She handed the pad back to Luke, a polite smile briefly lifting her countenance. “You are an artist.”
Luke hitched one shoulder. “I imagine you’ve drawn some pictures. Have you made any of your kitten?”
The child’s face grew somber, almost grave. “My grandmother says drawing is idle child’s play and I should give up childish ways and learn to behave like a lady.”
Her answer took Luke aback. A question seemed the better response. “And is that what you think as well?”
She dropped her gaze to the kitten, wiggling her fingers behind its ear. “Grandmother says it is.” Softer, she added, “You see, Grandmother is always right.”
Who was he to refute the child’s dutiful conviction? “Ah, yes. I see.”
He closed his pad and slipped it into his leather satchel, then seeing the girl returning to her lady-like composure, he turned his face to the darkened window. A ghostly reflection of his own features superimposed itself onto the rolling landscape beyond the glass. The blue eyes staring back were like those of his mother. The one time he’d tried to paint her, he’d used a mixture of Prussian blue and aquamarine, never finding the distinct hue.
He brushed a hand through his unruly brown locks, then ran it down his cheek bristly with a day’s growth of whiskers and frowned. As usual, he looked older than his twenty-three years. He always had and he blamed it on the annoying fact that he’d been shaving for over five of those years, a hereditary gift from his Irish father whose face Luke had never once seen free of whiskers except for the day they laid him out in his casket. With pale clean cheeks and his thin body clothed in a borrowed suit, he’d looked a stranger.
Why his mother would have ever said that Luke would one day steal the hearts of young ladies remained a mystery. He certainly hadn’t, but, when he was honest with himself, neither had he tried. Responsibilities to his family left no room in his life for a wife. At least, that had been true until four months ago when his mother had passed. But habits aren’t quickly altered.
He threw a glance at the child, now cooing softly to her kitten. Her childhood would probably fade as quickly as the first blush of sunrise if her grandmother had her way. Responsibilities had a way of doing that. In the child’s case, he wondered if the needs of the grandmother had superseded those of the child to remain a child for a little longer.
Under the ambient light of a nearly full moon, Luke could just discern a flat landscape stretching into the moon shadows cast by a distant mountain range. The terrain was so unlike the cityscapes he’d lived in for all his life. He felt a shiver of excitement course through him. Here in this vast and sprawling landscape he’d find subjects to fill the blank pages of his sketch books, the wild, the living wonders he’d long dreamed of seeing with his own eyes.
He checked himself, because he had an assignment to complete if he wanted to keep earning a living, even if it was for a job as unsatisfying as illustrating the news. But the concern nagged at him; would even his best be enough?
Worry never put food on the table nor coins in your pocket. Only hard work and a firm determination had the power to do either. Those were the words his mother had lived and died by. He pulled his collar close to his neck and sat back, as the train rocked him into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter Two
Range of Sight
“There is a love of wild nature in everybody, an ancient mother-love showing itself whether recognized or no.” -John Muir
June 25, 1890
Aware that the train track was leading them closer to the central mountains, Luke’s eyes were riveted to the terrain rolling past his window. It was the same range he’d observed rising to the north since first light when they’d changed trains in Shoshone. As the hills pressed closer to the river, more houses appeared along the tracks. Ketchum seemed more prosperous than he’d expected. The brick buildings reminded him of eastern towns, but the steep hills standing like a fortress wall bordering the town, left Luke with the distinct impression that the town was a wilderness oasis.
He’d scarcely had time to collect his luggage and disembark on this, the last stop of the line, when a man’s husky voice called out, “Mr. Brennan?”
Luke attempted to shift his valise to his left arm, while losing his grip on the larger bag.
“Here. Let me help.” A tall, lanky man, with a broad, easy smile hefted the bag and introduced himself. “You are Mr. Brennan, I take it?”
Luke nodded. “Yes, sir. How did you recognize me?”
The man shrugged. “It’s not a big town, Mr. Brennan. I knew most those who got off the train, and I was pretty certain neither of those two elderly ladies over there suited the description my wife gave me.”
