A Portrait of Dawn

by Samantha St. Claire

  Dawn and her father held train tickets for a return trip, leaving tomorrow. How could she leave not knowing Luke’s fate? That’s the question that had kept sleep from her throughout the night. A wisp of cool air lifted wisps of hair from her forehead.

  Someone had told her. Was it Luke? If you can’t go back, you can only go forward. Perhaps going forward meant staying here as Mrs. Reynolds’ assistant. Hadn’t she as much as asked? Perhaps she would stay on as a guest of the Hartmann’s at least until she knew Luke was safe.

  “Have you been out here all night? Your bed covers look undisturbed.” Dawn’s father gave an uneasy smile and stepped onto the porch.

  “Not all night.” She pulled her hand from beneath her warm cocoon and stretched out to him. “Oh, Father, I’m afraid for him.”

  He knelt beside her. “What’s happened?”

  She told him of the conversation she’d overheard, dismay weighing her voice.

  “Evan and Bart will find him.”

  “You can’t be sure. I’m surprised at you for saying so. Aren’t you the one who insists that one should never make a promise that he cannot personally deliver?”

  “I suppose it’s natural when trying to comfort someone.”

  “Like the lies we tell when someone asks how we are handling a great loss?” She took comfort from his hand wrapped tightly around hers, his presence. “Evan and Bart left before sunrise. They took a spare horse with them.” She squeezed his hand and looked into his sympathetic eyes. “I wish I could do something, anything but sit and wait.”

  He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. “We have to trust in Evan’s knowledge now.”

  Evan had no control over the rain, or the surety of the ground beneath Luke’s feet, or the movements of the mountain lion tracking him. Evan was only a man, just like Luke.

  Her father said, “I’m sure you don’t want to think about this now, but have you started packing?”

  She swung her legs to the floor and leaned toward him. “Father, how can I go without knowing what’s become of him?”

  “Lena will let us know. We’ll ask them to telegraph us with news. Surely, you aren’t suggesting we delay our return.”

  She pressed her teeth into her lower lip.

  “Is there some understanding that you haven’t mentioned? Has he made any declaration to you?”

  She shifted her gaze to her malformed leg protruding from the quilt. There had been nothing between her and Luke but a few flirtatious moments. She cursed herself for imagining something more.

  “If there had been, it would be a different matter,” he said, not unkindly.

  Yes, much different.

  Jessie came to her in the early afternoon as she was helping Lena fold linens, a task she’d pleaded for as a distraction from her worry. “Miss Fairburn, I found this when I was gathering linens from Luke’s room.” She held out a rough-textured sheet of paper wrapped loosely in newsprint.

  Dawn recognized it immediately as watercolor paper.

  “There’s a note attached to it addressed to you.”

  Lena must have seen her hesitancy when she said, “I would think he’d expect you to open it.”

  “But why didn’t he just give it to me before he left?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t know—” Jessie colored. “Maybe he was too shy?”

  “Go on, Dawn. I think it’s all right.” She caught Jessie’s eye. “Come on, Jessie, let’s give her some privacy.”

  “But . . .” Jessie protested.

  Lena cleared her throat and widened her eyes meaningfully.

  Dawn stood with the package in her hands, staring at it. She carefully placed it on the dining table, as though it were a sheet of glass instead of paper. A note tucked into the folded corner of the newsprint read, For Miss Dawn Fairburn.

  With studied patience, she unwrapped each corner before removing the covering paper. What lay beneath was a thick sheet of rough textured paper, the same paper she’d used in art school. She lifted the sheet and turned it. Her breath caught. As though looking at a picture of someone vaguely familiar and yet a stranger, she recognized it for what it was, the picture he’d begun by the lake. Part sketch, part painting, the portrait revealed how he saw her.

  What made the painting most intriguing was the contrast between the vividly rendered painted side of the portrait and the ethereal quality of the half, lightly sketched. Detail versus suggestion. Known versus unknown. Revealed versus hidden. Today’s hope versus tomorrow’s reality. The duality of the human soul embodied in a single portrait. Her throat squeezed tight with tears.

