A Portrait of Dawn

by Samantha St. Claire

  Puzzled, Dawn looked to the woman for further explanation. The expression on the woman’s face united the alarming fact that they were still at the border of the wilderness and that wild things lived there. She felt her eyes grow wide. “Oh.”

  “There is one very stubborn black bear that seems to think our garden is his dining room. I’m not sure Jessie isn’t feeding him.” She started to laugh but stopped as she caught the horrified look on Dawn’s face. “Oh my, I’ve frightened you. I’m so sorry. You’re really quite safe here. Perhaps you should stay inside at night until you’ve been with us a while.” She reached out and patted Dawn’s arm. “It’s a little different from the city, but you’ll get used to it.”

  For Dawn, the possibility of wild animals entering her bedroom had never been an issue of concern back home. Never once!

  “When you’re freshened up, please come to the dining room for a light supper. I’ll see you then.” She stopped at the door, her hand on the door frame. “Oh, and one more thing. Folks here are a little more casual than back east. You’re welcome to call us by our first names.”

  Her father returned Lena’s smile and said, “I think I can speak for my daughter when I say we’d be honored to share the informality of your western hospitality. Thank you.”

  “Very good,” Lena said. “If you need anything, please ask. We want this to be a pleasant and memorable experience.”

  Dawn wondered if she should ask for a weapon of some sort, like the one Mr. Hartman carried. She spun back to the open door where her father was gazing out on the night sky. “Father, don’t you think you should come inside?”

  He turned to give her a look of delirious joy. “This is marvelous. Far better than I’d imagined. Even the air here feels fresher. And the scent of it! Isn’t this wonderful?”

  Dawn quietly closed the door to the porch and looked for a lock. Why wasn’t there a lock?

  “Dawn?”

  She jumped at her father’s voice so close to her ear.

  “You aren’t really frightened, are you?” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “The Hartmanns know the dangers. I’m sure that the bear she mentioned is just looking for scraps and an easy meal.” He lowered his face to look directly into hers. “Outside!”

  Dawn crossed to the basin and splashed water on her face. With both the towel and her composure folded back in place, she said, “You know me. I’m only fearful of things that warrant fear. I’m sure you’re right about the Hartmanns.” She patted her hair into place and turned with a smile. “Why don’t we join them in the dining room?”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something brought here?” he asked. “It has been a long day.”

  Dawn threw a glance at the unlocked porch door. “And leave me here alone?” She hooked her arm through his and said quite firmly, “No thank you.”

  “I’m sorry you missed meeting our third guest. Mr. Brennan spent the day out on the range with Bart Long. He came back nearly done in.” Mr. Hartmann grinned as he took a generous bite of bread, but didn’t elaborate on the reason for their guest’s experience.

  Dawn hadn’t expected another guest. The meal had been pleasant with just the Hartmanns and easy conversation. She’d decided this might even be an enjoyable week if she could avoid the promised adventures. Another person would add to the complexity of the week.

  “Join us in the great room?” Evan asked. But Dawn wondered if their host could stay awake much longer, if he was as tired as he looked. With a ranch to manage, he’d probably been up since first light, if not earlier.

  Edward lay his napkin on the table and pushed back his chair. “I’d enjoy some fresh mountain air. Maybe I can offer you a cigar out there on the porch. It’s a fine night for stargazing.”

  Her father could be perceptive, but when he was this excited, he often missed the obvious clues. Dawn thought it was clear the last thing Mr. Hartmann wanted now was more fresh air. “I’ll turn in for the night. Unlike my father, I need a few hours of sleep,” Dawn said, giving her father what she hoped was a cue he’d understand.

  Their host rose quickly and pulled back her chair.

  “Thank you.” She gave her father one last meaningful look before leaving the room. “Father, you won’t be too long, will you?”

  “Not long,” he answered cheerfully.

  When Dawn opened the door to the bedroom suite, she did so by measured degrees, peering through the opening before stepping inside. She let out a relieved breath when she noted the door to the porch still closed. Before doing anything else, she limped across the room and closed the drapes. She knew it had no other purpose than to keep her from seeing the approach of any creature. Nevertheless, the act of shutting out the view provided some comfort.

