A Portrait of Dawn

by Samantha St. Claire

  Late in the evening Lena cleared her throat and said, “I think Mr. Brennan needs a few nights of rest to recover, and we are keeping him from it.”

  Luke excused himself first, passing Dawn a quick nod and uncertain smile before leaving the room. They’d exchanged not a single word.

  ***

  Folding her dress, she placed it atop the rest of her neatly packed clothing. With slow, reluctant steps, she walked to the small writing desk near the window and stared down at the blank sheet of writing paper. After several moments, she took her seat, picked up the pen and wrote.

  Dear Luke

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Under a Blue Idaho Sky

  “You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” Song of Solomon 4:7

  July 9, 1890

  Luke stretched languidly beneath the soft sheets, grateful not to be awakening to a bed on hard ground. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and sat up. The drapes were closed. Sunlight seeped beneath them stretching deep into the room. He fell back smiling to himself. A satisfied feeling lay like a warm blanket upon him, a contentment for his state of being that had eluded him too long. The future seemed gloriously bright, and for an Irishman, that made him a wee bit apprehensive.

  Today, he would talk to the fair Miss Fairburn. Today he had the courage to reach high above his station and know at once if there was any chance she might return his affections. But he would not be hasty as he had before. He would presume nothing of her. But he would ask, and today he would know.

  His feet touched the cold floor, but he did not mutter or complain. Now that he knew what it meant to be truly uncomfortable, he would be forever more grateful for any floor and any ceiling. He flung open the windows, immediately bringing up his arm to cover his eyes. How late had he slept? The sun was nearly at its zenith.

  The shock hit him like a sharp blow to the chin. He turned from the window and threw on his clothes, wasting precious seconds searching for his boots before remembering he’d left them at the door to the kitchen. Racing down the hall to the kitchen, he grabbed Jessie’s arms. “What time is it?”

  She laughed and said, “Nearly noon, I should think. What’s your hurry? We figured you’d sleep all day.”

  Luke ran from the kitchen, drew on his boots and raced to the barn. The wagon was gone, the carriage horses were gone, and so was Dawn.

  Bart walked around the corner of the barn, leading a dappled gray mare. “Didn’t expect to see you up and out.”

  Luke spun. “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Miss Fairburn and her father? Maybe an hour, maybe less. Not sure. I was in the corral working the mare, here.”

  “May I borrow a horse?”

  Bart shrugged. “Sure. You want this girl? She’s a little raw but quick on her feet and already warmed up.”

  “Thank you.” Luke took the mare’s reins and swung himself into the saddle.

  “Don’t you want me to adjust the stirrups? You’re a bit longer in the legs than me.”

  “No time.” He kicked the mare’s barrel and leaned forward as she broke into a run.

  Dawn looked out upon the saffron hills without seeing them. With each mile they traveled farther from the ranch, the colors of the landscape faded. Even the sky appeared leached of color, appearing more gray than blue.

  “I think you and Melody are going to get on. You share so many of the same interests. She’s arranged a dinner for next Saturday. She says we can’t start too soon, getting constituent support for our agendas in the Assembly. Sounds like you.”

  Dawn straightened, lifting her hand to shade her eyes. A pair of pronghorns stood atop a distant rise, black outlines against the sky. They were just as splendid as Luke had drawn them. Delicate and yet suited to the land.

  He’d spoken of a studio last evening, a place to return after days and weeks in the wilderness. She could imagine him in some small log home, surrounded by sketches strewn out on a long worktable. There’d be windows facing east and south to bring in the best light where he’d work until he had to light the lamps for evening. He’d have paint beneath his fingernails and streaked through his dark locks. There would always be a work in progress pinned to an easel. And he would fall asleep with his head resting on his arms, a brush in his hand. She would gently, quietly remove it from his fingers and wash the paint from its bristles, preparing his studio for another day.

  She pressed a hand to her chest, the ache palpable, as though her heart would not be contained within its cage.

