Colorado Dawn

by Kaki Warner

  “They have rooms for everyone but Thomas, who wouldn’t stay inside, anyway, and a stable for the horses. Follow Ash around back. We’ll unload there.”

  Though by no means elegant, Mrs. Kemble’s boardinghouse was clean and the rooms were spacious and adequately furnished. Edwina was delighted to find a water closet at the end of the upstairs hall by their bedrooms, and Maddie was just as pleased to find a roomy washroom with a deep tub on the ground floor. It had been a long four days.

  Once they had unloaded the wagon and buggy, Declan left Edwina napping in their room and rode back into town with Reverend Zucker to find out where the delegates would be meeting and where the claims office was located. While Maddie and Lucinda made use of the washroom, Ash and Thomas took care of the weary horses and Maddie’s mules, rubbing them down with burlap, checking their hooves for stones and cracks, and applying salve to any cuts or rubbed spots left by the rigging.

  Ash was trying to comb the tangles out of Lurch’s tail when Thomas, working on his own mount beside Lurch in the narrow aisleway of the stable, finally broke the long silence.

  “Your horse does not hear.”

  Working a twig free, Ash tossed it aside and started on another knot. “He was injured in an explosion.”

  “Yet you did not put him down.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Ash straightened, one hand resting on Lurch’s croup. “He’s a good horse.”

  “He is old.”

  “He does well enough.”

  “He is still old.”

  Ash knew that. He had inherited Lurch from a fellow cavalryman who had died of malaria in India. Rather than leave the horse behind, Ash had brought him back to England. That was over a decade ago, and they’d been together ever since. In fact, they’d been together longer than many of the men Ash had served with. They trusted each other. Depended on each other. And after suffering his own debilitating injury, Ash wouldn’t do to this fine horse what had been done to him. Lurch wouldn’t want to live a useless life. “He’s a good horse,” Ash said again and went back to combing.

  “You brought him with you from that place you call home?” Thomas asked after a moment.

  “Scotland. Aye.” He gave Lurch’s arse an affectionate pat. “He’s been to India, Ireland, England, and halfway across this vast country. A well-­traveled lad, so he is.”

  “I do not know those other places. Are they far?”

  “Aye. Across oceans and seas and mountains as tall as these.”

  Resting an arm across his spotted pony’s back, Thomas stared past Ash at the distant peaks framed by the open stable doors. “Prudence Lincoln has told me of the big lakes the whites call oceans. But I have never seen one.”

  Ash chuckled. “I had my head in a bucket for most of the crossing, so I dinna see much of it, either.” Seeing Thomas’s questioning look, he made a face and rubbed his stomach.

  “Ho.” Thomas nodded in understanding. “Like Declan Brodie after I gave him mataho—­peyote.”

  Ash had heard of the vision-­inducing cactus buttons but had never tried any. He was glad he hadn’t if it could bring down a man Brodie’s size. He grinned, picturing it as he stroked the curry comb down Lurch’s flank. “How did you and the sheriff become friends?”

  “He saved my life.” Thomas said no more for a while, then added, “And I saved his.”

  “A poor trade.”

  Thomas scowled at him over his horse’s back. “Because I am not white?”

  “Because he’s a terrible shot and useless in a tussle. You’re better.”

  Thomas’s lips twitched. “He can fight when he must. But that is not his way. You like to fight.”

  “I dinna mind.” Ash hung the curry comb on a nail protruding from an upright post. “A friendly wrestle now and then eases tension and clears the mind. We often had regimental matches.”

  “You will fight me.”

  Ash laughed. “Dinna be daft.”

  “You are afraid?”

  “Of course not. But I’m taller and outweigh you by at least two stone.”

  Thomas grinned—­a transformation that was so startling Ash could only stare. “Then I will use only one hand.”

  Ash laughed at the arrogance of the man. “You would have made a fine Scottish soldier, so you would.”

  “I am already a fine Cheyenne Dog Soldier. Why would I settle for less?”

  That was it. Grinning, Ash motioned toward the open doors. “After you, heathen. And never say I dinna warn you.”