The man stuck out his free hand and Luke suppressed a wince as they shook. “Evan Hartmann,” he said. “Welcome to Ketchum.” Though they were nearly the same height, Hartmann probably carried more weight on his frame and Luke surmised most of it lean muscle. “If you’ll come this way, we’ll get your luggage stowed in the wagon.”
Luke followed at the man’s heels, nearly matching his pace. At 5’11”, Luke could have kept up, but the weight of his cumbersome bag made walking awkward.
The rancher led them around the station to where a team of horses were hitched to the rail. He set Luke’s bag in the back of the wagon. “Hope you don’t mind if we make a stop before we head out to the ranch. I have some supplies to pick up.” Mr. Hartmann gestured an invitation to the bench seat. “Climb in.”
Luke hurried around the back and pulled himself up beside the man.
“We aren’t going far. It’s out there.” Mr. Hartmann waved a hand vaguely toward the surrounding landscape. “Most everything’s spread out. There’re miles between ranches, and whole mountain ranges between towns. Hear you’re from St. Louis. Must differ from what you’re used to. Lived there all your life?”
“Not all. Originally, from New York. What about you, Mr. Hartmann? I’m eager to learn about your unusual enterprise here. I’d never heard of a guest ranch before my editor told me of yours.”
“Oh, so it wasn’t your idea?” He eased up on the reins and the horses slowed. “Lena told me you’re here to cover the doings for statehood. That makes you a reporter?”
“Of sorts. I’m an illustrator for the St. Louis-Dispatch.”
All about them was evidence of a town bursting with pride, from the newly white-washed balconies to the red, white and blue bunting draped nearly the full length of the main street. The colors and bustling activity pulled at Luke’s creative soul. Not for the first time, he regretted that his illustrations were constrained to black and white.
Raised wooden sidewalks allowed the residents to avoid the dirt streets rutted from spring runoff. Mr. Hartmann navigated them with skill. All the while, he kept his hand ready to touch a finger to his hat at ladies passing by along the boardwalks. Luke noticed the appreciative smiles that came from them in return. They knew his host and judging from their reactions, he was well-liked. Maybe this observation would become the first line of his report. Well-respected couple starts guest ranch venture in the new state of Idaho.
“You’re welcome to come inside while I take care of this.” The rancher pulled a piece of folded paper from his front shirt pocket before hopping down and looping the reins over a hitching post.
Luke swung his head to take in both sides of the street. He surmised that he’d probably learn more inside the store than on the street.
A shop bell tinkled as the two men stepped into the mercantile. Evan removed his hat and stepped aside to hold the door for two older women leaving the store. They exchanged cordial greetings. After the glare of mid-day sun, Luke stood for a time, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the darkened interior. The air had an interesting, but not unpleasant mix of aromas—cinnamon, apples, tobacco, and something else he couldn’t immediately identify. He squinted, making out the items mounted on wooden cradles to the right of the entrance—saddles and other horse related tack. T
hat was the something else—the scent of leather.
“Mr. Godfrey,” Mr. Hartmann called out in greeting.
A stout man wearing an apron high on his chest, stepped out from behind the counter and stuck out his hand. “Evan.”
Mr. Hartmann clapped the clerk on the shoulder as he shook his hand. “Haven’t seen you since you got back. How’s your sister?”
Mr. Godfrey shrugged. “Taking one day at a time. I’ve invited her to move up here now that Joseph’s gone. Hope she’ll come, but she’s got to decide what to do with the farm, you know.”
Hartmann nodded sympathetically. “Hard when a death comes so unexpected like that. Rattled a lot of folks who knew him.”
Mr. Godfrey brought a large hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it. “I think she’ll come in time. We’re the only family we got left now, just Sis and me.”
The rancher lay a hand on the shopkeeper’s shoulder. “How are you, Randall? This must have stirred up some memories.”
