A Portrait of Dawn

by Samantha St. Claire

  There was yet time for love to take its natural course, and if it needed a little help in a day or sowell, she’d make herself available to encourage that path. Evan had told her long ago that silence was not her strong suit. She supposed he was correct.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Possibilities

  “The only man who makes a mistake is the man who never does anything.” Theodore Roosevelt

  July 1, 1890

  Dressed and eager for interesting conversation, Dawn started for the door when her father called to her. “Dawn, I think you should read this.” He held a letter in his hands, written in the now familiar hand of Melody Corbyn.

  “Father, can’t it wait?” Just when her mood was lightening, she didn’t want to think of the woman.

  “It’s addressed to you.” He crossed the room and extended the letter to her, his voice hopeful. “I didn’t show it to you before, but thought you might be in a better frame of mind to see it now.”

  “I’ll read it at breakfast.” She heard the sharp edge in her voice. Ashamed, she turned from him and left the room before he could say more.

  Nathan and Luke sat, sharing a table by the porch railing. Nathan waved her over to the empty third seat. “You’re looking lovely, Miss Dawn.” Nathan held the chair for her.

  “Thank you.” As she slid into the chair, the letter crunched accusingly in her pocket.

  Nathan gestured to a heaping stack of pancakes in the middle of the table. “Seems Mrs. Long has her baking hands full today. She only made scrambled eggs and flapjacks for us.”

  Luke said wryly, “She apologized for our light breakfast. We’ll probably all starve before dinner.”

  Dawn poured herself a cup of tea, ignored the pancakes and reached for the plate of eggs.

  “What have our host and hostess planned for you today?” Nathan asked, while skewering another pancake. “Riding, fishing, wild game hunting, a little silver mining after lunch?” His grin pushed up the dimple on his left cheek.

  Dawn shook her head. “Not so adventurous. The ladies need help with some preparations in town today. I thought I’d see the town a little more, maybe visit the bookshop Mrs. Reynolds manages.”

  “Maybe some shopping?” Nathan asked.

  “What about you two?”

  Luke answered for the two of them. “I thought Nate and I should get a feel for where the town’s activities will be centered. We could do some sketches of the best locations to capture the crowd and dignitaries. We have time to do that. Something not common in our line of work.”

  “Luke, here, is the man with the experience. I’m here to learn.” Nathan wore an amiable grin, and Dawn knew him well enough to know there was no sarcasm intended in his light remark, although from Luke’s tense expression she doubted he took it in the same way Nathan intended.

  “I suppose that means we’ll ride out together,” Dawn said, surprised how pleased she was by the prospect of sharing the day with the two men.

  Luke looked distinctly disappointed. “Actually, I think you ladies are coming in a little later. We’ll meet up in town.”

  Dawn thought she detected a hopeful tone in his last remark, warmed by it.

  Watching as the two men rode off together, she had no other excuse to delay what she’d promised her father. She pulled the letter from her pocket, aware of her increased heartbeat. With a heavy sigh, she scanned the single page, read it a second time, then folded it neatly.

  It was easy to understand why her father found the woman attractive. Her language was gracious displaying a sensitivity to Dawn’s situation that was more than intuitive, bordering on clairvoyance. Along with her understanding of the role Dawn had played not only in her father’s career but as his closest confidant, she wanted Dawn to know she valued her insights. But it was at this point in the letter when Mrs. Melody Corbyn chose the wrong word to appease her soon-to-be step daughter. Her word, team, held none of the warmth Dawn would choose to describe a close family. Teams were for competitions.

  She rose to her feet and stomped into the yard where she found a twig, snatched it up and viciously snapped it in two. “So much for your olive branch, Mrs. Corbyn”.

  ***

  Luke lay his pen aside and shook the cramp from his hand. While he did, he searched the street for Nate. The man had moved on from the place where he’d been sketching a few minutes earlier. He took one more look at his last drawing of the beribboned speaker’s platform. It would help in his final drawing, knowing the setting and choosing an angle for Wednesday’s events. He closed his sketchbook and tucked his drawing tools back in his bag before rising to his feet. It felt good to be standing again; he’d been sitting on hard things too long in the past few days.