  She removed her traveling clothes, laying them aside with far less care than following her usual evening regime. The lavender sachet she kept in her bedroom dresser still scented her nightgown. She brought the cloth to her nose and breathed deep of the familiar scent.

  Relaxed, now that no eyes were upon her, she surveyed the room. Mrs. Hartmann had selected a pastel color palette in selecting fabrics for the drapes and the bedding. They had chosen the darker greens and browns of the countryside for her father’s bedroom. He could imagine himself sleeping outside. She hoped it would be enough, and he’d not feel the need to sleep with the door open as the Hartmanns were apparently in the habit of doing.

  She recalled his boyish excitement moments earlier. How, in all her years constantly at his side, had she not known how much he longed for this. He seemed at ease in the city, enjoying the bustle of the streets and the progressive growth of industries and institutions.

  Uncertain of what made this trip so important to him, she resolved to put aside her discomfort for his sake. He clearly deserved this holiday.

  Pushing herself out of the chair, she proceeded to unpack. She lay aside a skirt and blouse for tomorrow, something considerably more suitable in cloth and cut for the surroundings.

  Her father’s trunk sat on the window seat of his bedroom. She unlatched the trunk and pulled out his nightclothes, laying them on the bed where he’d easily find them. Presuming he’d want his slippers, she sorted through the remaining clothes. She lifted out his wool jacket and trousers for riding, draping them on the back of a chair. The slippers rested on his small leather satchel at the bottom of the trunk, the one with his correspondences. Thinking he might want to study them tomorrow, she removed the satchel.

  Beneath it lay a thick stack of envelopes tied with a blue ribbon. She stared at them, mentally filing through possible explanations. Laying the leather satchel to the side, she reached for them. They were letters, addressed in a fine script, a woman’s handwriting. She counted fifteen, all with the same return address. Mrs. Nathaniel Corbyn of Richmond, Virginia.

  Dawn searched her memory for the name. A Christmas party in Washington last year? Wasn’t there a woman? Minerva? Mildred? Melody? Yes, Melody Corbyn, a widow left with a generous income from her deceased husband’s textile industry, and time on her hands for dabbling in politics. She was attractive and intelligent. Dawn had talked with her about the arrest of a financier, a man they’d both had the unfortunate experience of meeting.

  The woman’s political savvy and obvious intelligence had impressed Dawn. She considered the weight of the envelopes in her hand. Perhaps the woman impressed her father as well? But in what way? Professionally or personally? Surely, not the latter. Dawn would have known, seen the change in her father. She took a sharp intake of breath and dropped the bound envelopes as though they’d burned her fingers.

  Unable to reconcile what she knew twenty-four hours ago with what she’d just discovered, she could only stare down at the packet of correspondence from a woman she’d met once. In fact, until now, one she had believed that her father had only met that night, one year ago.

  Voices traveled down the hall, her father’s sounding closer. She quickly replaced the slippers, the leather case and close
d the trunk lid. As swiftly as she could manage, she returned to her own portion of the suite, leaving the door to the adjoining room open. Sitting before the dressing table, she began to remove the pins from her hair. Her hands shook to the extent that she stopped and drew them into her lap, taking in shallow breaths with her eyes squeezed tight. You weren’t spying on your father.

  Her father opened the door, taking care to close it with care.

  “Father, it’s fine. I’m not asleep.” Her voice sounded far calmer than evidenced by her pounding heart .

  Edward poked his head around the open door. “I didn’t expect to find you awake.”

  “A lady has to complete her evening rituals even if she is on the frontier.” She gave him an uncertain smile.

  His face was alight as he stepped into her room. “It was a stellar day, wasn’t it?”

  It was an expression she’d heard him use infrequently, reserved for those special days, the ones that usually did not involve meetings or strained dinner parties or politics of any design. They were usually the rare ones, those shared by just the two of them—an excursion to the Metropolitan Museum of Art or The American Museum of Natural History.

