With shoes repaired allowing her to walk in a way that scarcely revealed her limp, and the outrageous choice in a skirt that scarcely covered her ankles, she stepped out upon this new day with what felt surprisingly like a spring in her step.
After church yesterday, Lena had commented again on her riding skill and offered to take her out again today. With only three days remaining before the town’s celebration of statehood, preparations were demanding more of Lena and Jessie’s time, so Dawn had some time before Lena would be free to keep her promise. A shrill bugle called from the horse barn.
Dawn stood in the open doorway as her eyes adjusted to the difference in light. To her right, came a second whinny, followed by a man’s deep laugh.
“You had your share,” Luke said with humor.
Dawn stepped up to the stall where Luke leaned in, stroking the neck of a handsome horse with raven black mane and tail. In the stall to his right was a matching mare with white socks. Luke glanced over his shoulder and tipped his head to the mare. “She’s not a good one to share.” He passed Dawn a carrot.
The mare showed her teeth and crunched down hard. Dawn pulled back her hand and laughed. “You’re a greedy thing.” She waited until the mare had swallowed before offering her the rest, this time on her flat palm.
Luke stepped back, rubbing his hands on his pants’ legs. “They’re a fine-looking pair.”
Dawn scratched behind the mare’s ears and asked, “Where were you yesterday? We didn’t see you all day.”
Luke picked up his leather satchel and slung it over his shoulder. There was a hesitancy in his manner, a tightness around his mouth that gave a hint to his reluctance to answer. “Evan went looking for a mountain lion that’s been stalking the herd. I asked to go along.”
Dawn had been around political circles long enough to recognize a carefully worded dodge to a direct question. As curious as she was, she didn’t really know the man well enough to press him for an answer. She looked away and rubbed her hands on a handful of hay. “Sketching today?” She looked to the bag he carried.
“Have to keep practicing.” He pursed his lips as though considering something. “You can join me if you wish. I don’t think we can expect breakfast soon. Heard some ruckus coming from the kitchen.”
“The twins,” they said it in unison and laughed.
Luke led them out of the barn and across the yard to a small rise with a view of a paddock where Bart was lunging one of the horses. The gelding seemed disinclined to work as hard as Bart.
Dawn perched on a stump nearby while Luke sat cross-legged a few feet away, pulling his sketchbook from his bag. He opened the book to a fresh page. From her vantage, she could watch him sketch. For a time, he concentrated on his work and she respected the silence, choosing to appreciate the morning light on the surrounding hills.
After a time, Dawn returned her gaze to Luke’s sketch. “You’re very good at capturing movement in such a few strokes. I did try when I was in school, but I don’t know what I lacked more—the patience or the skill.”
“Might have been neither as much as the desire.”
“And that’s what sets you apart, isn’t it? The desire?” she asked.
“Maybe. I’m not as quick as others. Another illustrator would have had four sketches made by the time I finished this one.” He closed his sketchbook and slid it back inside his bag. “That’s probably the reason they sent Nathan.”
“Really?” Dawn sensed this was not a simple observation or exaggerated assumption. “Have you seen him draw?”
Luke sat as motionless as the boulder he rested his back against. After a time, he said, “Not his work, no. But my editor hinted at the problem he had with my work. I should have expected something like this.”
“But Nathan’s from the World in New York, not the St. Louis paper. Why would you think he’d take your job?”
“They moved me from the New York office. Why not him?”
Dawn knew Nathan, knew the man and the city were inseparable. Family, generations deep, and friends held him to the city like the intertwining roots of the aspens sheltering Lena’s quiet place. Luke was wrong and she said so. “I think that’s unlikely. Besides, your work is excellent. Your attention to details—”
“The details valued of a fine artist aren’t required for this job. An illustrator tells a story in pictures. He must work quickly to capture moments as they’re happening. That’s why photography will change the way we see the news. They’ll bring the speed necessary to capture those moments and be able to show the details as well—all with a snap of a lens.”
