They rode a little farther in silence, allowing Luke to concentrate on the monochrome layers of rolling hills stretching to the right and left of the road, shades of green he’d not known since leaving Ireland when he was a lad of ten. Although not as lush, these hills held a stark beauty of their own.
As Evan suddenly pulled up the team of horses, Luke rocked forward, grabbing the side of the wagon seat. Evan nudged Luke’s arm. A few hundred yards away, a herd of perhaps twenty animals with impossibly thin legs grazed along the hillside. One head jerked upright, alert eyes tracking them.
“Pronghorn,” Evan whispered.
“Magnificent.” Luke slipped his hand into his leather satchel and pulled out his sketchbook and charcoal twig. In swift deft strokes, he captured the angle of the legs and the graceful arch of the neck of one closest to them. There was time for little more as something startled the herd off at a loping run. In minutes, they’d disappeared over the crest of the hill.
Evan slapped the reins. The horses leaned into their traces, and with a jerk the wagon followed. “I think we can get you out there to see some critters. It’s for certain, we don’t lack for them.”
Luke sat back, his mind still tracing the shape of the animal, from its slender legs to the curve of its neck. More than food, he craved the delight of putting pen to paper, animating what he’d just seen. He could go for days without bread, but to go without putting his hand to paper—unthinkable.
Chapter Three
A Well-Defined Life
“The sun shines not on us but in us.” John Muir
June 25, 1890
While Dawn could appreciate the fine architecture of the mansions lining what some still called Millionaire’s Row in the heart of Cheyenne, she found her impression somewhat tainted because most of the houses stood like specters, vacant and abandoned.
The killing winter of 1887 was not news to her or her father. The year that saw the reversals of fortunes for the investors in cattle ranching had been a disturbing topic of conversation around the Fairburn table. Some dozen men of their acquaintance, wealthy men who had contributed to her father’s earlier campaign, had become numbered with the cattle barons now left nearly penniless. Apparently, fortunes were made or dissolved at the behest of the Lord of Creation, and no amount of money could deter winter’s deadly storms.
The carriage slowed to a stop outside the last house, a stately brick structure, noticeably less ostentatious than its neighbors. A well-dressed man stepped from the front door and lifted a hand in greeting.
“There he is.” Edward Fairburn leaned in close to his daughter’s ear. “Don’t you think he looks older than when we last met?”
Dawn nodded, keeping to herself the stronger, less pleasant, memory of his son and the fact that he’d attempted an unwelcome marriage proposal when last time they’d met.
Even before the horses were quieted, her father jumped from the carriage. “John Wainwright! How good to see you!” He clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It was kind of you to invite us.”
“How could I not?” Wainwright shook Edward’s hand as though priming a pump. Dawn wondered at the man’s enthusiasm, speculating that he might have some ulterior motive by inviting someone into his home who might become the next New York senator. Considering the fact that he’d moved here at the height of the cattle boom, could make him someone in need of a powerful friend.
“You remember my daughter, Dawn.”
Dawn rose slowly to her feet and waited for her father to assist her. He returned to the carriage and raised his hands to Dawn’s waist, and lifted her to the sidewalk.
“Miss Fairburn, welcome. You look more lovely than I remembered. I think travel suits you. You have such a nice glow about you.”
Oh yes, he was a politician. “Thank you, Mr. Wainwright. Let me echo my father’s words of gratitude for your hospitality. This town is larger than we had expected. I think we would have been at quite a loss to find suitable lodging. No doubt, you have rescued us from witnessing some horrific shootout in the streets.”
Wainwright threw back his head, laughing far too much for what the jest merited. “Still the witty young woman that has served as hostess to New York’s finest families.”
Dawn dropped her gaze, not so much from embarrassment at the compliment, but for the patronizing flattery of it. Such obvious attempts to cajole her into anything set her teeth on edge. Whatever he wanted from her father, he must be quite desperate to achieve it.
“Come. Let’s get you settled.” He spoke briefly to the driver before leading them to the house. “It’s a shame my son wasn’t here to greet you.”