  “Yes.” She stopped her thoughts from veering too far from what she knew to be true. It had been a pleasant day. Only her imagination could undo that fact.

  “You’d better get some sleep. I understand they have some plans for tomorrow.” He gave her a grin that made his face appear almost boyish. “There might be fishing involved.”

  Judging from his pleased expression, she was quite certain that the Hartmanns had planned a fishing trip for him. It would have taken little more than a suggestion and her father would have eagerly encouraged them.

  “I’m pleased for you. I can’t recall when you last took your rod out of the upstairs closet.” Dawn loosened her hair from its French twist. “Do you think you still remember how?” There had been a time in his life when he’d been nearly obsessed with outings into the Catskills, fishing the streams for the perfect trout. Why did she only just now remember that?

  He gave her an offended look. “That’s not something you forget.” He lifted his arm as though he gripped a rod in his hand. He braced his feet, his eyes focused elsewhere, perhaps a memory of a river he’d fished years ago. “The feeling of the line, the wind . . .” He dropped his arm and turned his gaze to her. “You’re teasing, of course.”

  She managed a small smile. “I can’t remember seeing you this happy in a long while.”

  He pulled his hands behind his back and cocked his head. “You’ll come, won’t you? Mrs. Hartmann will be bringing the buckboard so she can carry a lunch along. You won’t have to ride or walk.”

  “You know that I’m not afraid to ride.”

  “Yes, but those confounded boots. I promise to take those in and find someone to repair them.”

  “I can wear the pair I save for dressier occasions. If we aren’t traipsing through bogs or over snow fields, I should be fine.”

  His expression brightened again. “Excellent.” He shrugged off his jacket and started to his room. “We aren’t leaving as early as I’d like, but it should still be a fine first day on the river.”

  Thank goodness, it wouldn’t be as early as he’d like. Waking up after sunrise seemed more to her liking after the rigors of the past few days.

  He called to her. “Sleep well, my girl. I know I will.”

  “Good night, Father.”

  Dawn put aside her hairbrush and crawled into bed, slipping beneath the floral quilt. As her head pressed into the pillow, the vision of the ribbon-bound letters insinuated its way into her thoughts. She was making more of them than they implied. There must be a perfectly logical reason for her father to keep the letters, aside from sentimental ones. Mrs. Corbyn, famous for her network of social connections, was one who might provide her father with important insights regarding many . . . But a ribbon? What could be more sentimental than a ribbon?

  It was pointless to lose sleep over something she could easily resolve tomorrow. She’d simply ask him.

  Moonlight stretched across the floor, seeping from beneath the draped window coverings, creating specters in the shadowed corners of the room. That’s all they were, and her imagination needed to be bridled, just like the pony she’d ridden as a child. A vivid imagination was an invitation to worry about the future. Staying firmly rooted in the present had carried her well through adolescence and the later years when her few friends were being courted, when those suitors who came calling were more desirous of a union with her father’s reputation than with her.

  She knew who she was, and she was satisfied. No one knew her father better than she. That fact was enough to allow her to relax, sink back into her pillow, and let sleep take her to a place where dreams were only that—dreams and nothing more.

  Today was true, and it had been a good. That was all that mattered.

  Chapter Six

  Still Life

  “The purest and most thoughtful minds are those which love colour the most.” John Ruskin

  June 27, 1890

  Every muscle in Luke’s body made certain he knew their presence. He pushed himself up to his elbows and immediately fell back groaning. He drew an observation from yesterday’s first adventure. Saddles were not kind to the human anatomy. How did these cattlemen manage the countless hours of pounding against unyielding leather stretched across hardwood frames? He wondered if he’d ever be able to sit normally again.

  He slowly pushed himself to his feet, then swiftly transition from prone to an upright position. With one hand to the small of his back, he reached for his pants with the other. The movement sent a spasm down his spine. This might take some time.