  No, the face of the woman who tidied his work table and draped a blanket about his shoulders bore mere lines conveying indistinguishable features. Even if Dawn did not know who she might be, she knew that she should be, the very one to care for him. She would be his champion, the one who declared to the world his talent, to show them how exceptional he was. She would speak when he would not, because she believed in him. This was her prayer for him.

  Perhaps one day she would see his completed paintings in Harper’s Magazine, or framed, lining the walls of a New York gallery, maybe even the Metropolitan. She’d smile and say to herself, I knew him when he was just a dreamer. I knew him when he found his courage and made his first mark.

  ***

  The little mare fairly flew across the dirt road and Luke continued to press his knees to her sides urging her forward with his words and body. He had only the sun to tell him that time and opportunity was slipping away as one, and his chance would soon roll away down two straight iron rails.

  His thoughts vacillated from chastisement for waking too late and for his reticence last night when first he’d seen her. Why didn’t he run to her, as Evan had to Lena and Bart to Jessie? Why had he delayed saying those things that he spent days composing in his head?

  Blessed are those who expect nothin’. That was what his father would say to him now. In fact, the gruff voice in Luke’s head spoke with the same, familiar brogue.

  His mother’s lilting voice reached out from the heavens with uncommon wisdom and surety, a counter to her husband’s harsh realities.

  Pray for the smallest graces, my boy. Start with all that matters most, before askin’ for the stars.

  And what were the smallest graces that he should pray for? By some act of Providence might the train be late in leaving. Or could he ask that the mare’s feet be swift and she would catch up to the wagon? Or should the sun stand still? Or would it be asking for the stars to come down if she were to choose to stay behind?

  The mare’s breathing beat a rhythm in Luke’s ears, nearly as loud as her hooves hammering the road when the first house appeared on the horizon. Steam rose from the north end of town, the terminus of the Oregon Short Line. Clouds of steam, caught in the breeze channeling through the Big River Valley, drifted south. The engine was firing up for departure.

  Luke leaned forward and spoke close to the mare’s ear. It rotated to his voice as he uttered his prayer for small graces. She gave a small bound and her pace increased.

  The whistle blew.

  They passed the house and Luke lay the reins against the side of the mare’s neck, giving another urgent signal to her with his knees. She was quick to respond, and seconds later the station came into view at the end of the street. Steam clouds puffed from the engine’s stack and by slow degrees the train began to inch forward.

  Luke kicked free of the stirrups and tore up the station steps, where steam rolled like fog obscuring the platform. He raced to the passenger cars, scanning each window, hoping for that one small grace. Please God.

  No matter how many times you ask, sometimes the answer is, no, my boy.

  As the engine puffed south and the last car passed beyond the platform, only a thin fog of steam lingered. Still winded, he bent forward, resting his hands on his knees, waiting for his racing heart to slow. Accepting the answer to his prayer would take time. He lifted his head staring after the train as it took a bend in the road south. Some small movement caught his eye, and he turned
to the station house.

  A young woman with alabaster skin and eyes the color of precious jade stood at the edge of the platform. A shy, tentative smile brightened her somber countenance, and there were questions in her eyes.

  Luke stood transfixed, wondering if he’d gone mad with his disappointment at finding her gone. Was he only imagining? In three strides, he stood before her. Half-believing she might be some apparition, he didn’t speak for fear she’d vanish like a fey faerie.

  Dawn reached up and lifted a lock of hair from his brow, exposing his wound. She pressed her finger lightly to it. “Your badge of courage.” The beginnings of a smile played across her lips. “Your eyes are the color of the sky. How could I have forgotten that?”

  Luke took her hand and brushed the palm with his lips. “I will make sure you never do again, for they shall be mine you see when you rise at dawn and when you go to rest at night. If you’ll have me, poor as I am and poor as I’m likely to be.”