“I think of Harriet as much as ever, but it’s different now. I’m getting closer to her somehow, like she’s waiting out there just over the hills.” He pulled up a corner of his apron and made a swipe at his eyes.
Hartmann nodded again, silent for a moment before saying, “I hope your sister comes. It’d be good for you, and I think the folks here would welcome her.” He stepped to the side and turned to Luke. “Pardon my poor manners. This is Luke Brennan. Mr. Brennan this is Mr. Randall Godfrey, our good friend, store merchant and postmaster.”
The shopkeeper stuck out his hand and asked, “You here for the big celebration?”
“I am, yes, sir. Here to record the events in illustrations for The St. Louis Dispatch.”
“St. Louis? Imagine that!” Mr. Godfrey shoved his hands into his apron pockets. “Wonder how many folks are going to show up for this wingding. Maybe I should have stocked up more.”
Hartmann gave Mr. Godfrey a crooked smile. “You’ve been gone a while. The town is pretty worked up about statehood. We’ve got committees popping up everywhere for planning parades, dances, picnics and even carnivals. I think there may even be a committee to organize committees. People haven’t been talking about much else.”
Mr. Godfrey pursed his lips and lifted his chin a proud degree. “A lot of folks worked hard to win it. And we beat Wyoming to the punch!” He drew his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest like a man ready to get down to business. “So, what can I do for you, Evan?”
While the two men turned their conversation to list-filling, Luke explored the store. Beyond the aisle of saddles, he found shelves of ammunition. Judging from the caliber printed on the rows of boxes, people hunted some fair-sized game.
There was little Mr. Godfrey lacked in the way of provisions for the frontier. If there weren’t too many city-folks like himself coming in for the celebration, the store looked ready to accommodate the needs of any visitors, even the famed mountain men he’d read about. Now, there would be a story. He glanced out the window expectantly.
When no one appeared on the street resembling those caricatures he’d seen back home, he turned back to inspecting the shop wares. He pulled up in front of a display of sturdy clothing, made of coarse cloth, the kind of pants Mr. Hartmann wore. He glanced over his shoulder at the man. With an appraising eye he considered his boots, the short jacket, and the gun tucked in the leather holster slung on his hip.
Luke looked down at his city clothes, his worn tweed jacket, and scuffed shoes, and he scowled. As he rubbed a hand over his stubbled cheek, he remembered that he hadn’t shaved in two days. He must have made a poor first impression on these men.
He ran his hand over the fabric, then began sorting through a stack of trousers similar to Hartmann’s. Luke pursed his lips, looking down at his nearly threadbare wool pants, and back to the more practical ones. It was impulsive, but the temptation was too great, so he picked up the pants and also selected a shirt from the next shelf.
On his way to the counter, he hesitated at the hats displayed on a rack to the right of where Mr. Godfrey stood tallying his host’s bill.
“Looking for something useful?” The rancher leaned casually against the counter, with an expression Luke hoped was not one of amusement at his expense.
With a grin, Luke grabbed the front of his jacket and held it open. “I’m thinking I may not be properly attired.”
“For a banker, maybe, or a preacher, or a newspaperman.” Mr. Hartmann said it as a matter-of-fact. “We’ve got those here too.”
Luke reached for a wide-brimmed hat and fingered the felted soft brim. Before he could try it on, the shop bell signaled a new customer. He turned to take in the feminine outline of a woman backlit in the doorway.
Mr. Godfrey crossed the floor in a rush and took her hand in his large one. “Mrs. Reynolds, so nice to see you.”
Rising on her toes like a dancer, she kissed the man’s cheek. “It’s good to have you back.” She slipped her arm through the crook of the shopkeeper’s arm and crossed the room with him. “Evan, it was you. I thought I saw you come in a few minutes ago. You’ve saved me a trip to the ranch.”
Mr. Hartmann swung an arm out as an encompassing gesture toward Luke. “Mrs. Reynolds, I want to introduce you to Luke Brennan, our guest for the next few weeks. Mr. Brennan this is Mrs. Madison Reynolds, our doctor’s wife and resident author.” At that last, he grinned and looked back at the charming woman.
