched Pru, thinking she seemed especially evasive today. “How have things gone with him while I was gone?”
Pru busied herself pumping water into the sink. “Same as always.”
“Then why are you blushing?” her sister challenged.
Maddie studied Pru’s smooth caramel-colored skin. “She’s blushing? How can you tell?”
“I’d know she was blushing in the dark. So tell us, Pru. What are you hiding? Have you and Thomas…you know…
“No!” Pru said emphatically. “We have not consummated.”
“But you’ve done something…”
Throwing her hands up in defeat, Pru whirled from the sink. “All right. We kissed. There. Satisfied?”
Edwina grinned at Maddie. “I win. And I’ll expect that beaded pink ribbon the next time I’m in town.” At her sister’s outraged gasp, she quickly explained. “It wasn’t exactly a bet, Pru. Maddie wasn’t sure if Indians even kissed. I was sure they did. And if anybody could get one from Thomas, it would be you. That’s how much confidence I have in you. You should be thanking me.”
“You are utterly impossible. And this conversation is over.”
“I think she means it,” Maddie said.
“She does.” Rising awkwardly from her chair, Edwina grimaced down at her body, one hand splayed on her midsection as if holding it in place. “I feel like I’m toting around a full-grown Declan. And I still have three more months to go. Law’s amercy.” Once balanced, she motioned for Maddie and Pru to follow. “Forget the dishes and come to the back room. You must see the lovely cradle Declan made. He is so good with his hands.” She sent them a look. “And you can trust me on that.”
While Ash went back to the buggy for his carbine, Declan had R. D. set up four targets at the bottom of the brushy slope—two empty one-gallon cans from when they’d whitewashed the house the previous summer, an empty two-gallon vinegar bottle, and a leaky water bucket—then pace back to their shooting position beside the paddocks—which was approximately three hundred sixty yards.
When Ash returned with his rifle, Brodie was herding children to a safe distance and Thomas Redstone was leaning against a fence post toying with a sliding brass telescope. Two rifles—the Sharps and a Winchester repeater that looked to be the same model 1866 that Satterwhite had owned—were leaning against the bottom rail of the small corral off the stable.
Ash set the carbine beside the other guns, along with the box of cartridges he had loaded himself. Some he had modified for long distance shots by casting the bullets lighter by a third, which left more room in the cartridge for power. A trick he’d learned from an old rifleman and a man with the keenest eye he’d ever seen. But even though the lighter bullets traveled farther and flatter, the carbine was only accurate to a maximum of four hundred yards, which probably ma
de it a little less effective in distance shots than the Sharps. Be interesting to see if he was right.
“Want to try the Sharps first?” Brodie asked.
“Aye.”
He watched the sheriff pop the lever, slip the cartridge into place, then close it. Brodie handed him the rifle, then pointed across the open stretch. “Four targets at the base of the hill. We’ll start with the bucket on the right. Remember, it kicks like a son of a bitch.”
Ash had been kicked by both a son of a bitch and a mule. He suspected the Sharps couldn’t be worse. Bending, he picked up a pinch of grass and let it drop to check the wind.
Target right. Wind left. While he set that in his mind, he raised the rifle and looked through the open ladder sight mounted behind the hammer. He found his target. Lowering the rifle, he adjusted the sight for range and drop. Satisfied, he motioned Redstone aside. Resting his elbow on the tall fence post, he peered through the sight with his near eye.
“Bucket right. Three hundred fifty yards.” He took a deep breath, let out half of it, counted to two, and squeezed the trigger.
The barrel jumped, but the recoil wasn’t as bad as his carbine with a modified cartridge. And because of its longer barrel, the Sharps wasn’t nearly as loud. Before the sound left his ears, the bucket flew into the air, tumbled twice then rolled to a stop.
Ash straightened off the post and handed Brodie his rifle. “No pull. Left or right.”
“You’re sure?”
“Aye.”
“He hit in front of it,” Thomas Redstone said.
“No,” Ash said calmly. “I dinna.”
“See for yourself.” The Cheyenne handed him the telescope.
Ash pressed the cup to his eye, adjusted the focus until he saw the hole in the wooden bucket, then lowered the telescope and turned to the others. “Square in the middle.”
Both men and all four children burst into hoots of laughter.
Ash blinked in confusion.
“You got him!” Brin shouted, hopping up and down.
“He looks like a raccoon,” Joe Bill crowed, pointing at Ash’s face.
“A war pony with a painted eye,” R. D. seconded.