There was fire in his eyes now, his voice charged with emotion. “Imagine Bradley’s style of photography, those images of the battlefields brought to you every day in your morning newspaper. Imagine how that will change the way you think. Think of the authenticity such images will bring to the news we read. We won’t be dependent on a drawing quickly made by a man’s eye as our lens to what transpires.”
“I’m not sure I want to see such stark images as Mr. Bradley’s when I sit down to breakfast. It could be—unsettling.” But she could see his point. Yes, the world she knew would take to such images. She wondered if such realism would improve or make worse the callous nature of men toward the less fortunate. What if citizens could see the ugly squalor of Hell’s Kitchen? The working conditions for children in the city’s industries. Would it bring about change?
“What would you do if you weren’t an illustrator?” she asked.
He turned his gaze to the gelding resisting Bart’s command to back. It was throwing its head, a hoof defiantly pawing the ground. He was a magnificent animal, unbroken to man’s will. Luke said, “I used to go to Central Park Menagerie. Mrs. Armstrong took me along as her companion when she was well enough to walk unassisted. Have you seen them? The animals kept there?”
Dawn nodded. “Father and I did when I was very young. I regret we’ve not returned of late.” Those days of her childhood when her father would carry her on his strong back had constructed many happy memories. They’d spent hours watching the chimpanzee’s antics. But the lions made her sad, confined in such small spaces, unable to run as God designed them.
Luke said, “When I attended art school, I would slip inside for an hour or so on my way home. I lost myself in those times, focused on hooves, and tusks, and noses. Have you ever looked closely at the texture of an elephant’s nose?” He shook his head as though seeing it again. “Imagine the detail a camera could capture.” He frowned. “That’s what I try to draw, those fine details. That’s what fascinates me.”
“And that takes time,” she murmured.
He nodded turning to her, catching her eyes with his. “Do you understand, now?”
She searched his face, seeing the tension and the desire there in the firm set of his jaw. With sudden clarity she saw what he probably was incapable of seeing for himself. While he knew his weaknesses, he did not see his strengths. Like her father, he needed someone who believed in him more than he believed in himself.
He hadn’t answered her question, so she asked again, “What would you like to do with the talents given you? Do you wish to become a studio artist? Study photography like Nathan? Do they even have schools for that?”
After a long silence, he said, “If you’ve been to the art school, you’ve seen the works of Winslow Homer. You know the realism of his paintings. That’s the depth of detail that I want for my work. But I want to live where I paint, surrounded by the settings for the subjects I find to draw. I want the person who sees my work to feel as if he could step into the painting and smell and touch what he sees.”
“Like George Caitlin?”
He shook his head. “No. His subjects all appear as if they were painted in a studio. They’re stiff, lacking the life I want.” He flung out his hand to encompass Bart, and the gelding engaged now in a dance for dominance. “Those are my subjects.” He raised his gaze to the hills north of the ranch. “Those and the ones that
live up there. I want to see and paint all that’s wild and free.”
“What’s stopping you? You already think your editor is dissatisfied and from what you’ve said, you are too. Why can’t you just go, do what you obviously feel so passionate about?”
The fire that had burned in his eyes faded as quickly as it had fanned to life. A grim smile framed his words. “You don’t understand. It’s not that simple. I’m no frontiersman.”
Had he chosen other words, she might have been able to hold her tongue. But next to pity, she hated being told that she couldn’t understand. She understood much, much more than most men would credit her. Limitations were her daily battle. “Which is it? Are you unable to be the artist you want to be because you’re too slow or unschooled or not the woodsman that Evan has become?”
His lips parted. Confusion drew his thick brows together in an angry scowl.
Before he could put his thoughts into yet another excuse, she said, “We both heard Evan talk about the men he’s known who’ve come west with little or no experience. Do you recall what he said it took to make it?” When his expression altered to one of defense, she answered her own question in a kinder tone. “Will. He said that one needs willingness to meet the challenges. He said you had to know what you wanted before you could pursue it, and then do it.”
