Dawn blinked. Her normal meal designed to break the day was far less hearty, usually little more than a slice of toast and cup of tea. But the woman’s exuberant expression warned her that to accept anything less than a frontier-style breakfast would wound her. She answered, “Why, that all sounds wonderful. I’ll take my egg scrambled, if you please.”
“How about you, Mr. Fairburn? Surely, more than one egg? How about an omelet? I’ve learned from the best cookbooks in Lena’s collection.”
Edward laughed. “Maybe after I’ve gone out with Evan and your husband to herd cattle for a day, my appetite will be up to it. For this morning, I think one egg fried over well, should do the trick. Thank you, Mrs. Long.”
A call from the side of the house brought Jessie’s head up and swiveling in that direction. “What is it Bart?” she called back.
A tremor of desperation colored the man’s voice when he answered, “Tommy got away from me when I was in the barn.”
“Oh, Lord, have mercy!” Jessie set the coffeepot on the table and tore off down the steps in the direction of the barn.
“How old is this child?” Dawn asked as Lena appeared with a plate mounded in ham slices and fried potatoes.
“The twins will be a year later this month.”
Edward pursed his lips, “He seems uncannily mobile for one so young.”
“Oh, I assure you, he is that and more.”
Dawn saw the Hartmann’s third guest step into the sunlight as he moved beside Lena. He was tall like Evan but with a more slender, wiry frame. His dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders, longer than she was accustomed to seeing on men of her acquaintance. And though there was a shadow of a beard and mustache, he did not wear the bulky whiskers, that were the fading fashion. But it was his eyes that arrested her attention. A startling blue, they were shadowed by heavy brows and thick lashes that any woman might envy. Those eyes had found her then, and she dropped her gaze to the napkin in her lap.
“Mr. Brennan, good morning,” Lena stepped aside and waved her hand toward Dawn and her father. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Edward Fairburn and his daughter, Miss Fairburn.”
Edward stood and shook the man’s hand. Dawn couldn’t help but notice how long his fingers were when they wrapped around her father’s hand. He would have made a fine pianist. Perhaps he was. He had the careless look of an artist.
“Join us, Mr. Brennan.” Edward pulled the third chair out from the table. “We’d be glad for your company.”
“Thank you, sir.” The young man took the chair between her and her father.
“What brings you here, Mr. Brennan? Adventure or here to join in the statehood celebration next week?”
Quite naturally, Dawn fell into her hostess duties and asked, “Would you like some coffee?”
“Thank you.” Mr. Brennan held her gaze for a long unnerving moment, giving Dawn the unpleasant sensation that she was being studied.
Mr. Brennan took a speculative sip from his cup. “Actually, I’m here on assignment. I’m learning more about Mr. and Mrs. Hartmann’s business venture. My publisher thinks there’s a story here our readers would enjoy reading.”
“Ah, so you’re a reporter. With what paper?”
“The St. Louis Dispatch.”
Her father pursed his lips and scowled. “Isn’t that one of Mr. Pulitzer’s papers?”
“Yes”
“Hmm. Can’t say I care for the political bent of his New York World. One of his cartoonists played havoc with my friend’s campaign for a house seat. The worst kind of editorializing.”
The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He reached for his coffee.
“But you’re a reporter.”
Mr. Brennan’s brows knit together. “Not a reporter as you might think. I’ll be sending my notes for the copy. Someone else will probably write the article. I’m an illustrator, you see.”
Edward’s back visibly stiffened, and his countenance darkened.
Dawn rushed to point out. “That’s not the same as a political cartoonist is it—an illustrator?”
Mr. Brennan looked up, an expression, perhaps of gratitude in his smile. “Yes, that’s correct. I illustrate the news. My work is not a commentary, not like cartoonists.”
Obviously, not mollified, Edward smiled rather grimly. “So, what slant has your editor asked for with the paper’s coverage of Idaho’s statehood? There’s certain to be one. Pulitzer’s papers are hardly known for their independent position.”
“Father, I hardly think an illustration can take a political slant.” This was a confrontation that needn’t take place. She knew that her father was justly indignant by what the paper’s cartoons had done to squash Mr. Jefferies’ election, but she did understand the difference between cartoonists and illustrators.
Mr. Brennan cleared his throat. “It may surprise you that I share your dislike of most cartoonists. No doubt, you’ve seen the work of Ted Nash. In fact, it might be his work that affected your friend’s election.”
Edward’s eyebrows rose, inviting a clarification.
“As an immigrant myself, I take issue with the way he depicted the Irish as lazy drunkards. While the lack of work has driven many of my countrymen to the edge of desperation, we are not all as represented by Mr. Nash. And I think we could agree that those cartoons have done further harm by shaping employers’ negative opinions of an entire country’s immigrants.”
A range of emotions played out in the set of the young man’s jaw. Dawn suppressed a sudden urge to cheer him. Instead, she sat as still as the stately pine beyond the porch.
Mr. Brennan returned her father’s level gaze. “It’s an issue of power that is wielded and abused. I don’t believe it’s a simple matter of blaming only cartoonists or publishers. The public, the reader, has a responsibility to use his own mind to seek the truth. Most, whether immigrant or gentry, walk about with blinders on, refusing to see the suffering around them.”