“How is Jackson? We heard he was looking into sheep ranching in Oregon,”
“He did. Yes. He did, indeed.” Wainwright said much by his lack of elaboration on the subject. Because Wainwright was the kind of man to brag about any point of success, Dawn assumed the venture had not met with any positive results.
As they approached the steps, Dawn’s father slowed his pace and took a firmer grasp on her elbow. She leaned into him, as always, grateful for his attentive care.
Wainwright bounded ahead of them, holding the door open. “Actually, Jackson has just returned. He’ll be here for dinner this evening. Good news!”
Dawn stumbled, but her father steadied her. Tamping down her embarrassment, she took in a quick breath and stepped onto the porch. As uncomfortable as sleeping on the train had been, she’d have gladly climbed back onboard and endured the small inconvenience until they reached Idaho if it meant avoiding Jackson Wainwright.
“I didn’t know. Please believe me!” Edward Fairburn’s face reflected the tone of his plea.
Dawn sat by the guest bedroom window, tapping her fingers in a nervous rhythm against the sill. “You swear to me that you did not arrange this?” She turned and looked into his eyes and knew the answer before he spoke it.
“I swear.”
She collapsed back into the cushion, lifted a hand to the collar of her blouse and unfastened the top button. “Why is he here, then? Why did you accept this invitation? Why didn’t we just stay on the train and travel directly to our destination as you originally planned?”
“Which question do you want me to answer first?” he asked, looking suitably remorseful.
She held her tongue and pressed her fingers to her closed eyes.
Her father took a cautious step forward and hovered close to her chair. She could sense his distress, his need to avoid this confrontation. “I promised you a year ago that I wouldn’t. . . I didn’t arrange this. You made it clear then how you felt about the man.”
Dawn took his hand and gave it a squeeze, while forcing a smile to her lips. “Father, it’s just as I told you then, actually how I’d told you for years before, I’m content being your daughter. I’m happy in my role.” She gave his hand a small shake. “This is enough.”
He gently pulled his hand free of hers and took a step closer to the window where he gazed out on the street of opulent, deserted homes. “But there’s so much more that could be yours. What kind of future is this for you, living in my shadow?”
Dawn pushed herself to her feet and stepped to his side, taking his hand again. “It’s the life I want. And hasn’t that been what you said you wanted for me? To live the life I want?”
“I only want you to be happy,” he murmured.
She hugged his arm. “I am.” Dawn brought her hand to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath her fingertips. “We’re a team, you and I. To be at your side. That makes me happy.”
Both Dawn and her father endured the evening well, both of them fulfilling their roles as accomplished diplomats. As he’d promised, her father never left Dawn alone with Jackson. But it wasn’t easy, as John Wainwright worked quite diligently to arrange it. By nine o’clock, neither Dawn nor her father had the energy to continue the counter maneuvers needed to avoid the Wainwrights’ intentions.
At last, Mr. Fairburn
found an opportunity to excuse their presence for the remainder of the evening. “John, your hospitality is only surpassed by your generosity.” He lifted his glass of expensive port as an example of the fact.
“It was a pleasure, but surely you aren’t ready to end our evening, why the young couple has had no opportunity to catch up. They must be weary of hearing two old men discuss politics.” Wainwright said with a slight slur to his speech.
“That may be, but we have a train to catch in the morning, and I know that, despite her youth, my daughter is as exhausted as I am.”
From the strain she saw pulling at her father’s eyes, he was the one at the point of exhaustion. If it meant ending this charade, she’d feign fatigue.
“Yes, gentlemen, I am afraid it’s time for me to take my leave of you.” She pushed herself from her chair and stood for a moment, regaining her balance. “Mr. Wainwright, thank you for a delicious meal and lively conversation.”
“You weren’t bored by our talk?” Wainwright took an uncertain step in her direction.
“You should know me well enough not to ask such a foolish question. How could the daughter of a civil servant tire of politics?”
