A Portrait of Dawn

by Samantha St. Claire

  “Do you make a habit of twisting people’s words, believing the worst of everyone who dares to pay you a compliment?” She shook her head, wanting to walk away but unable. What tormented the man? “Were you this ungracious to your patron when she tried to encourage you?”

  He plowed a hand through his hair. “Of course, not.”

  He looked up, searching her face for understanding, sympathy, absolution? She couldn’t read him more clearly than to know he wanted something from her. Although uncertain it was in her power to give it to him, in that moment, she very much wanted to try.

  “Her death was unexpected. She’d planned to send me to Europe for more training. I often wonder if I had as much potential as she thought. She planted the idea in my head that all it took was hard work and believing in myself. I’ve held to the first, but lost the second.”

  Laughter drifted from the couples gathered at the far end of the porch. Bart called out something directed to Luke. Dawn sat back, feeling unaccountably embarrassed. Luke rose quickly, setting his chair rocking. He offered Dawn his hand, pulling her to her feet. “Thank you.”

  She looked up puzzled.

  “For listening,” He leaned closer. “And I hope, in time, you can forgive me.”

  Luke trotted over to join the men as they gathered the chairs back onto the porch. She watched them for a while, replaying every word of their brief encounter. Perhaps she was beginning to see him more clearly. He wasn’t that much different from her. But in one manner of behavior they seemed distinct. While he craved to be seen, she found comfort in her invisibility. She’d come to accept it, finding peace in her anonymity.

  As she slowly made her way across the porch, she took one final glance in Luke’s direction. She caught him watching her, his remarkable blue eyes fixed on her face. He tipped his head, a sign of recognition and tidings of good night. The sudden thought warmed her. To be seen by the right pair of eyes might be pleasing, even desirable.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Visual Clarity

  “All good things are wild, and free.”

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  July 2, 1890

  Before he reached the barn, Dawn caught up to Nate. “Where are you going? I thought you were joining us today in Ketchum.”

  He turned with a welcoming smile, but there was something more in his expression that hinted he’d rather she’d not have found him. “Good morning, Dawn. You caught me.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial tilt of his eyebrows and whispered, “Gotta get out of town before the sheriff tracks me down.” He gave her a teasing grin.

  Dawn shook her head. “You never could tell a convincing lie. Seriously, where are you going this early?”

  He shrugged and his face lost a degree of its good humor. “Received another telegram from New York. They got wind that the celebration in Hailey is going to be bigger than Ketchum’s. Some senators from back east decided to join in. They’ve asked me to go there and be the paper’s eyes on what they might be up to. Sounds like intrigue; don’t you agree?”

  “Is Luke going too?”

  His countenance slipped further, and he shook his head. “Haven’t told him.”

  “Oh? He’ll not take the news well, will he?”

  “You know, I really do think he’s the better illustrator.”

  “You do?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t you?” He started for the barn and said, “You can keep me company if you like while I tack up. Evan’s given me the loan of the sorrel mare.”

  She took his arm and walked with him into the barn. As Nathan selected his saddle, Dawn looped her arms over the stall where the mare was finishing the last of her breakfast ration. She threw Nate a glance. “Will you be honest with me? About Kathleen.”

  Nate pulled a brush from a bucket and started in on the sorrel’s coat. He cocked a shoulder. “We’ve usually been pretty honest with each other. Sure.”

  “I thought you were deeply in love with her that summer. I don’t understand what happened.”

  The mare swung her head to roll a suspicious eye at Nathan.

  “I thought I was.”

  Dawn chewed the inside of her lower lip, then asked, “But how is that possible? Passions don’t change so easily.”

  “For some of us they do.” He dropped the brush in the bucket and walked up to the other side of the stall where Dawn was perched. “For someone like Luke—well, he’s a horse of a different color.”

  “You’re quoting Shakespeare, now?”

  “You know the expression. Luke is the kind of man who’ll not settle for anything short of passion. I don’t think I can ever be that to any one thing or person. I’m not even that committed to my art.”