  Unbuttoning his shirt as they left the stable, Ash recounted the standard rules—­no biting, eye gouging, hair pulling, kidney punches, kicks to the groin, spitting—­then he faltered when Thomas removed his leather war tunic to expose massive scars across his chest.

  “Good God, man. Were you caught in a bear trap?”

  Thomas lifted over his head a leather strip from which hung a small pouch, then tucked his chin to study the two twisted ridges of scar tissue that covered him from collarbone to ribs. “It is from the sun dance ceremony.”

  Ash had heard of it, but until seeing Thomas’s scars, hadn’t truly believed that a sane man would willingly pierce himself with sticks then hang from them until the flesh ripped away. “Why would you do such a thing?” he asked, removing his own shirt and tossing it over a post.

  “It is a sacred rite. I will not speak of it.” Thomas’s gaze drifted to the scarring on Ash’s side. “You have rites as well?”

  “Aye. It’s called casualties of war.” Seeing Thomas dinna understand, he added, “A powder keg exploded.”

  “You did not get those scars in battle?”

  “No.” Sensing that admission had somehow diminished him in the Cheyenne’s eyes, Ash turned and presented his back. “But this one I did.” He motioned toward a puckered dent where a bullet had entered his right side just below his rib cage. “And this.” Turning back, he pointed to two long saber scars, one across his shoulder by his neck and another along his upper arm. “There’s another bullet scar on my thigh, but I’ll not be showing you that.” Planting hands on his hips, he dared Thomas to belittle any of those well-­earned marks.

  “You carry many battle scars,” the Cheyenne acknowledged in his expressionless way. “You must be a poor fighter.”

  Ash was about to take offense when he saw the laughter in the dark eyes. “We’ll see about that.” And in a single quick motion, he threw an arm around the Indian’s neck and flipped him over his hip and onto the ground.

  The Cheyenne rolled, swept a moccasined foot behind Ash’s ankle, and yanked. Ash hit hard, scrambled into a half crouch, and drove his shoulder into the Indian’s belly. Then they were both down, twisting, grabbing for handholds, throwing elbows, and maneuvering for headlocks and scissor holds. Ash had just gotten the Cheyenne down for the fourth time when a deep voice interrupted.

  “This a friendly fight? Or should I get my manacles?”

  Ash turned to see Brodie and the reverend watching from their horses. He spit dirt from his mouth and grinned just as Thomas’s heel caught him behind the knee and sent him staggering into the fence. Wood cracked. The rail gave and Ash fell with a thud.

  From the house came the slam of a door. Three women marched across the yard.

  “Aw, hell,” Brodie muttered. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  Ash rolled over to find Thomas extending a hand. He hesitated, half expecting a trick, but the panting Cheyenne grinned through the sweat-­streaked dust caking his face. “You fight good. For a Scotsman.”

  Ash took the hand and pulled himself up. “As do you. For a runt.”

  “Cover yourselves,” the sheriff ordered. “I don’t want my wife to see those scars. Her stomach’s unsettled enough as it is.”

  “Pay no attention to him, heathen,” Ash said to Thomas as he pulled on his shirt. “He’s probably afraid she’ll see what real men look like.”

  “Men?” Thomas made a show of looking around. “Anothe
r Cheyenne has come?”

  Ash laughed. “I hope so. Now we can have a fair fight.”

  “You people had better repair that fence,” a shrill voice called.

  Ash turned with a contrite expression as the woman who ran the boardinghouse stomped up, Edwina and Maddie in tow.

  Edwina looked shocked. Maddie, furious.

  “Aye, Mrs. Kemble, we will. And it’s sorry I am for allowing this treacherous savage to throw me into it. As penance, I’ll make sure he mucks out your stalls after he replaces the broken rail.”

  Behind him, Thomas snorted. Or maybe he was coughing up dust.

  Mrs. Kemble’s bright eyes darted from Ash to Thomas and back to Ash. She reminded him of a busy little hen deciding which worm to peck first. “I’ve a mind to throw all of you out.”

  “I’ll see it doesn’t happen again, Mrs. Kemble,” Brodie promised.