  Checking the angle of the sun, he made a projection of nearly noon. He’d head over to the hotel café they’d agreed upon as a meeting place, maybe order some coffee and relax before Nate arrived. He wasn’t looking forward to sharing this morning’s work. He recognized his envious tendencies and labored to disguise them.

  “Luke! Over here!” Nate called out from a corner table, waving his arm to catch Luke’s attention along with most of the seated guests.

  Luke drew up a half smile and wove through the tables, gathering his resolve to be pleasant despite his discomfort in what might prove to be an awkward competitive situation. As he moved closer, he was pleased to see Mrs. Reynolds. At least, the company would be enjoyable.

  “Mr. Brennan, so nice to see you again. That seems to be the limit of our conversation since you arrived. I hope you’re staying for lunch.” Mrs. Reynolds nodded to the empty chair in way of invitation.

  Luke noticed the steaming cups of coffee sitting before both Nathan and the doctor’s wife and wondered how long Nathan had been here.

  “Nathan’s been showing me some of his sketches of the town,” Mrs. Reynolds said, and her eyes shone appreciatively. “They’re delightful. I’m most curious to see yours. I’ve been speaking with Nathan about the drawings you’ve produced that our townsmen would enjoy. Since your newspaper won’t publish all of them, it would be a shame not to share them. We do have our own paper, you know. The Ketchum Keystone is just down the street. Maybe I should speak to the editor?”

  “I’m not sure our publisher would approve,” Luke started.

  “There’s Dawn.” Nathan’s gaze snapped to the view of the street. Before Luke could react, he was already on his feet and heading for the door.

  Luke turned, forced to lean far to his right to see around the feathered hat of a woman obstructing his view. As a result, he bumped the elbow of the woman seated at the next table. “Pardon me, ma’am.”

  Nathan returned with Dawn in tow. “See? Luke is here and you can meet the enchanting Mrs. Remolds.” Nathan pulled out the fourth chair for her.

  Mrs. Reynolds gestured to Luke’s bag. “I was just asking Luke to show us some of his sketches from this morning. Have you seen his work?”

  Dawn glanced at Luke, giving him a reassuring smile. “I have, and I think he’s very talented.”

  “I really don’t have that many from this morning. What I have is very sketchy. I was trying to frame my pictures before the crowds will make it more difficult.” He thought of his three bare bone sketches incapable of impressing anyone.

  “We’d still be very interested.” Dawn pressed.

  “Why doesn’t Nathan show Dawn his work from the day?” Luke nodded at Nathan, hoping the man’s enthusiasm would make it impossible for him not to share what he’d drawn.

  “I’ll show you the two best sketches, but no more,” Nathan said.

  Luke leaned in, taking a closer look. Each was exactly the kind of sketch his editor would praise, and what Luke could accomplish—with twice the time. And he had how many more inside his book?

  “You’re even better than you were when I knew you in school,” Dawn said.

  “You knew each other? In New York?” Mrs. Reynolds’ asked, her face lit with interest.

&nb
sp; “I attended the same art school as Nathan—actually the same as Luke. Luke and I attended at different times, but Nathan and I met there.” Dawn waved her hands before her. “But don’t expect to see any of my artwork. I found that I am completely devoid of any artistic talent.”

  “How interesting that you reunited here!” Mrs. Reynolds’ eyes sparkled with mischief. “Nothing less than fate can explain it.”

  “Show her the sketches of Rowena and Tommy, the ones you did last night.” Dawn skewered him with a look that unmistakably communicated to Luke that severe unpleasantness might result from his refusal. “She’d like to see some of your work.”

  While her lips retained the charming smile, he was certain he could hear the less gracious tone ringing in his ears. Show her the sketches. He reached for his satchel and pulled out the sketchpad, flipping through the pages with the book still in his lap.