His lips pressed together in a defiant line. Had he the ears of a horse, she could imagine them lying flat to his head. The image made her smile, and the anger she’d felt melted into compassion. “Don’t you know how fortunate you are?”
His head snapped up.
She hurried to explain. “You’re a man. You’re free to choose what you do, go where you want.”
“And you’re a woman from a family that can open any door for you,” he retorted.
“Is that another excuse? Does your lack of money keep you from doing what you want?” Dawn pushed herself to her feet.
Luke scrambled up, jerking his leather bag to his shoulder.
A long tense moment passed, while Dawn recognized that she’d overstepped. She’d wanted to encourage him, but he was making excuses. Someone had to help him see that.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That was harsh.”
Dawn drew her arms around her. Here before her was a man of considerable talent, and she had to admit, considerable charm as well. But he was like the stallion standing inside a corral with the gate wide open. From her perspective, he was free to do as he wished and he was, as Evan had suggested, the only impediment to his own success.
She took a step closer to him, drawing his eyes to hers. “Come riding with me, Luke.” His surprise brought a broad smile to her lips. “Lena and I are heading up the canyon. You need something beautiful to distract you. Who knows? You might spot a bear or a badger, or even a fearsome chipmunk. Besides two women alone in the wilderness should have a man along to protect them.” She wondered at that. It sounded strangely like an excuse.
***
They were all breathless by the time Lena pulled up on her reins. The horses were winded from the run and their riders from the exhilaration of it. Lena slid to the ground laughing. Luke dismounted quickly and stepped up to Dawn’s side, reaching up to help her down.
“I didn’t expect you to jump the stream,” Luke shook his head, grinning. “If I’d known, I might have kept my seat when the buckskin decided to follow.” As he stepped back to gather his horse’s reins, he brushed the evidence of mud from his trousers.
“You certainly got back on fast enough,” said Lena. “You practically vaulted back into the saddle. Impressive horsemanship.”
“Not really. I just couldn’t face the disgrace of having two women best me in a race.” He laughed, a warm and honest sound. “It’s surprising what one can do when motivated by pride.”
Lena pulled three wrapped parcels from her saddlebag. “We usually lunch over there at the edge of the pond under that sycamore.”
***
Luke positioned himself on a boulder across from Dawn, his perspective giving him opportunity to observe her more closely. This morning’s heated conversation had altered his impression of her yet again. There was a fire in her she’d kept concealed beneath her polished, cool composure. Usually, good at making character assessments based on mannerisms and speech patterns, Dawn broke all the rules in his book. She was an intriguing contradiction.
Today, she’d exhibited the quality that he most admired. Those who could be authentic and not afraid to express their thoughts with candor were those he respected. He could trust their opinions, sometimes better than his own. As much as he initially rejected her impressions of his talent and possibilities, he found himself reexamining his rationales. Was she right? Was he making excuses?
From her perspective, it must appear so, but she didn’t know everything that had made him arrive at his personal assessment of his inadequacies. She didn’t know how he’d failed to kill the mountain lion yesterday, making the situation worse for Evan. Even now, the man was hunting the wounded animal. He’d left before first light and not asked him to ride along this time, clearly believing that he would be more hindrance than help.
But did that mean he should abandon his hope of drawing wildlife in their natural environment?
“How often do you draw?” Dawn asked.
Luke pulled himself back from the introspection that consumed so much of his thoughts. He met her questioning eyes, intrigued again by their unusual shade. Realizing she waited for his response, he gave his shoulder a slight shrug. “I doubt there’s a day that passes that I don’t sketch something.”
“So, like a pianist, you practice. To improve your skills, I suppose?”
Humor tinted her eyes as she held his gaze. Suspecting the trap her words set, he took the bait. “Yes, like a musician.”