  “I’m sure they meant no harm,” the reverend added.

  This time, it was Maddie who snorted.

  “Well…​all right, then. But no more fighting. This is a respectable establishment.” She glared at each of them a moment longer, then whirled and stomped back to the house.

  “What on earth were you fighting about?” Edwina Brodie demanded.

  When Thomas dinna respond, Ash stepped in. “Thomas, here, said the sheriff was a poor shot and a worse fighter. I was just defending your husband’s honor, so I was.”

  Edwina glared at Thomas.

  Thomas glared at Ash.

  Muttering under her breath, Maddie took Edwina’s arm and steered her back to the house.

  “There was no claim registered to Ephraim Zucker,” Brodie said a few minutes later, leaning against the wall while Thomas and Ash mucked out the last stall.

  “I know he registered it,” the reverend insisted from his perch on an overturned water bucket just inside the stable doors. “The imposter must have stolen Ephraim’s copy when he took the photograph.”

  “Or maybe it just hasn’t been processed yet.” Brodie didn’t sound hopeful. “Didn’t they say it’s not unusual for these things to take several months?”

  “I suppose.” It was obvious the reverend was starting to lose hope. His shoulders drooped and his kind eyes had dulled a bit more with each new disappointment.

  Ash stuck the tines of the manure fork into the dirt floor and rested a forearm on the handle. “Perhaps your brother’s copy of the paperwork is at the cabin.”

  “Perhaps,” the reverend said without conviction.

  After hanging his fork on the wall hooks, Thomas grabbed the handles of the overflowing wheelbarrow and steered it down the center aisle to the manure pile outside. He dumped it, left the barrow tilted up against the exterior wall and walked back, brushing bits of dirt and hay off his leather tunic. “I will take you to the cabin tomorrow.”

  “Will you?” The reverend immediately perked up. “What time?”

  “Early.”

  “I’ll be ready.” After thanking Thomas several times, the reverend excused himself to wash before supper and inquire if Mrs. Kemble might sell him victuals for the trip. There was a new bounce in his step as he rushed to the house.

  “I doubt his brother will be there,” the sheriff said.

  Ash carried a tin of grain to Lurch’s stall and poured it atop his pile of hay. “I doubt his brother is even alive.”

  “How far is this place, Thomas?”

  “Half a day. Maybe more for a white man.”

  “We may have a problem.”

  Both Ash and Thomas stared at Brodie.

  “I think the other Zuckers are in town. They were at a distance, but I recognized the blond hair and bowler hat.”

  Bollocks. Ash doled out the last tin of grain to Buttercup, then closed the feed room door and slid the bar home. “Did they see you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Si’s brother—­if they are brothers—­knows I’m a delegate. Because of my size, I wouldn’t be that hard to pick out amongst the others.”

  Ash stood in the middle of the aisleway and stared out at the fading sky, wishing he had acted on his impulse two nights ago and killed the bluidy bastard. If anything happened to Maddie because of that…​he couldn’t even finish the thought. “As long as he dinna follow you back here, we should be fine.”

  “Well, that’s the thing.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t either of the Zuckers, but I got the distinct impression someone followed the reverend from the claims office.”

  “How? Si and his brother hadn’t met the reverend, so how would they know to follow him?”

  “The poor fellow made quite a stink when they couldn’t find Ephraim’s paperwork. Anyone within hearing would have heard the name. There were a lot of people standing in line.”

  “Bluidy hell.”

  Brodie turned to Thomas, who was leaning against a stall door. “Be watchful, Thomas. If they know who the reverend is, he could be their new target. They see you leave, they might figure you’re going to Ephraim’s cabin and follow you.”

  Thomas nodded. “The churchman is a poor rider and makes more noise than a buffalo, but I will do what I can.”

  Ash gave Thomas a meaningful look. One warrior to another. Men who, by training or by nature, were prepared to kill. “If there’s trouble, Thomas, you’ll know what to do, so you will.”

  The Cheyenne nodded.

  Brodie raised a hand. “Hold up.” He leveled warning glances at each of them. “No killing unless you’re fired on first. You know that, Thomas. You’re a duly sworn officer of the law.”

