Colorado Dawn

by Kaki Warner

  Mrs. Kemble preened and fluffed the limp gray curls poking out beneath her little lace widow’s cap. “I was afraid the roast wouldn’t be as tender as I’d hoped. It’s so hard to come by good meat nowadays.”

  “How right you are.” Maddie smiled as she found the heat of him.

  He sucked in air. The hand beside his plate clenched into a fist.

  “I’m partial to chicken,” the deaf widow’s daughter offered, then blushed furiously when Declan sent her a smile.

  “You’re sick, you say?” her mother shouted.

  “I’ve often found,” Maddie mused, lightly stroking, “that the key to a nice piece of meat is entirely in the preparation. Don’t you agree, Ash?” She punctuated that with a little squeeze.

  He jerked and cleared his throat. “But over preparation can lead to disastrous results,” he warned in a strained voice.

  At the other end of the table, Edwina nodded. “You’re certainly right about that. I burn meat all the time.”

  “I don’t mind,” Declan said with a sideways glance at Ash.

  “Is it overcooked?” Grabbing the serving fork, Mrs. Kemble jabbed at what was left of the roast. “Did I leave it in too long?”

  “Not at all,” Maddie assured her. “It’s perfect. Firm, yet tender. An unusual thing in such a sizeable cut.” Another squeeze.

  “You’ll pay, lass,” Ash hissed through clenched teeth.

  “I hope so,” she murmured back. A final little pat, then she pulled her hand away and reached for the bowl of fruit. “Did you grow these plump blackberries yourself, Mrs. Kemble? I can’t wait to give them a try.”

  Maddie was still abed, exhausted from Ash’s tender punishments—­that man was extremely exacting in his retribution, bless his heart—­when she heard Thomas and Reverend Zucker ride past the window the following morning. If the pink glow of sunlight peeking through the crochet edge of the bedroom curtain was any indication, it promised to be a beautiful day. Perfect for photography.

  Anxious to get started, she rose and quickly dressed, wondering if she had time for breakfast before accompanying Lucinda and Declan into town for their various meetings.

  Ash had been adamant that she not go. “We know Si’s brother is in Denver. Brodie saw him. You willna be safe.”

  “In plain sight? Among all those passersby? Don’t be silly.”

  “I should go with you.”

  “And leave Edwina here alone?”

  Eventually, she had distracted him by kissing her way down his restless body—­she could be thorough, too. Now, realizing how late it was and fearing he might use her tardiness as an excuse to send the others on without her, she hurriedly left the room.

  But when she crossed to the stable a few minutes later, she found Declan and Lucinda waiting while Ash dutifully harnessed the mules to her wagon. Beside him stood a gangly boy who looked a little older than R. D., Declan’s oldest son. Ash introduced him as Chub Pennystone, a nephew of Mrs. Kemble.

  “He’s to stay with you at all times. If there’s a problem, he’ll find Brodie. Questions?”

  Seeing the determination in her husband’s stance and expression, Maddie didn’t argue. In truth, she was glad of the help. There never seemed to be enough hands where photography was concerned. “I’m grateful for the assistance, Chub.” She gave the boy a bright smile that sent a flush up his thin neck, over his freckled cheeks, and beneath the brown hair that hung into his hazel eyes. “I hope you can drive a wagon.”

  Chub—­obviously not named such because of any excess weight—­hitched trousers that were dangerously close to falling off his narrow hips despite the frayed braces over his narrow shoulders. “Yes, ma’am. I drive my pa’s hay wagon all the time.”

  “Then we shall get along famously.”

  They left soon after, Declan riding ahead, Lucinda and Maddie in the driver’s box with Chub, and both women carrying their double shot palm pistols in their skirt pockets.

  “Are you ready for your meeting today with the gentlemen from the Denver Pacific?” Maddie asked Lucinda, who sat between her and Chub.

  Lucinda nodded and patted the thick, ribbon-­tied folder in her lap. “All that’s missing is the paperwork on the water test.”

  “I thought you already took care of that.”