  “Luke painted this?” Her father stood behind her. “May I?” He reached out for the painting, taking it from her hands. “This is wonderful. I had no idea. Luke has captured you perfectly.” Her father shook his head, a look of amazement on his face. “Why is he wasting his talent illustrating for newspapers? The light . . . It’s as if your face were glowing from within, but it’s morning sunlight isn’t it, shining on your face. When did he paint this?”

  “It must have been the night before he left. It isn’t finished,” Dawn said, but she wondered, was it? Was this how he wished to remember her?

  Luke had painted her eyes focused at something beyond his shoulder, something in the distance. As much as her father seemed to admire the painting, Dawn found the side of her face drawn with such austere lines disturbing. Why had he taken time to paint so much detail into only one half? Her classes had never suggested such a technique. Was this a style he preferred or was it some comment on her character?

  Capricious was how he’d described her. Was this painting a reflection of the way he still thought of her—cold and vexing one moment, and coy another? Was this a judgement on her duplicitous nature?

  “I’m glad you like it, father. Would you mind wrapping it again? I think we should return it to his room. Maybe we weren’t supposed to see it?”

  She left him contemplating the incomplete painting and stepped out into the late afternoon light. Her face tipped to the last rays of warmth, she felt oddly transparent. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure her shadow still remained and that she had not transformed into some wraith without form or substance.

  What might she find to say to him if he returned? How would she change how he viewed her? Was it even within her power? Would words matter?

  Questions and no answers. What she understood was that if he didn’t return, she would never know if he might have traveled with her beyond the bend in the road.

  ***

  Luke scooped water with his hands and drank deeply from the cold waters. His spirits lifted with the vista he’d found looking down on the wide Wood River. If he could make it that far, he was confident he could find his way back to the ranch. If he continued in this downward path, he assumed he’d soon leave the forested hills behind.

  He shuttled the rifle to the crook of his arm and started off. By tonight, he might just be propping his feet before a welcome fire under a solid roof. He’d taken only a step into the stream when the hairs lifted along his neck and spine. Dropping into a crouch, he scanned the shrubs and pines crowding the hillsides forming the canyon walls. The absence of animal chitters and even bird songs made him keenly aware that the smallest of wildlife were better suited to this wilderness than he. No doubt, they had hidden themselves long before he’d sensed the threat.

  From somewhere behind and higher up the slope came a rumbling growl. Luke face cooled. It was the perfect setting for an ambush. Late afternoon sun created deep shadows, giving the cat a distinct advantage by providing hidden spaces among rocks.

  Luke glanced about, somewhere to limit the cat’s angle of attack. He started off for a cluster of aspen trees and positioned himself with a wide view of the opposite hillside. He levered the gun, chambering a round, and braced the gunstock against his shoulder. He’d hit her before. He could do it again.

  A sudden movement drew his eye to right of where he’d been drinking from the st
ream. Only twenty feet up the slope near a cluster of boulders, he thought he saw a flash of tawny fur. He squinted into the deepening shadows, focused on the last indicator of movement. Ten feet closer, still on the same plane, something set the low limbs of an evergreen bouncing. He blinked and refocused, this time anticipating and moving his sights another ten feet closer, still keeping his eyes searching the same plane.

  She could be clever enough to move to higher ground and catch him off guard. She could, but he didn’t think she would, because her prey was about to escape her territory.

  He swallowed hard and blinked once. Golden eyes locked with his, as prey and predator appraised each other. Then in one graceful arch, the cat launched herself from the rock. Luke kept his eye on the sights, aiming at her exposed chest. The beauty and magnificence of her pierced his heart with an awful moment of regret. He hesitated for one breathless moment before his finger squeezed the trigger.