  Thomas looked down at his war shirt with its array of quills and beads and bones sewn in intricate patterns. “I see no badge.”

  “Damnit, Thomas! I don’t want to have to come hunting you. Or keep a posse from hunting you.”

  Ash stepped in. “He’s right, Thomas. Until we know what happened to the reverend’s brother, we have to keep them alive.”

  Thomas smiled. “I will keep them alive.”

  “And there’s the boy,” Ash added. “He’s simple. Dinna hurt him.”

  “I would not. It is against our way to do harm to those with troubled spirits. We will leave when the sun clears the mountains.” Thomas pushed away from the wall, then hesitated and turned to Ash. “While I am away, Scotsman, you will watch over the women when the sheriff and Miss Hathaway are at their meetings.”

  Ash nodded.

  “And if anyone tries to harm them, you will know what to do.”

  “Aye. And if I fail, Tricks won’t.”

  “Hell.” Brodie sighed. “It’s going to be a bloody week. I can already tell.”

  Eighteen

  There were no empty seats at the dinner table that evening. In addition to the group from Heartbreak Creek, there was also a deaf widow with an ear trumpet she never used, her excruciatingly shy unmarried daughter, and a rail-­thin Bible salesman, who spent most of the meal conversing with the reverend when he wasn’t casting looks at Edwina.

  Unkind looks.

  Maddie couldn’t decide if it was because Edwina’s natural vivacity was an affront to his sour disposition or because of her obvious pregnancy. Even in a frontier area like this, where the practicalities of survival often outweighed the strictures of propriety, there were still those who felt a woman in Edwina’s condition should remain out of the public eye.

  Rubbish.

  Just another example of the foolish thinking that awaited her if—­when, that is—­she went back into the bosom of society. Which she would gladly do, of course, rather than lose Ash.

  She glanced at her husband, seated on her left, and felt a resurgence of the worry she had felt when she’d found him rolling in the dirt with Thomas.

  Overgrown children. That’s all they were.

  She had been waiting in their room, primed to scold him soundly for risking injury to his side or perhaps bringing on another of his incapacitating headaches, when he had walked in, still damp fr
om his wash, wrapped his arms around her, and whispered, “Thank you, lass,” into her hair.

  “For what?” she had asked, pulling back, her pique momentarily forgotten.

  “For not telling them about…” He motioned vaguely to his head. “My troubles. They depend on me, so they do. And I’d not be wanting them to think I’m not up to the task.”

  At the time, she had wondered fleetingly if he had been trying to convince Thomas and Declan of that, or himself?

  Ash’s military career had meant as much to him as her photography did to her. He had been a decorated officer—­a natural leader, respected by his peers and admired by his men. To have lost all of that so abruptly—­and in such a violent and brutal way—­must have been a terrible blow. A skilled soldier one minute, a near cripple, the next. That had to have shaken his confidence. And perhaps tussling in the dirt like a schoolboy was his way of proving to the world—­and himself—­he was still the man he always was.

  Silly creature. In her eyes, he would always be larger than life.

  Feeling a sudden desire to reassure him, she lifted her glass with her right hand, and—­shocked by what she was doing even as she did it—­rested her left on his leg.

  His head whipped toward her, those startling green eyes round with surprise.

  She took a sip, set her glass down, and smiled. “Would you please pass the bread, Ash?”

  The way he looked at her made her feel bold and daring and a bit out of breath. Would a countess do this, she wondered, lightly tracing a figure eight on his muscled thigh.

  Those muscles flexed beneath her hand when he leaned forward to rest his forearms on the edge of the table, shielding his lower body from view of the others. “Hungry, are you, lass?” he asked, his lips quirking at the corners.

  “I find that I am. The long travel day, perhaps.”

  “That, and camp rations,” Lucinda seconded. “I hate hardtack.”

  Beneath the table, Maddie’s hand wandered and explored.

  “I so agree.” Edwina helped herself to more vegetables. “I wasn’t that hungry earlier, but I declare, Mrs. Kemble, this meal is good enough to bring tears of joy to a glass eye.”