  “That’s the one.” Dawn said as she peered over the edge of the table.

  Luke brought the sketchbook to the table.

  The drawing focused attention on Rowena’s head cradled against Lena’s breast, a perfect cherub captured in slumber. Luke had found that the firelight cast dramatic shadows on Lena’s face, softening the small lines around her mouth, while emphasizing her high cheekbones, giving her image a radiant Madonna-like quality. He wondered how successful he might be to turn the sketch into a watercolor. The thought excited his imagination. Lost in the possibilities for the sketch, he didn’t hear Mrs. Reynolds’ quiet comment.

  Dawn lay her hand on his arm, giving it a small squeeze. Luke looked up.

  “Mrs. Reynolds was saying that Mrs. Hartmann and Jessie would treasure the sketch.”

  “It’s just a sketch.” Luke frowned and said, “It needs work.”

  “It’s precious.” Mrs. Reynolds asked softly, “Would you allow me to buy it from you?”

  Luke closed the sketchbook, rejecting the idea of letting go of something so incomplete. “Let me see what I can do with watercolor.”

  When he looked up again after putting the book back in his bag, he caught the questioning expression in Dawn’s eyes. Was she offended by something he’d done? What did it matter to her? It was his work, after all.

  “I apologize for leaving when you’ve just arrived, Dawn, but there’s a building just across the street I’d like to sketch. The sun is striking it in just the right way to sharpen the contours.” Nathan pointed to the bank building on the corner. “Do you see it? If I wait any longer, the light will have shifted.”

  Mrs. Reynolds laughed and said, “Few women can say they’ve been slighted in favor of mortar and stone.”

  Nathan quickly gathered his things and took a step back from the table. “I’m glad you’re understanding. I’ll make it up to you ladies tonight in exchange for a dance.” With a grin, he turned and hurried to the door.

  “Dance?” Dawn asked of Mrs. Reynolds.

  “Our friend, Ely, frequently entertains us with his violin. Tonight, he’ll be joining us all at the Hartmann’s ranch. We don’t always dance, but sometimes Jessie can’t help herself.”

  Dawn’s reaction puzzled Luke. She’d seemed at ease earlier, so bright and conversant. She’d pulled in now, her hands drawn into her lap, eyes downcast.

  Mrs. Reynolds snapped her fingers and said, “I’ve been trying to think of the illustrator I’m reminded of. Howard Pyle! He wrote and illustrated a novel based on the legends of Robin Hood. I love the realism of his paintings. The characters could walk off the page. Have you seen his work?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Luke answered.

  “You just must see it. We received another one recently that he wrote the story for, Otto of the Silver Hand. Why don’t we go over to the bookstore, and I can show them to you?” Without waiting for either Dawn or Luke to respond, she folded her napkin and rose to her feet. “Well, let’s go before Mr. Brennan is also drawn away by another building.” She slipped around the table and looped her arm through Dawn’s. “Nate told me you have an interest in travel. We have some new books on train travel through central Europe. You might like to see them.”

  Resembling a comfortable parlor more than a bookshop, Mrs. Reynolds’ shop drew her customers in to stay awhile, pour a cup of tea, and peruse the long shelves of books at their leisure. Dawn ran her finger along the embossed binding of a copy of Henry James’ Portrait of a Lady.

  “’Her real offense was having a mind of her own.’” Mrs. Reynolds came up beside her, looking pensive a moment before breaking into a delighted smile. “You know it?”

  Dawn nodded. “I do. I didn’t care for the ending, though. I wanted more for Isabel. I wanted her to stay free always. I’m not sure I can quote it as easily as you, but there was a passage that defined her. ‘Her life should always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she should produce; she would be what she appeared. . .’”

  “’—and she would appear what she was.’” Mrs. Reynolds finished the line for her. “Yes! To be authentic in whatever situation we find ourselves is true virtue.” Mrs. Reynolds lay her hand on Dawn’s arm. “I think we may have much in common. I think we are defined by what we have read. May I call you Dawn? I’d much prefer we were on a first name acquaintance.”