  After dressing, his muscles were loosening and his spirits improved. He opened the door from his room to the common porch, welcoming the brisk morning breeze. He lifted his head and took in a deep scent of pine. The chittering of swallows drew his attention to the beams supporting the porch roof. Twigs and mud crafted a nest secured between the beam and post. Three heads poked over the edge, mouths open with yellow gapes marking the target for the food their parents brought them.

  In the first blush of day, the wild beauty of the hills tempted him to pull on his boots and take a walk to the river. But knowing his host had plans for the day, he’d not slow their departure by a jaunt on his own. He turned from the view and stepped back inside.

  His hand was on the door, about to close it, when he heard the soft rustle of skirts. He looked back to see a young woman at the edge of the porch some twenty feet away. Presumably, she was a guest in the next room with her own private door.

  His first thoughts were for propriety. She was unaware of his presence and to address her without a formal introduction might seem forward. He took another step back, intending to close the door, but in that exquisite moment when early sunlight set her face aglow, his eyes were unwilling to obey the stipulations of propriety.

  In profile, the contours of her high cheekbones, the line of a small upturned nose, the soft angle of her jawbone, the swanlike neck sketched a portrait in his mind. Charcoal would not capture what he observed, the feminine perfection poised mere feet from his door. The light of sunrise colored her brow and cheeks in pastel hues. Soft watercolors might capture how the light played across the highlights in her upswept locks of chestnut-colored hair. But was he the man to translate her elegant visage to canvas? Had he the skill?

  She sneezed, breaking the magic but not the charm of the moment. He watched her pull a handkerchief from her sleeve and dab at her nose. She was no model of womanly perfection, but a mere human after all. He smiled, intrigued, but no longer drawn to worship at the feet of this morning Aphrodite.

  Quietly closing his door, he stepped back into his room. He picked up the borrowed saddlebag and selected a few drawing materials to pack along. At the bottom lay the leather pouch containing his watercolors. He stared at it for a time, frowning. What was the point? His job
trapped him in a world restricted to shades of gray. Luke snapped the bag shut after packing only the pencils and charcoal.

  Lena directed Dawn and her father to the south-facing porch where breakfast was being served. “I thought for such a fine morning, you might enjoy the view from here.”

  Edward pulled out a chair for Dawn. “I think it’s a splendid idea. The fresh air stimulates the appetite.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Edward.” Mrs. Hartmann swept a leaf from the white tablecloth. “Take all the time you want to enjoy your breakfast. Evan’s preparing the fishing tackle now and we’re putting together a pleasant lunch to enjoy by the river. We can leave when you’re ready.” She turned and slipped inside the house.

  “Isn’t this marvelous?” Edward took a seat across from Dawn. His chest swelled as he took a breath and let it out slowly. “Just marvelous.”

  It should have been, but for the questions still unanswered. She would look for the right opportunity to ask her father if he was not forthcoming. For the moment, she would put those thoughts aside so that he could enjoy his rest away from the frantic pace of the city.

  Jessie appeared in the doorway, a coffeepot in her hand. She stopped at the threshold, her eyes focused on the valley where a small herd of cattle grazed. “I just love when the day breaks fresh and clean, and when I’ve not yet done anything stupid. It’s like God gives a new chance every morning to get it right, you know? And I always think to myself, maybe today I’ll be more patient with the twins.”

  Dawn warmed to the honest young woman with freckles on her nose, reminding her of a Dicken’s character who wore the milk of human kindness like a cloak. She also envied her of that natural transparency, something she would never permit for herself.

  “I sure hope you slept well. Sorry if all the ruckus our little boy made last night kept you awake.” Jessie said while filling Dawn’s cup with coffee. “Cow’s milk just doesn’t seem to agree with his stomach, but he saw his father dipping cookies in a glass and insisted on having his own. I warned Burt, but he didn’t listen.” She set the coffeepot on the table and pushed a curl of red hair behind her ear. “Lena will be bringing out the ham and fried potatoes in a minute. How do you like your eggs? I can do anything but sunny side up. There’s something about that liquid yellow eye staring up out of the pan that makes my stomach churn. Oh, and I made sticky cinnamon rolls. They’re hot out of the oven. So, what’ll it be?”