She had a perfectly oval face with large dark almond-shaped eyes, giving her a somewhat exotic appearance. Luke was already sketching her in his imagination and considering color options for her eyes—a bit of burnt sienna mixed with yellow ochre for highlights. To his embarrassment, he realized he’d been staring when she cleared her throat and offered her gloved hand.
“Mr. Brennan, welcome to Ketchum. Are you here for the celebration?”
“Yes, Mrs. Reynolds.”
Mr. Godfrey said, “He’s from the St. Louis. The Dispatch, isn’t that right?”
Mrs. Reynolds’ eyes widened with obvious interest. “One of Mr. Pulitzer’s publications. You must be quite good.”
Luke shrugged. “I’m fortunate to be there.”
“I suspect you’re being modest. I know the paper and no doubt I’ve seen your work.” Mrs. Reynolds gave him a warm smile, with perfectly peaked lips surrounding straight white teeth. His fingers itched to capture that alluring smile on paper.
“So, what news for Lena?” Mr. Hartmann asked.
“Oh, yes. Tell her we think four dozen will be sufficient.” She reached into her cloth handbag and pulled out a folded piece of paper, her eyes scanning the note before saying, “Yes, four dozen. But should she desire to make more, we will probably use them. We simply don’t know how many to expect, but I know Jessie is likely to bake twice that number if we give her any hint of encouragement. Lena has enough to do this month, and with the twins under foot too. No, tell her we’ll be just fine with four dozen of Jessie’s special herb buns.” At that, Mrs. Reynolds turned back to the door bidding them all a good day.
Before Luke settled his bill with Mr. Godfrey, he pursed his lips, studying the handsome wide-brimmed hat.
“It’s a good choice,” Hartmann said. “Practical.”
Luke added it to the pile.
When the two men had settled themselves on the wagon bench, and Mr. Hartmann took up the reins again, he turned to Luke, an eyebrow cocked. “I think you can drop the Mr. Hartmann. I keep looking over my shoulder every time you call me that. Everyone knows me as Evan, and I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you’d do the same.”
Luke nodded and said, “Please call me, Luke.” A memory tickled the words from his lips and they spilled out before he could stop himself. “Call me anything you like, but late for dinner.”
Evan obligingly chuckled. “Think I’ve heard that one before.”
With a kiss to the horses, Evan turned the team north to follow the river road. A range of hills rose on e
ither side as the wide dirt path wound deeper into the valley. Luke marveled at the sudden change in landscape from the flatlands stretching away on either side of the train south of Ketchum. As though he’d stepped into the pages of an Irish fairytale, the wagon passed through a verdant portal into a secret valley, leaving behind the hellish landscape with its jagged, surreal lava fields at the lower elevations.
“So, what are you of a mind to do while you’re with us, besides your job?” Evan asked.
Luke considered the question. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well, we’re a guest ranch, you see. The idea is you are the guest and we provide the frontier experience. I suppose I’m asking what kind of experiences are you wanting?”
Luke thought of the thrill of seeing those remarkable creatures running in herds along the Snake River Plain. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some of your wildlife.”
“Wildlife—you mean game hunting?”
It wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Then he thought of the naturalist, John James Audubon, and how he’d hunted the birds to kill so he could draw them anatomically precise. As a result, his paintings had been resplendent and exceptionally accurate. But to kill those beautiful animals. . . He wasn’t ready for that. “Actually, I was hoping simply to observe them.” He patted the bag of art supplies wedged between them. “You know, to draw them.”
Evan focused on the road ahead, quiet for a time. “Can’t see why we don’t have enough of those around to keep your interest.”
Thinking he’d disappointed the man, Luke said, “I do like fishing.”
A gleeful grin from Evan and then, “So, do I. Now there’s a trip we can definitely plan for. We’ve got some salmon in these lakes and rivers that’ll make your eyes pop.”
A Portrait of Dawn Page 2