  Only a heartbeat passed before her lips curved into an answering smile. And then he drew her into his arms, pressing his lips to hers. Not all their questions were answered in that embrace, but the ones that mattered most were answers as clear as the blue Idaho sky stretching over them.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Daring to Dream

  “There is nothing like a dream to create the future.” Victor Hugo

  October 5, 1890

  Sunlight danced on Rowena’s curly locks as she cradled the black and white kitten in her arms. Lena sat close to her side on the back porch, her legs stretched out catching the last of fall’s warming sunlight. She stroked the toddler’s hair much as the child petted the kitten’s head. “What shall we name her?”

  Rowena looked up and said firmly, “Daisy!” emphasizing the D.

  Lena smiled. “That’s what you named the calf and the half the chicks.”

  Turning back to the kitten, the child cooed, “Daisy.”

  “You like flowers, don’t you?”

  “Daisy,” she repeated.

  “How about Rose?”

  Rowena shook her head emphatically. “Daisy.”

  “Aster has a nice sound, and it’s a very pretty flower. In fact, look over there by the barn. Those bright orange and pink flowers are all asters.”

  The child looked up, her lips pushing into a pout, making her look startlingly like her mother. “Daisy.”

  “Kitty!” Tommy cried as he toddled out the front door in front of his mother.

  The sudden movement startled the kitten. She jumped from Rowena’s arms and made a dash for the barn.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” Rowena cried as she pulled her hand to her chest.

  “Did the kitty scratch you? Let me see,” Lena turned the child around on her lap and gently took a look at the injured arm. “Oh, it’s just a kitty-sized track.”

  “Hurts,” she whimpered.

  “Me see, too!” Tommy leaned over Lena’s shoulder, a gleeful curiosity brightening his freckled face.

  “Tommy, let her be,” Jessie picked up the boy and sat beside Lena and Rowena on the porch step. “You okay, Birdie?” Jessie prodded the little girl’s tummy with a finger.

  Rowena giggled and turned her face into Lena’s shoulder.

  “I heard from Mrs. Fitzgerald that the Webster family sold out and plan to move to Hailey,” Jessie said. “That’s the second family this month. I’m getting worried about the town. Aren’t you worried about the town? I mean the silver depression’s a real concern to most folks. What if the smelter closes down? What if the train stops running? What if people stop traveling here?”

  “That’s a lot of what-ifs, Jessie.”

  Tommy wriggled free of his mother’s arms and waddled off after a marauding rooster.

  “Well, we can’t go on pie-in-the-sky like and ignore what’s happening, can we?”

  Lena rocked back and forth as she felt the child relaxing in her arms. She was due for a nap. Lena answered the only way she could think that would make sense of her stubborn refusal to heed the warning signs. She’d done that once before in Sawtooth City and nearly gotten Evan killed. “As long as Evan believes we have a chance to make this ranch pay, I’m not willing to be the naysayer to his hopes.”

  Jessie blew out a breath through her pursed lips. “I suppose.” She gave Lena a crooked smile. “You know Bart and I won’t leave you two alone. Even if the creek rises, we’re in this together.”

  “That means a lot to both of us, Jessie.”

  “There you are!” Bart backed out onto the porch, struggling with a crate of unusual dimensions. “I’ve been calling you from the front porch.”

  “Well, it’s clear we didn’t hear you, isn’t it?” Jessie jumped up and held the door for him. “What’s that?”

  “Came in on the train today. Something from Mr. Brennan, judging from the address,” he said.

  “Well, open it up, Bart!”

  “Patience, Jessie, patience.” He grinned. “Do you want me to open it, Lena? It’s addressed to you.”

  “By all means. Please open it. Is Evan still in the barn?”

  “Nope. Right here.” Evan strode around the corner of the house and stepped up onto the porch, a hammer and crowbar in his hands.

  The two men worked in tandem, wedging the lid off the wooden crate in short order.

  “There’s a letter on top,” Evan said, lifting up an envelope. “It’s from Miss Fairburn.”

  “Give it to Jessie to read to us,” she whispered. “I don’t want to wake Rowena.”