  ***

  “We’re losing the light, Bart. I think it’s time to head back. We haven’t seen a track all day. He went a different way.” Evan leaned forward, resting his arm on his saddle horn. “I’m loath to go back with nothing good to tell them.”

  “Maybe he took to the other side of the mountain and he’s circled back by way of Fox Creek. We didn’t try that way.” Bart’s words carried more conviction than his face.

  “Guess we’ll try that way tomorrow.” Evan straightened in the saddle and flexed his shoulders close to his ears.

  “At least we haven’t seen or heard from the cat.”

  “I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Could be the cat’s staying close to him.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that. You’re right.”

  Evan’s horse sharply swung its head left, ears up. Seconds later the shot rang out, followed by a second. It took little more than a slight pressure of his knees and the horse took off. Bart followed just behind.

  ***

  Dawn stared blankly at the page of stationary before her. No words came to her. It was her father who had suggested she write the letter to Luke, a suggestion as sensible as her father. But she had to agree that in a letter she could ask him to reply about his experience in the mountains and inquire concerning his health, never revealing the intensity of her own feelings. She would provide her address and invite him to visit if he were ever in New York. It would be proper. It would be polite. It would be sensible, but it wouldn’t answer the more pressing questions. Did you ever care? Do you care? Could you care?

  She lifted her pen a few inches above the white paper. It hovered there until a single drop of black ink splashed upon the pristine surface, fanning out in an array of fine lines, like uncertain paths. Was it Luke who said that he had to make the first line on a blank page, any line as long as he made the first stroke? Luke had drawn his line by taking his journey into the wilds. What line had she drawn?

  Waiting was not akin to the action that Luke had taken. Waiting was no action at all. She could wait forever, but for what? Wasn’t waiting the same as allowing someone else to make the first line for her?

  She nearly rammed the pen into its holder, but stopped herself in time before she’d need to purchase a new one. Instead, she stood more abruptly than was wise, and stumbled. She caught her balance by grabbing the corner of the desk. Had she known any words appropriate for the occasion, she’d have uttered a curse.

  The door to the porch stood open, voices carried on the early evening breeze, soft female conversation. Such conversation was desirous for her at the moment. She stepped onto the porch and found Lena sitting in the rocking chair, Rowena asleep in her arms. Jessie appeared less comfortable on the porch steps with her back against the post. She lifted her finger to her lips and pointed down at her sleeping boy.

  Dawn tiptoed around Lena and took the seat next to her.

  “Are you packed?” Lena asked.

  Feeling the unexpected sting of tears, Dawn nodded and looked away.

  “We’ve enjoyed your company. I’ll miss you,” Lena said, her voice slightly husky. “I’m just praying Luke’s misadventure doesn’t make a return visit an unpleasant consideration.” She reached with her free hand across the space and lay it on Dawn’s. “I have a strong inclination that this is all going to turn out well. Evan thinks so.”

  Luke planned for only two nights, or so Evan told her.

  “Waiting is a woman’s lot, I think. Each minute is an hour—each hour an eternity. That’s how it felt the winter of ’86 when Evan was trapped on the mountain. My prayers were earnest and frequent that night, and I was not a woman inclined to pray. But the prayers did not come before I’d shaken my fist at God for a time. I assure you, I repented mightily when Evan stumbled up the lane, snow-blind and half-frozen, but alive.”

  The child in her arms fussed, and Lena stroked her back.

  Jessie whispered at the top of her voice, “I know my hope is in the Lord of Heaven’s Armies. If he can’t handle it, no one can. If God’s up there looking down on the whole-wide territory, then he can see me walking into a box canyon before I do, ‘cause he’s definitely got the bigger view.”

  “Jessie, sometimes I think you are the wisest woman I ever knew,” Lena said.

  “Whoo Hoo!” The cry came from in front of the barn where one of the ranch hands was waving his hat in the air and pointing down the road. Three riders were coming in at a trot.

  “Praise God. They found him,” Lena breathed as she took Dawn’s hand, giving it a shake.