Silence stretched out for an uncomfortable minute. She considered her father’s uncertain expression. Normally, she would have read anger in his eyes if he was restraining himself. But nothing resembling that flickered in his eyes. By slow degrees, his features softened, starting with a twitch of his lips, that migrated up to meet his eyes.
“Are you a socialist, Mr. Brennan? You speak like one.” Edward leaned back in his chair and kept his gaze firmly fixed on the man.
“Not that I’m aware, sir.”
Edward tapped his coffee cup with his finger before saying, “I confess that I am a politician, but I am also one who cares very deeply for the plight of our poor and underprivileged. That might seem an impossible mix. I’ve been called a socialist and worse, but I do not align with any cause apart from my conscience.”
This time the silence held no air of rancor, as each man assessed the meaning and character of the other. It was evident that her father respected the man beside him. He had presented his position with diplomacy, and even if Edward Fairburn held an opposing view, he would admire anyone who could debate without defensive posturing or personal attack. Mr. Brennan had proved himself to be an intelligent man who could hold his own against the best, one of whom was Mr. Edward Fairburn.
Lena interrupted the dangerous direction of their conversation as she arrived with a fresh pot of coffee. “Jessie’s had a minor distraction this morning, but she’s promised the eggs will be served shortly. Mr. Brennan, what style egg do you prefer?”
Edward leaned ever-so slightly in his direction, “I hope you aren’t an over-easy man. Seems our chef has a particular aversion to preparing them.”
With a bemused expression, Mr. Brennan nodded and requested scrambled.
“By the way, I’ve been told by a reliable source that here in the west it is not improper for newly introduced individuals to address each other by their given names. Would that be agreeable to you, Mr. Brennan?” Edward asked.
“I’d be pleased.” The younger man extended his hand to her father. “I
’m Luke, sir.”
“I’m Edward, and this is my daughter, Dawn.”
Dawn kept to herself her opinion of the informalities. To do otherwise would have been to call undo attention to herself. “It sounds as though this is not a holiday for you, then.” Dawn passed the plate of cinnamon rolls, managing to tilt it in such a way as to keep the munificent layer of icing from dripping onto her hand or Mr. Brennan’s.
Prudently choosing his fork, Mr. Brennan plucked one roll from the tilting tower. “It would depend on one’s perspective. It’s a holiday in the sense that I’ve often wondered what it would be like to live on the frontier. And here I am, thanks to my publisher. I hope to see as much as time allows.”
“St. Louis seems to me as very nearly the frontier. There are few cities of any great size farther west.” Dawn felt a sudden stab of remorse for her comment, and she searched his face for signs of offense.
He pursed his lips, “I can understand how you might think so.” Cocking his head to one side, he said, “When we left New York—”
Edward’s head snapped up. “You lived in New York City?”
Luke lifted a shoulder, and a smile slid over his face. “That is where most immigrants find themselves.”
“Ah, yes! How true.” Edward tilted his head, a questioning expression. “I think it is your manner of speech that fooled me. You seem to have put aside any hint of an accent.”
“I assure you, that it’s not far from my tongue. In moments of anger, you’d surely detect it.”
Edward gave a grunt of laughter. “Anger loosens anyone’s tongue. If not for my daughter acting as a safeguard for my own, I would have lapsed into my old nature and slain many a poor hapless buffoon.” He picked up his knife again, preparing to slay the ham on his plate. “I would surmise that you have had a good deal of schooling. Correct?”
In spite of the barrage of questions thrown at him, the younger man seemed not to object to their inquiries into his personal life. In fact, she sensed that he was one of those rare individuals who desired such transparency.
“After my father died, my mother’s employer brought us both under her roof. Mrs. Armstrong took an interest in my education after seeing . . . some potential in me.” He paused, and Dawn glanced up to see him staring at his cup, his long fingers turning it one way and then the other. “She sponsored me so that I might receive a proper education.” Luke met her gaze, saying, “She passed away at the end of my first year at The Art Students League.”
There it was again, that open expression, an invitation. She found that degree of transparency disturbing and usually unwise. She murmured, “I’m sorry.” and looked away again.
Edward leaned forward. “That’s an interesting coincidence. Dawn took a few classes there. I wonder if you might have been attending at the same time.” He looked to Dawn. “Was that in 86?”
“Yes.” She answered absently as she plowed her fork through the potatoes on her plate. Her thoughts were still musing on the unspoken details of the young man’s mentor. What constituted his proper education? What about him drew the attention of a sponsorship? When the silence stretched to minutes, she looked up, only then realizing the two men were waiting for her to say more. She forced a quick smile and said, “I had little talent for any medium.” She glanced across at her father. “Father thought I needed an occupation other than politics.”
“I’ve had little success redirecting her interest.” He chuckled. “It’s been my lifelong sorrow,” he teased. “So, when did you attend the classes there?”
“The fall of ’84. It would have been a most intriguing coincidence.” He gave her a hint of a smile as he surveyed her face with disturbing intensity. “I’m sure I would’ve remembered you.”