  “I’m not as good at reading as you, but here goes.”

  Dear Friends,

  You have all been much on my heart these past few months. I don’t think I ever thanked you sufficiently for the time you gave Luke and I to get to know each other better. Allowing us to stay on for another month meant the world to us both. Your wisdom and counsel gave us much to contemplate. As a result, I think our decision to wait to marry has given us an opportunity to examine our goals independently.

  Father thinks we’re being entirely too modern in our thinking. He still believes in love at first sight. I’m hoping that works for him as he and Mrs. Corbyn have wasted no time in planning their wedding for this Christmas. She is truly a very fine lady, and I can tell that she loves my father for who he is, as do I. On that we are in complete agreement.

  We have been working together on Father’s campaign, and I must admit, working well as a team. It has taken time to adjust to compromises, and my patience is being well exercised. But then, I suppose hers is as well. I can be quite stubborn. We think his chances for election are very good. Next month will reveal whether our optimism is well-founded.

  As you know, Luke made the decision when he was with you to leave his illustrating job with The St. Louis paper. He has taken up Nathan’s offer to share his studio here in New York. As I had hoped, the two have become fast friends. They have so much in common that it came as no surprise to me. I wish you could hear them chattering on about their work like women at a tea party.

  Luke is intrigued by how photography captures details missed by the eye. I’m not sure how he plans to integrate the two art forms, but it will be fascinating to see where his interest will take him. He really is a brilliant artist and I am happy to report that I am not the only one who shares that view. A few of his smaller watercolors are already displayed in a local gallery. Do you recall the sketch he made on the train of the child holding her kitten? A friend of ours purchased the finished painting last week.

  By now, I hope the crate has arrived. Luke wanted me to explain the work he has sent.

  “There are two pictures in here,” Evan said. “They’re framed. That’s why the box was so heavy.”

  Bart tugged on the first one, grunting as he pulled it from the crate. “This is the biggest one in there.”

  “Turn it around, Bart,” Jessie said, her voice high-pitched with excitement.

  “Give me a minute.” He carefully tore off the protecti
ve wrapping paper and turned it for them to see the painting beneath. As he did, he gave out an appreciative whistle.

  Evan stepped back to stand beside Lena.

  Lena gave out a small gasp as she took in the scope of the landscape. It was their valley in the full bloom of summer when the aspen trees shimmered in sunlight and the brush glowed as though lit from within. A dozen head of cattle were scattered along the length of the creek, and in the foreground, Evan sat in profile, his head up and alert like that of his horse, Gambit.

  Evan stood silent, his expression both soft and serious. Lena reached up and took his hand. “He’s captured you and your dream.”

  “It appears he has.”

  “Here’s what Dawn says about the painting.” Jessie picked up the letter and resumed where she’d stopped.

  I love how Luke has depicted Evan protectively looking out for the herd. Luke has entitled it “The Watchman”. He hopes you are pleased and wanted me to say how much he appreciates the patience Evan took with him. He says that Evan was the best teacher a man could ask for.

  The second painting is for the ladies of the Hartmann Ranch. Luke is calling it “Tender Graces”.

  Bart lifted the second, smaller painting and turned it for them all to see. In the foreground, Lena sat before the fire with Rowena and an open book. To her side, Jessie held Tommy, captured in one of his uncharacteristically quiet moments, an impish smile on his freckled face.

  “Oh, how dear!” Jessie exclaimed. Tommy wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck and asked, “What’s dear?”

  She pulled him into her arms, laughing. “You are, silly. My little dear.”

  Rowena stirred and sat up rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “Look, Rowena. It’s a picture of you,” Lena whispered.

  The little girl starred at the painting for a while, then turned to face Lena. She brought her little hands to Lena’s face and patted it softly. “And Nana.”

  Lena’s heart swelled to nearly breaking as this revelation of joy filled her with tender mercies. Yes, her arms were full, not with a child of her own flesh, but two no less dear to her heart.