  Dawn started at her father’s heavy hand on her shoulder. Her tears blurred his face as she turned to him. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest and whispered, “He’s okay. Luke’s okay.”

  Lena took the children off to bed while Jessie flew to the kitchen and started a furious preparation of leftovers. Dawn offered to help Jessie, who accepted and set her to work on serving hot coffee and cider.

  Until the men washed off a layer of mud from their boots and pant legs, they didn’t dare to enter the house. When they stepped into the kitchen, Jessie threw herself into Bart’s arms. “I didn’t worry one bit!” She gave him a long and resounding kiss.

  Lena called to Luke, “Luke, come. Sit down, so I can see to your wound. Are you too weary to tell us about what happened?”

  “But you gotta be starving,” Jessie said disapprovingly.

  Sitting heavily in the chair, Luke gave a weary smile and breathed out, “Truth be told, I am that.”

  “Good! I can take care of you in that department,” Jessie said as she started preparations with a clatter of pans.

  Dawn remained near the stove, an observer only. Luke seemed different. Despite his obvious fatigue, his eyes were bright with excitement, and something more. She heard confidence in his voice.

  Jessie plopped a platter of fried chicken before the men, along with a plate covered in a mountain of mashed potatoes. She dropped onto the bench beside Bart and delivered another kiss on his cheek. “So, get the story started. Can’t tell when those twins will realize their Daddy’s home, and I don’t want to miss anything.”

  While Lena tended to Luke’s cut, he told of encountering the cat and the storm. He didn’t go into much detail about losing his way, but Dawn surmised that portion of the story had been discussed in greater detail earlier with Evan and Bart.

  Evan’s expression turned grave. “I’m just glad Luke kept his wits when he had the cat in his sights. Not everyone would.”

  Dawn saw the effect of Evan’s praise on Luke.

  Evan went on, “I’ve never seen a cat behave like this one, but I suppose any species has rogue behavior. I mean, bears shouldn’t be pets, either, but it sure seems Jessie’s made one out of our garden raider.”

  Her father asked, “But you killed the mountain lion?”

  “I had little heart for it. She was magnificent. But I had no choice,” Luke said.

  Bart shook his head and said, “Would you believe it? We found him sitting beside the thing with his
drawing pad open, sketching her. Wouldn’t have been the first thing I’d have done, I can tell you.”

  “You should show them,” Evan said. “Where’s your bag?”

  Lena tugged on his sleeve. “Evan, really, do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Oh, it’s not bloody or anything,” Bart threw in.

  As he thumbed through the pages, Luke stopped at some of his favorites, commenting on one or the other. Dawn leaned in over Jessie’s shoulder as he flipped through the book. How she wanted to study each one! If he considered himself slow at his art, he must have spent long hours sketching the pronghorns.

  “I made this one just for you, Mrs. Long.” Luke turned to a drawing of a chipmunk. “I heard you talking about how much you liked them when we were at the lake.” He tore the page from the book and handed it to her.

  “Oh my! Thank you.”

  Luke tore out another page and gave it to Bart. “And here’s one for the boy.”

  “Look at that! A bear cub.” Jessie squealed. “He loves it when I tell him bedtime stories about the old bear that raids our garden summer nights.”

  He gave her a quick nod. “If I’m around long enough, I’ll add watercolor to the sketch if you like. It’s what I think is best for now, at least, until I can work faster. I’d like to find a place I can use for a studio. I’d make the sketches out there and add the watercolor in the studio.”

  Lena rose to her feet and urged everyone to move to the more comfortable great room. The men encouraged Luke to retell his encounters with the mountain lion and just how he felt when she’d made that leap. Lena asked to see the drawing of the elk herd. Detached and feeling as if she’d already left them, Dawn listened to it all. She was traveling back to New York, the Hartmanns and their warm lodge a fading into a memory.

  At several times in his storytelling, Luke glanced at her, and each look seemed a query.