Jackson Wainwright stepped around his father and cupped her elbow in his hand. “I should think, very easily.” He gave her a vacuous grin. Unnerved by his sudden approach, she stepped back.
The movement, unplanned, caused her to lose her balance, and she stumbled backwards. For an awful moment she felt her body falling and try as she might, gravity won. If not for her father’s quick reaction, she would have tumbled to the floor.
“There. I’ve got you.” Edward wrapped his arm around her waist until she’d regained her footing.
Dawn looked into her father’s eyes and blinked her gratitude.
As she removed her right shoe, Dawn groaned and rubbed her throbbing ankle with her thumb. “I shouldn’t have worn these new boots.”
Edward sat in a chair across from her and lifted her foot onto his lap. “Does it hurt here?”
Dawn winced. “A little. I’m more embarrassed than anything.”
“You know that’s foolish, don’t you?”
She reached down and picked up the offending boot, studying it more closely. “You see? He’s made the heel too narrow and the platform is nearly a half-inch too short.”
“We’ll see about a new pair in Ketchum.”
“I can’t imagine anyone there would know how to make shoes like these. I must wear the dressier ones.”
“There are clever people everywhere, daughter. Never fear.”
It was that optimism that made him a man for the people—a good father for her. He believed in the basic decency in every human being. Someone like him needed someone like her—someone who knew the truth, someone who could look out for him. There were far too many people who would take advantage of a man like her father, men like the Wainwrights.
She studied her father’s distant gaze. His thoughts were elsewhere. Such a good man. He was what the public needed, a rare and good man. She’d happily devote her life to looking after his interests, because he was not the kind of man to look after his own.
Chapter Four
“Our life is frittered away by detail...simplify, simplify.” Henry David Thoreau
June 26, 1890
Lena kept her eyes riveted on Jessie’s toddlers as they tumbled in play beneath the kitchen worktable. She likened the children’s present behavior more aptly applied to kittens. While a dropped potato peeling transformed into a toy for eleven-month-old Tommy, his sister nibbled energetically on another. Tommy wound his between his toes. “Jessie, maybe I should take the children out on the porch to play for a while, at least until supper is ready.”
Tommy erupted into giggles as he began wrapping Rowena’s peeling around her neck. Lena gasped and snatched the noose from around the little girl’s throat.
Then there was Jessie, who continued to cut carrots for the stew, her knife moving at such speed as to make Lena recoil visualizing the younger woman mistaking her finger for the carrot.
“All right. I made two blackberry jam sandwiches for the children.” She waved her knife to the counter. “They’re probably hungry.” Jessie ineffectively pushed a curl off her forehead with the heel of her palm. When that failed, she blew the lock of hair an inch to the right.
Yes, Tommy was sure to be ravenous. Now that he’d grown a few strategic teeth, they’d all learned that eating was his second favorite pastime next to general mayhem.
Lena picked up the plate in one hand and scooped Rowena from the floor with the other. Planting the little girl on her hip, she called to the boy. “Come on, Tommy, I have a jam sandwich for you.”
Tommy unwrapped himself from the potato peeling, pushed himself up, wobbled a moment, tripped on the peeling, then eagerly waddled after Lena, dragging the peeling behind.
With no small effort, Lena seated both children on the porch step before handing them sandwiches. Lena settled next to Rowena, using her apron to dab at the child’s cheek when the sandwich arrived prematurely at her face before finding its way to her mouth. For not the first time, she wondered at how any woman could handle twins without help. Her respect for Jessie grew exponentially every day. A renowned baker, attentive wife and mother, Lena both admired and envied her. For the latter, she felt inordinate shame.
Lena pulled Rowena into her lap. Immediately, the toddler nestled against her chest while noisily sucking jam from her fingers. The warmth of the child stirred memories of another child who’d loved to crawl into her lap. Neither was that sweet child Lena’s own, but so much like her own that when she’d died, a part of her had died as well. With a soft sigh, Lena’s breath blew fine wisps of hair across the child’s forehead.