  “I did. But the results weren’t as good as I’d hoped so I’m having it tested again.”

  The water in Heartbreak Creek was its major drawback, as was evidenced by the stained teeth of most of the longtime residents. Such a high mineral content was equally damaging to metal pipes, gauges, and valves on steam-­driven locomotives, and for that reason, the railroad had avoided Heartbreak Canyon when they had laid tracks through this section of the territory several years earlier. But their alternate route presented its own problems, including a steep grade up Henson’s Loop and a trestle over the gorge at Damnation Creek, which washed out each spring.

  But now, with the mine shut down and the water cannon no longer in operation, Lucinda was convinced the mineral content of the water in Heartbreak Creek would be substantially reduced, which might induce the railroad to reroute through Heartbreak Creek rather than go through the costly and time-consuming task of rebuilding the trestle every year.

  “And if the new results are still not favorable?” Maddie asked.

  “I’ll dig a new well.”

  “Won’t that be a terrible expense?”

  Lucinda looked over at her, her jade green eyes fierce in their resolve. “I’m committed to this, Maddie. I want to see Heartbreak Creek flourish again so we can be proud to call it home.”

  It suddenly occurred to Maddie that of all the ladies, Lucinda was the most displaced. Edwina and Pru had lost their plantation home in Louisiana, but they still had each other, and now both had men who adored them. Maddie still had Ash, although they had yet to establish a home—­either in Scotland or here.

  But Luce had nothing except the ladies, a few railroad shares that must be rapidly dwindling, and her hopes for Heartbreak Creek. She needed the town as much as the town needed her.

  Reaching over, Maddie patted her friend’s hand. “And I shall assist in any way I can. Hopefully my photographs will help.”

  She had taken a dozen of them—­from the refurbished Heartbreak Creek Hotel to the livery, the Chinese laundry and wash-house, the bank, and even that rude Cal Bagley’s mercantile—­hoping to show the town as a thriving community.

  A lie, of course. With the mine closed and few other employment opportunities available, the little settlement was dying a slow death. Maddie wasn’t convinced that even if the railroad rerouted through the canyon, the town would ever flourish. But for Lucinda’s sake, she fervently hoped the meetings today would bear fruit.

  Before they had gone three miles, Thomas knew they were not alone. Two riders. A mile back. Only white men would make so much noise. “We have followers.” He held up two fingers. “Eneseo’o.”

  The reverend twisted in the saddle as if he expected to see them hanging off the tail of his pony. “You’re sure?”

  Thomas did not bother to answer such a foolish question. He pointed to the trail ahead. “You go. I will see who they are and what they want.”

  Instead of obeying, the churchman reined in, forcing Thomas to do the same. “They could be anyone, Mr. Redstone. We mustn’t threaten them unless we know for certain they mean us harm.”

  “I do not threaten.” First Prudence Lincoln and now this sad-­faced man. Were all white people so disobedient?

  “It would be unchristian of us to hurt them without cause.”

  “I am not Christian. I am Cheyenne.” He pointed down the road again, amazed that they were arguing about this. “Go.”

  “I cannot, Mr. Redstone. Until you promise me you will not harm them unless they try to hurt you first.”

  Thomas studied the round face, with its hopeful smile and the trusting brown eyes of a man who saw no evil in those around him. A spotted fawn. A rabbit. Thomas wondered
how he had lived this long.

  “Remember what the sheriff said,” the reverend prodded.

  Thomas sighed. How could the Cheyenne be losing their lands to a people so foolish? “We will wait in the trees until they pass by. If they are the men the Scotsman described, we will know they are enemies.” Without waiting for the older man to consent, he reined his pony off the road.

  They waited in the shade of a tall spruce. Thomas marked time by tree shadows moving across the ground. The reverend used a round timepiece he kept in his pocket. He checked it many times. Finally he clicked it closed and said, “It’s been over an hour. They must have turned off somewhere.”

  Or they waited for Thomas and the reverend to move again. “We will go now. The sun is low.” And Thomas did not want to be caught in the open with this man who would not fight.