  “I find that hard to believe. You loved your classes. That’s all you spoke of.”

  “I did. But there’s so much more to explore. Photography is a perfect example. I can’t wait to get back to New York and work in the studio my friend’s planning to set up.”

  She sat on an upturned barrel outside the stall as Nathan turned back to the mare. Dawn watched him while considering his point of view. Had her mother not died when she was an infant, scarcely two years after they’d married, would her father have fallen out of love with her? Lost in thought, she didn’t notice Nathan lead the sorrel mare from the stall. Dawn looked up with a start when he cleared his throat.

  He said, “Aside from the obvious differences, you’re very different from me and from Luke, but you’re capable of the same deep passion. I’m certain of it. You’ve denied those feelings for most of your life. We spoke of that years ago. I understood it then. I understand it even more now, but it doesn’t have to always be this way.” He helped her to her feet, and brushed his knuckle beneath her chin. “It’s risky. Life is risky and so is love. Don’t miss your chance, Dawn.”

  She frowned up at him. “What are you talking about? What chance?”

  His lips parted in an amused smile. “Luke, of course.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Is it? I’ve seen the sparks fly between you.”

  “Yes, because he’s an ill-tempered child. He hasn’t the least idea of how to accept a compliment or someone’s attempt to help him. He’s insufferably rude and inconsiderate—and moody.”

  “You sound rather passionate about the subject.”

  To Dawn’s further irritation, he laughed, and she felt her cheeks grow warm.

  “Look,” he said. “You wanted honesty. Luke has a strong attraction for you. He may not know it yet, but he does.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “Attraction? He’s resolutely consigned me to the oppressive upper class. You can’t be serious.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Dawn, with much to offer. You’re also probably far too intelligent for your own good, keenly observant, and capable of reading most people like open books. And the loyalty you’ve shown to your father is a trait any man would find desirable in a wife.”

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and walked her out of the barn into the early rays of morning sunlight. “I’m not much of a church-going man, but I do have a little experience with Providence. I have a hard time accepting that the timing of your father’s announcement and your meeting Luke are simply coincidental. You’re at a crossroads in your life. Luke is too. Where you go from here is partially up to you. If the road is open, why not take it and see where it leads?”

  ***

  Luke awoke Wednesday morning, feeling less than rested. In fact, he’d been awake more hours than not. He had replayed his conversation with Dawn in an endless cycle of what-ifs. If he hadn’t snapped at her, the evening might have gone quite differently. He might even have convinced her to dance with him.

  Considering how little time they’d spent together, Dawn’s comments had stung more than he thought possible. For the same unfathomable reason that they bothered him, he wished he could acquire her good opinion. What made it worse was that he was following in his father’s quick-temper
ed habits. Luke touched the scar on his forehead, frowning at the memory of his father’s drunken fits when he grew angry with the injustices of his world. At one level he knew his father loved him, but Luke was often the one who received the brunt of his father’s frustration.

  With each lapse of control, Luke proved the stereotype of his countrymen, and he disappeared a little more into the crowd of nameless immigrants. Mrs. Anderson had shown him his ability to be more, to be different, to stand out from the crowd. But not with his fists raised.

  He rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes. Rubbing a hand down his stubbled cheek, he stumbled his way to the washbasin. For a time, he stared at his reflection in the wall mirror. Was there anything there that might win Miss Fairburn’s favor? He didn’t have Nathan’s good-looks, and he definitely lacked the man’s charismatic personality. He scowled and turned away.

  As much as he’d transformed himself under his patron’s guidance, he would never rise above his class to become a serious contender for the affections of such a woman as Dawn Fairburn.

  Distant voices drew him to the window where he saw Nathan strolling from the barn leading a saddled horse. His arm was draped possessively around Dawn’s shoulders. Luke watched as Nathan leaned down and kissed the woman’s forehead. It was such an intimate moment, that he turned from the window, embarrassed.