Edward said, “No doubt you would have, if for nothing more than her lack of hesitation to express her opinions on most matters.”
“Your eyes, Miss Fairburn, are what would have arrested my attention. It would be a challenge for any artist to capture their proper color.” He was quiet for a moment as though searching through his artist palette. “I’m no poet, but I think, jade.”
It always began this way, the flirtations of men. She could play the game, but she’d tired of it early in her life, knowing how it always ended with their disappointments at what they perceived as her flawed womanhood. Some would pretend it didn’t matter that their dance partner moved around the floor like a wooden doll with none of the grace of her peers. Some would avert their eyes if her skirts lifted in the dance to reveal her oddly fashioned left shoe. Others might stare, as though she were some oddity in a Barnum and Bailey menagerie.
But she was not a freak, and she was not broken. Yes, she was different in this one way, but in all others, she was the same as any other twenty-year-old woman, except perhaps, in one matter. She knew who she was, and she knew her future. This set her apart from most other women of marriageable age, desperate to find the man who would complete and define them for the rest of their lives. Coming to that understanding early had removed a great burden from her and enabled her to calmly and confidently stand at her father’s side.
Dawn thought her father had understood this, accepted it as well as her. Why then was he putting her in these unpleasant positions again? Even now, he was encouraging this man, drawing attention to her attractive qualities as though she were an item on a dry goods shelf, a damaged product others had overlooked. She tamped down her annoyance at the artist wielding his profession as a tool of flattery.
“I am so sorry.” Jessie trotted from the house, out of breath. “Here’s the eggs.” She served each of them according to their order and then, with dubious cheerfulness said, “Better late than never?”
In reality, Dawn mused, her timing was perfect.
Chapter Seven
Unspoiled Canvas
“It’s not what you look at that matters,
it’s what you see.” Henry David Thoreau
June 27, 1890
With slow, intentional movements, Luke eased himself into the saddle, unsuccessfully attempting to restrain the groan from passing his lips. Evan had assured him he’d only have to endure thirty minutes of pounding today and at a much slower pace. He thought about riding in the wagon bed, but pride made him climb back into the saddle.
The ladies stood on the kitchen porch. As pleasant as they all appeared waving them off, Luke held the distinct feeling he had made a singularly bad impression on Miss Fairburn. This confused him, because she’d seemed to rise to his defense when her father expressed his strong dislike for political cartoonists. But her attitude had altered for the rest of their shared meal as her conversation turned icy and indifferent. That inexplicable turn of mood mildly irritated him. It would have been easy to mark it off to the generally intemperate nature of women, but in all other ways she seemed perfectly rational. What could he have said to offend her? He shook his head, dismissing further ruminations on the encounter.
No point in wasting thoughts on the attractive but perplexing woman. She obviously held herself high in her own esteem and had little time or need of his good or bad opinion. He shoved his new felt hat low on his brow and turned his horse’s head to the trail where he fell in behind Evan.
***
Dawn worked at a table on the front porch, a cup of tepid tea pushed aside, and a stack of correspondence before her. She scarcely noticed the view or the warm breeze, the creek rippling in the sunlight. Her thoughts were elsewhere engaged in her father’s more interesting world.
She pressed the tip of one finger to her signature at the bottom of the stationary. Satisfied that the ink was dry, she carefully creased and folded the letter before slipping it into the envelope. She patted it in much the same way she’d observed mothers give a pat to their toddlers’ heads. The letter pleased her as she imagined the potential good it would reap for her father’s campaign.
It was time to call in some favors, and Mrs. Chambers was definitely in her debt. The poor woman had unknowingly offend
ed nearly all the monied families in Manhattan by holding a party without prudently appraising the guest list and inviting two women whose political polarization was legendary. Just in time, Dawn had come to her rescue and smoothed a veritable flock of ruffled feathers. On more than one occasion, Mrs. Chambers had credited Dawn with her husband’s successful run for office.
Dawn opened her address book and scanned the list of names. Those she’d underlined would be her first contacts. She drew a check mark next to Mrs. Chambers’ name. Next, she began a mental calculation for the timing of informal dinner parties where her father would speak of his plans for change and make himself available for questions, making allies and appealing to constituents. Her pulse quickened as she turned the page where she’d made a schedule that led directly to the day of election. She closed her eyes, and permitted herself a moment to imagine him, handsomely dressed in top hat and tailored coat, with his hand on the Bible repeating the oath of office.
“Wish I’d known you had a letter to be posted.”
Dawn jumped, jostling the teacup as her knee struck the table. She grabbed for the cup, and looked up at Jessie who stood beside her, arms outstretched, folding a tablecloth.
“Sorry.” She gave an apologetic smile. “I was just sayin’ that Bart went early to town for the mail. He could’ve posted your letter there.” She nodded to the envelope addressed to Mrs. Chambers. Do you want me to put it in the hallway where we keep mail?”
Dawn tucked the envelope inside her address book. “I have a few more to write. I’ll put them in later.”
A Portrait of Dawn Page 6