Lena glanced up and checked the angle of the sun as it appeared to rest for a time on the western hill sheltering their valley. The ranch hands were heading for the bunkhouse. That meant the train had pulled into Ketchum hours ago. Maybe Mr. Fairburn and his daughter had asked to do a little shopping as Mr. Brennan had yesterday. Evan would stop along the river to show them the beaver dam. She smiled. He would be good at this.
Mr. Brennan was already making himself at home. Today he’d trailed Bart as he’d gone about his usual ranch duties. She’d seen them near the barn when it had appeared the young artist was taking notes as Bart did his chores.
Perhaps, they could make a go of this, and people would come. When they did, they’d know the best hospitality Idaho had to offer. For her, it would be like having friends and family spread out all over the country. That was the dream, one that had grown from a desire for a hearth of her own to this—an entire ranch that others could enjoy. It would be a place where conversation flowed as swiftly as the Big Wood River from one stimulating topic to another, and where strangers became friends, and friends became family.
“Oh, squash!”
The wail came from the kitchen. Something unpleasant had occurred, and she hoped it didn’t involve the kitchen knife. She glanced at the sleepy toddlers contentedly sucking on their sticky fingers. Leaving them here was not an acceptable option. She could pick one up, but the other would be into mischief before she returned.
Calvin, one of the new ranch hands, sauntered across the yard, looking about as tuckered as a man could. Lena waved her arm. He looked up and tipped his head, turning around to see to whom she might be waving.
Lena called out, “Cal! Can you watch the children for a moment?”
He must have caught the concerned tone in her voice, because he sprinted the distance to the house porch. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Hartmann?”
“I just heard Jessie cry out from the kitchen. Hopefully, it’s nothing too disastrous, but can you sit with the children until I get back?”
“Sure thing, ma’am.” Cal plopped down on the step next to Tommy. The boy’s face lit up, and he promptly crawled into the man’s lap, one sticky hand at a time.
While sending up a prayer for the man,
Lena tore into the house.
She found Jessie standing over the sink, her finger wrapped in a dishtowel. A raspberry colored stain seeped through the cloth. Lena felt her stomach lurch. She swallowed and cried, “Jessie! What happened?”
“Stupid me. Knife slipped.”
“Let me see.” It was the last thing Lena would have asked under normal circumstances, but she had to decide if they’d need a trip to Dr. Reynolds’ office. She squinted as she uncovered Jessie’s finger.
Jessie squeaked and vigorously shook her other hand as though it were the one wounded.
The cut, though deep, wasn’t as bad as the blood-soaked towel indicated. Lena let it bleed for a minute before washing the wound. Taking up another clean dishtowel, she wrapped it again. Throughout the process, Jessie didn’t cry, but she endlessly repeated a whimpering cry, “Ow, ow, ow, ow . . . . .”
“Sit down and hold your hand up.”
Jessie sagged onto the kitchen chair. “Now, I’ve made a mess of things.”
“Nonsense.” Lena sat beside her and patted her shoulder.
“I suppose I can tell you what to do next. I’m almost ready to put dinner in the oven. You don’t need to do much.”
“And I think we have sufficient carrots cut.” Lena gingerly picked up the knife Jessie had been using and lay it in the sink. Tying on a fresh apron, she turned expectantly to Jessie. “Tell me what to do.”
With the root vegetables arranged around Jessie’s seasoned pork chops, Lena felt confident their guests would be impressed. She sank back against the counter after she’d closed the oven door. “How’s the finger?” she asked.
“Stings, but the throbbing stopped.” Jessie’s eyes suddenly widened. “Lena, who’s watching the children?”
“Oh my! Poor Calvin.” Lena trotted out of the kitchen, and through the backdoor where she found Calvin with his head leaning back against the porch post, his mouth hanging open, sound asleep and snoring.
Jessie charged up behind her. “Where are the twins?”
Lena turned and felt the tightening in her stomach.
A Portrait of Dawn Page 3