  They had covered only a short distance when the followers were once more on their trail. But they made no effort to close the distance between them, so Thomas said nothing to the reverend and continued on.

  The attack, if there was one, would come when they reached the cabin. The riders who followed would have no use for them then, and that was when the bullets would fly.

  The sun sank lower. The reverend grew weary, but Thomas kept the ponies at a fast trot. If they could reach the cabin, they would have protection.

  It was almost dusk when he saw the dwelling through the trees. “Hatahaohe—­there it is,” he called just before a bullet slammed into his back and knocked him to the ground.

  Time passed quickly for Maddie. By midafternoon, she had a full box of negative plates she was anxious to develop in the dark tent she had asked Ash to set up behind the boardinghouse. It had been a marvelous, historic day. How her father would have loved being in the thick of it. The only thing that marred her excitement came in late morning, when Chub told her he had seen a funny-­looking fellow staring at her.

  She had scanned the faces of the people milling about but had seen no one she recognized. “Describe ‘funny looking.’ ”

  The boy thought about it as he scratched at a bug bite on his arm. “Not tall or short. Regular-­like. But skinny. I think he had light hair, but it was hard to tell, he was so dirty. Maybe he had a limp, but I’m not sure.”

  Since that described a goodly number of the men wandering the boardwalks in town, Maddie wasn’t unduly alarmed; it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been gawked at before. But she did keep an eye out and advised Chub to do the same.

  The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, except for an elderly fellow who kept peeking under her drape to see what she was doing, thereby overexposing several plates. No sign of the watcher. She and Chub were loading her equipment back into the wagon when Declan and Lucinda came up, their meetings finished for the day.

  Lucinda was brimming with news. “I’ve got another meeting with the gentlemen from the Denver Pacific tomorrow morning, and I’m lunching with Edgar Kitchner of the Kansas Pacific at the Grand Hotel. Isn’t that marvelous?”

  “It is.” Although Maddie wondered if the gentlemen were as interested in railroad matters as they might be in Lucinda. She looked especially vivacious today, her face alight with energy and passion.

  “Perhaps I can play one against the other. What do you think?”

  Maddie laughed. “I think if anyone could manage that, it would be you.” Lucinda certainly had a head for business, as well as enough charm to easily bring a man to her way of thinking.

  “And how was your day?” Maddie asked the sheriff, who was helping Chub load the crates.

  “Boring. I don’t know why the mayor insisted I come. Quibbling, name calling, and trading threats, that’s all they do all day.”

  “It’s politics,” Lucinda reminded him.

  “It’s posturing.”

  “Exactly.”

  Declan turned to Maddie. “No problems here?”

  Before Maddie could answer, Chub sidled up. “He’s back. Over there.”

  Declan frowned and set down the crate he’d just picked up. He looked around. “Who’s back?”

  “Mr. Wallace said I was to watch for anybody watching Mrs. Wallace. There was a man earlier, but he went away. Now he’s back.” He tipped his head toward the colonnaded building across the street. “Slinking around behind that fat post over there.”

  They all turned to look but saw no one slinking around the columns outside the Cattleman’s Bank.

  “Looks like he’s gone.” Chub sounded vastly disappointed. As exciting as the day had been for Maddie, it had obviously been less so for him.

  “What did he look like?” Declan asked.

  Chub gave the same description he’d given Maddie earlier. Light-­haired, skinny, dirty, maybe limping.

  “That could be Silas,” Maddie said, wondering why the boy would be watching her…​unless his brother had put him to the task. A shiver ran up her arms. Did that mean his brother was watching her, too?

  “Well, he’s not there, now,” Lucinda said, looking around.

  Declan picked up the crate again. “It’s time we headed back, anyway. Let’s load these and go.”

  Ash had just finished brushing Lurch when he heard the wagon roll up outside the stable. Relieved, he went out to meet them, Tricks at his heels.

  It had been bluidy boring, keeping watch over a woman who napped most of the day. To stay busy, he had repaired all the fencing, straightened the tack and feed room, rehung two broken shutters for the landlady, and had even resorted to giving Tricks a bath, just for the exercise.