Dawn rolled her eyes to the sky as though searching for answers. “What is that expression?”
Lena dusted crumbs from her lap and said, “I believe the phrase is uses promptos facit.”
Dawn tipped her head, her wide sensuous lips parting into an alluring smile. “That’s right! Practice makes perfect.” She released a soft musical laugh.
Luke thought it good that he sat so far from the young woman. Had he not, he might have taken her by the shoulders and given her a sound kiss on those perfect lips. And while that would have been quite improper, he imagined it would have been extremely satisfying.
***
When Evan stepped into the kitchen, he read the sudden disapproval on Lena’s face. He halted in his tracks and pulled off his muddy boots at the door.
Lena knew, without a word from him, he hadn’t been successful in his hunt for the mountain lion. His shoulders sagged and his face was drawn with weariness. She crossed the room in a few steps and embraced him, saying nothing, her touch and presence his only comfort.
“There wasn’t that much blood to track. I’m thinking the bullet probably only grazed her. Hope so.” he murmured into her hair. Wouldn’t like to think of the creature suffering.
“Sit down while Jessie and I finish supper. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
“Think I’d rather take a bath and shed a layer of this dirt.” He kissed her head and unwrapped himself from her arms, then leaned down and whispered in her hair, “You can give me all the comfort you want tonight, Mrs. Hartmann. I could surely use some.”
Rowena’s head rested heavily against Lena’s breast, evidence that the child had fallen asleep at last. She closed and lay aside the book she’d been reading to the children. Evan with little Tommy curled up in his lap had been asleep long enough for the fire to burn down to glowing embers. Lena turned her head to see Edward, Nathan, Bart and Jessie still engaged in a lively and frequently boisterous game of cards.
She looked across to see Luke studying her intently, his sketchbook open on his lap, his hand moving rapidly across the page. Lena hoped he was sketching the children and not her. Jessie would love that, a picture of her child. Dawn sat to his right a
nd a little behind, the book she’d been reading open before her, but her eyes were on the page that Luke was drawing upon. Such a lovely, intelligent girl.
This afternoon had brought her some pleasant revelations about the two of them, Dawn and Luke. She’d seen a bright spark, from their teasing interchanges to the looks one would cast to another when they thought no one was looking. But she had been watching, and she felt certain they must soon acknowledge their attraction for one another. Young love was so precious.
She let her eyes brush over Evan’s face, peaceful now in slumber. Older love could be just as sweet, more precious she thought for the waiting. And to think she’d once considered herself too old to find it, reasoning that the love she’d held for the child she had raised like her own was enough and that one could live on memories. Foolish.
Rowena shifted her tiny arm, draping it across Lena’s. She kissed the little girl’s head. With her eyes closed, she recalled the Swedish proverb she’d read years ago carefully stitched on a pillow in rose-colored thread. A life without love is like a year without summer. Evan’s love had been that summer in her cold winter of 1886. But love came in many forms, the love of a man and woman, that of a mother and child. The ache sometimes was so sharp that she would bring her hand to her chest to ease the throbbing pain.
Just as she longed for a hearth of her own, she now longed for the child to call hers. The Lord had granted the first petition but not the latter, and she feared her childbearing years might run out before he took note of her prayers. As it usually did, guilt replaced the sadness. Evan had filled her life with so much she’d never imagined she desired. Why couldn’t she accept that this amazing love was enough and find satisfaction in that?
She looked up at Dawn’s serene face, her fierce concentration of Luke’s deft hand movements across the page. This young man might be Dawn’s summer. Would pride, as it often did, get in the way for one or both of them? She said a prayer that this would not be their reality.
Dawn leaned forward and pointed to Luke’s drawing. Luke’s eyes followed her finger. He nodded, made a few more strokes and looked over his shoulder at her. She smiled encouragingly. Their heads were so close that he could have kissed her. Did they not know how little time they had? To waste a single moment was a tragedy.
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