  Dawn smiled and nodded. “I would like that, yes.”

  Maddie Reynolds lifted the book in her hands and inclined her head to where Luke stood browsing a shelf at the front of the shop. “Shall we?”

  “Here it is.” Maddie lay the book on the round table near one of two sunny windows. “Let me know what you think, Mr. Brennan.” She looked up at Dawn, adding, “And I’d like to hear your opinion too, Miss Fairburn.”

  Dawn and Luke sat in the two overstuffed chairs closest to the window, the light streaming over their shoulders onto the open book. Dawn watched as Luke flipped through the pages, stopping for long moments to study each illustration.

  What did an artist see when looking at another’s work? Could he appreciate its entirety, or did his dissection of technique forever ruin the emotional impact of a painting, seeing it only in fragments of pigment and style.

  The little art education she’d absorbed had, for a time, given her a keener sense of the skill required of the artist. As recently as last year, she’d visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the works of John Kensett. In the tradition of the Hudson River School of Artists, he’d used subtle tonal changes to create depth and a sense of distance. Initially, she’d thrilled to the striking landscapes he’d brought to canvas. However, the longer she studied each painting, the more aware she became of the artist’s mastery of brush strokes, color and perspective. It hadn’t detracted from her pleasure, rather it had enhanced her respect for the art and the artist.

  Another smaller book in her hand, Maddie placed a beautifully bound copy of Otto of the Silver Hand on the table. “I think I may have to give this one to Mrs. Hartmann. Has she read to you in the evenings?”

  Dawn lifted the book from the table and lay it on her lap. She shook her head. “No, she’s read to the children, but not to us.”

  “Shame. She reads with a theatrical quality that brings the characters to life. Maybe you can ask her one evening.”

  Maddie turned her attention to Luke and said, “I believe that Mr. Pyle illustrated for Harper’s magazine before creating his own books. In fact, Harper’s commissioned Mr. Remington to produce paintings of the American frontier. Yet, they are of a far different style.”

  She looked to Dawn. “I thought I’d read that he’s having a one man show in New York this year.”

  Dawn scarcely acknowledged Maddie’s comment as she watched Luke’s demeanor transform. She saw the stiffening of his body and the resolute set of his jaw.

  Unaware that her words had deeply affected the man, Maddie asked, “Have you considered ways other than the newspaper work to use your talents, Mr. Brennan?”

  Luke closed the book as though it was a door to a sleeping child’s room. He rested his hand on
the back cover for a long moment, while the wall clock chimed the hour of three. “I think we are expected to return to the ranch by four. We should be going.” He stood and placed the book in Maddie’s hands. “Mr. Pyle is a talented artist. I’m flattered that you think we might share some stylistic similarities. Thank you for sharing it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dissonant Harmonies

  “We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us.” John Muir

  July 1, 1890

  On the return trip to the ranch, Nate walked his horse beside the wagon, while Luke rode out ahead. Dawn kept her attention on the man and horse until they shrank into the distant horizon. She thought of Mr. James’s book and another passage that seemed well applied to him. To read between the lines was easier than to follow the text. Luke’s sudden departure from the bookshop puzzled not only Mrs. Reynolds but Dawn, as well. What was the truest text for this mercurial artist?

  Maddie, the well-meaning woman, was left with the impression that she’d made some offense by suggesting Luke consider another avenue for his talents. That might have been the interpretation of the text for Luke Brennan, but Dawn suspected the answer lay deeper, somewhere between the lines. The man saw mountains everywhere, obstacles too steep to overcome.

  He was a paradox with clear blue eyes. As an artist, Luke ably refracted the colors of his world, bending pigments to his will, segregating rainbows. He’d developed his vision to a level well beyond the average man or woman. But in his perspective regarding his own potential, his point of view was tragically flawed. He needed to borrow the vision of another. That would require him to trust the observer. What wound from his past kept him from such trust?

  “Ely, you look like the cat who swallowed the rat!” Lena said with a light musical laugh.