  He released a long breath, driving his fingers through his unruly hair. What else could he expect? Two people, living such disparate lives, had no chance for putting aside their differences in upbringing, even in such a place as this where people carved new lives for themselves. For both of them, life’s choices were consigned long before they were born.

  ***

  “I can’t do this!”

  As soon as she walked into the great room of the house, Dawn heard the wail from the kitchen.

  Jessie sounded more stressed than usual. Although it held a brittle tone of tension, Lena’s voice followed, low and considerably calmer. “We can do this together, Jessie. Just show me how I can help.”

  Dawn slipped quietly into the kitchen and hovered just inside the door. “May I help?” She had little idea how she might assist the woman, but Jessie’s distress was impossible to ignore. “I’m sure I can do something. Peel something? Wash pans, perhaps?”

  Tears streamed down Jessie’s cheeks. Those she failed to swipe away fell on Rowena’s head. Tommy clung to her leg and looked about to burst into tears himself. Dawn presumed that his mother’s distress was prompting his agonized response. Something had to be done before Rowena joined her brother’s bawling lament.

  Both women reacted at the same time to the sight of the child’s impending breakdown. After prying his fingers from his mother’s apron, Lena plucked Tommy from the floor. Jessie readily released Rowena into Dawn’s arms, and then collapsed onto a kitchen chair, repeating her mournful cry, “I don’t think I can do this. Any of it. Ever.”

  Rowena peered up into Dawn’s face as her bottom lip began to quiver. Dawn bounced the child in her arms, rocking from side to side in an attempt to ward off the approaching storm of tears.

  Lena sat beside Jessie, patting Tommy’s back as he sobbed. “Jessie, calm down. Failing to produce a few dozen rolls isn’t the end of the world. Idaho will become a state with or without them. It’s not like people will starve. You’ve seen what the women of Ketchum are planning to bring. I think we’ll be feeding the leftovers to the pigs for a week after this is over.”

  Jessie sucked in great gulps of air, which started her into a violent sequence of hiccups. “But that’s—hic—just the point—hic—I’ve let them—hic—down.” She swiped at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “You just can’t—hic—eat roast pork—hic—without a bun.”

  “What can we do?” Dawn asked. “If the children didn’t need your attention, could you finish what you’ve started?”

  With her face scarlet and puffed from crying, Jessie looked up at Rowena. At the sight of her mother’s contorted face, the child burst into tears. Jessie heaved a sigh and brushed tears from her cheek with her palm. “Maybe.”

  “Why don’t I take the children out of the kitchen, so you and Lena can work together. It shouldn’t be that hard to keep them distracted.” Dawn saw the cavernous skeptical line forming between Lena’s brows. “Should it?”

  Dawn had no siblings, so experience as an aunt was not something she could draw upon to help her entertain the twins. Mostly, their sobbing had stopped, although Rowena continued to sniff between whimpers.

  She looked about the great room for something safe to place before the children. There were books, plenty of those, but at the twin’s age she doubted they’d find little of interest in them except as teething material. She tried a variety of objects—the knight from the chess board—a wood carving of a dog—a large iron key. All ended up in Tommy’s mouth and covered in drool.

  As Rowena’s soft sobs grew in volume, desperation brought Dawn to her feet and she headed for the door to the porch. Tommy toddling behind, soon dropped to a more efficient method of locomotion by crawling in a circuitous route to the door.

  With the sudden rush of fresh air, Rowena seemed to recover and her whimpers quieted to become hiccups like her mother’s. Dawn’s eyes swept the porch for ideas. When she turned to take in Tommy’s progress behind her, she gasped. He’d disappeared.

  “Tommy! Tommy, where are you?”

  “Escapee?”

  Dawn whirled about. Tommy giggled from atop Luke’s shoulders. A sigh of immense relief escaped her lips along with words. “Thank you.”

  “He’s quite the sprinter for a little fella on his knees.” Luke chuckled. “Wouldn’t have believed it possible. He’d have made it to the barn in minutes if I hadn’t intercepted him. Looks like you’ve literally got your hands full.”