  “About time,” he said, helping the ladies from the driver’s box. “Mrs. Kemble’s been threatening to start supper without you.” After setting his wife onto her feet, he gave her arse a wee pat to hurry her toward the house. “Off you go.” Ignoring the look of exasperation she sent him, he added, “Tell her we’ll be in as soon as we unharness and tend the animals.”

  Chub stayed long enough to carry the crates into the dark tent, then headed to his own home down the road.

  “Any problems here?” Brodie asked, coming out of the tack room after hanging up the harness rigging.

  “None. You?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ash stopped brushing Maisy and looked at him. “Explain.”

  The sheriff related what Chub had said about someone watching Maddie. “She thinks it sounds like Silas.”

  “Bluidy hell.”

  “Chub could be wrong.”

  And he could be right. Bollocks.

  After turning the mules into the back paddock, Ash tossed the halters over a post and followed the sheriff down the aisleway toward the front doors.

  “Silas seemed to like Maddie,” Brodie said. “I doubt he’d do anything to hurt her.”

  But Ash heard the echo of his own worry in the sheriff’s voice. “That poor lad would do anything his brother told him to do. He’s terrified of him, and rightly so.”

  While Brodie secured the stable doors, Ash looked around. Already evening shadows were closing in. The wind had picked up. The rush of it through the tall pines surrounding the house would easily mask sound, and the brush along the back of the house could provide ample cover for a man. Or two. He would have to be extra watchful through the night.

  Falling into step with the sheriff, he reached down to pat the wolfhound’s head. “I’ll see if Mrs. Kemble will allow Tricks to roam the house tonight.”

  Thomas lay on his back where he had fallen, the pain in his back so hot and consuming it stole away his breath. The whole front side of his torso was numb.

  “Oh dear, oh dear.” The reverend knelt at his side and started pressing against his ribs where the bullet had exited. Thomas arched, a cry rising in his throat.

  “Can you move, Mr. Redstone?”

  Thomas struggled to roll over and escape the searing pain in his back. He flopped facedown, his cheek falling against dirt that was warm and wet with his blood. Dimly he became aware—­more as a vibration than a sound—­of approaching horses
.

  “Taaseste…​taanaasestse…”

  The reverend’s face appeared in his dimming vision. “What? What are you saying? How can I help you?”

  “Go…​now…”

  “No, I won’t leave you.”

  Thomas struggled to find the words, to evade the blackness that pressed against his eyes. “Tell them…​I am dead…​say…​you have papers…”

  “What papers? The claim papers?”

  “Yes…” The drumming hoofbeats drew closer. Thomas fought to keep his eyes open. “Stay alive…​I will come.”

  “God be with you, Thomas Redstone.”

  Darkness closed around him. Beyond it, voices rose in shouts—­the reverend asking why they had killed his friend—­horses milling close by. Thomas slowed his breathing and hoped the men who shot him did not know that dead men did not bleed.

  After a while, the noise went away and only the pain remained.

  He opened his eyes.

  Dusk had fallen. The forest was silent and still. He smelled blood and felt the warm stickiness of it soaking the dirt.

  He must move. He must not be here if they came back.

  With a groan, he staggered to his feet, then stood shivering with cold even though tongues of fire licked at his back and his side.

  There was no sign of the reverend or his pony.

  Seeing blood seep from a hole in his shirt, he pressed a hand over it and gasped at the searing pain. When it faded enough that he could breathe again, he lifted his face to the darkening sky.

  “Help me…​nehvestahmestse, ma’heone.”

  The wind swirled softly around him, then swept up the steep bank above him. Heeding the voices of his spirit guides, Thomas turned and climbed slowly away from the trail and up into the trees.

  Nineteen

  The intruder came after supper, when the diners, including Mrs. Kemble, had retired to the front parlor to hear Edwina Brodie play the piano blindfolded. It was a dare laughingly issued by Miss Hathaway and heartily accepted by Edwina after her own husband pronounced the idea “bunkum.”