  Dawn nodded. “I’m trying to help Jessie finish her baking. Lena’s in the kitchen with her.” With her resources for entertaining them expended, she wasn’t feeling any repugnance to pleading. “You want to help?”

  Luke grimaced as Tommy grabbed two fistfuls of his hair. “I can try.”

  Disengaging Tommy’s hands took a few moments and more pained wincing on Luke’s part. With a few less strands of hair, he lowered the boy onto the porch step where Dawn sat with Rowena curled up in her lap. The child had found her thumb and had planted it snuggly in her mouth. The hiccups came muffled between tight lips.

  Luke pulled his sketchpad from his shoulder pack along with a few pencils. He flipped through the book until he arrived at the first blank page. “Do you know the names of your farm animals, Tommy?”

  The little boy giggled and leaned in close to Luke’s arm.

  “Can you guess what this one is?”

  Tommy’s head was mere inches from the page as Luke sketched the handsome head of a horse, complete with a blaze on its nose.

  “Horse!” Tommy shouted, although it sounded more like orse.

  Rowena let out a squeal from around her thumb and giggled.

  For the next hour Luke drew every animal in the Hartmann barn, every rodent, every bird, every fish, every insect. Tommy and Rowena continued to guess even before Luke had drawn a single line. Luke, however, was running out of ideas.

  He sat back against the porch railing, looking spent. Tommy climbed on his lap. “More” Which sounded like mo. The child shook the pencil in Luke’s hand. “Mo!”

  Luke pressed the pencil into Tommy’s hand and wrapped the boy’s fingers around it. He opened the book to a new page, balancing it on his knees before the child. “You draw something.”

  Tommy looked over his shoulder at Luke, his eyes as wide as his smile. It was impossible of course, but his freckles seemed to glow a brighter shade.

  “Go on,” Luke encouraged.

  The toddler moved his hand, fist tight around the pencil and drove the lead across, around and down the page. He giggled and threw another glance over his shoulder. “Orse!”

  Luke smiled and nodded. “
Very good!”

  Rowena’s body grew heavy in Dawn’s arms. She looked down to see the child sleeping soundly, her face tucked close to Dawn’s shoulder.

  “You’re good at this,” Dawn whispered.

  Luke shrugged. “Practice.”

  Dawn’s expression must have given him a clue that she needed more explanation.

  “Back in Donegal, we had lots of little ones around, neighbors, cousins. Just natural, I guess.”

  She watched him guide the child’s hand, drawing large circles, round and round the page. “You must miss it?”

  Luke looked up. “Donegal?”

  She nodded.

  He hitched a shoulder. “At certain times.”

  The child tugged Luke’s hand back to the page. “But that’s the past. Can’t ever go back once you’ve started down the road. It’s a waste of time, isn’t it?”

  She heard the hint of an Irish accent in his last sentence, a lifting of the syllables, a quaint lilt she found charming.

  “In the beginning, I wanted to go back. Pleaded to be sent home. The city wasn’t friendly to a boy from the country—all those tall brick and stone buildings, nothing natural about the place, nothing real except the poverty.”

  Dawn scooted closer to the porch pillar and leaned back. A sunbeam touched the sleeping head of the child, and her forehead grew damp with little girl beads of sweat.

  “My mother finally had enough of my complaining and sat me down. She looked me in the eyes with her blue ones and said, ‘If ya’ can’t go back, ya’ got nowhere to go but straight down the road ahead. Ya’ can’t stay stuck between yesterday and tomorrow.’”

  Dawn felt a flush of anger, and before she could stop herself, she said, “I keep hearing the same thing. People travel long miles here for what they call a fresh start. But what if you’re happy with the present? What if today is where you are content and want to stay?”

  Luke looked perplexed and searched her face for a long moment. With a distinct tone of skepticism in his voice, he asked, “Is there really nothing you’d wish to change? Nothing more you want from life?”