Early Dawn

by Catherine Anderson

  One evening as they returned to camp after laundering their clothes, Eden seemed withdrawn and distant. When Matthew’s arm accidentally brushed against hers as they walked, she put more space between them. Then, back at the fire, she scowled as she stirred the stew she’d put on to cook before they left.

  “What deep thoughts are putting that frown on your face?” he asked.

  When she glanced up, Matthew leveled a solemn look at her and added, “If you’re thinking about the Sebastians again, get them out of your head. That part of your life is over. Remember?”

  Her lovely mouth tightened, and she bent over the pot again. Worried, Matthew sat cross-legged near the fire, rested his forearms on his bent knees, and studied her downturned face. She hadn’t been this quiet and remote for days. Had he said or done something to offend her?

  “Eden, can you talk to me? What’s troubling you?”

  She finally met his gaze. “I’ve never been one to prevaricate, Matthew. Perhaps you shouldn’t ask that question. You may not like the answer.”

  Prevaricate? There was a word Matthew had never heard, but he got the gist of its meaning. “If I don’t like the answer, I don’t like the answer. Something’s bothering you. Maybe I can help.”

  She worried her bottom lip with small, pearl white teeth. “It’s just—” She broke off and went back to stirring again. “I’m worried about the way I’m starting to feel about you.”

  “How, exactly, are you starting to feel?”

  Clanking the spoon against the pot with each turn, she murmured something he didn’t quite catch.

  “Come again? I couldn’t hear you.”

  She stopped stirring, met his gaze, and swallowed hard before repeating herself. “I’m starting to feel attracted to you.”

  Trying to look perfectly calm and unruffled by her admission, Matthew shifted into a crouch and leaned around the fire to pour himself some coffee. Only he forgot to watch how full the cup was getting, and hot liquid spilled over the rim onto his hand. “Son of a bitch!” He dropped the cup, started waving his hand, and barely managed to set the coffeepot back over the flames without upending the whole works. “Damn.”

  Eden had spare water in a pan that she hadn’t needed for the stew. She rushed around the fire. “Here, Matthew, put your hand in this. It’ll lessen the burn.”

  He jerked away when she reached for his wrist. “Don’t. I’m fine. My hands are tough as leather.”

  Eden had felt those hands on her bare skin—their rough texture, their strength and gentleness. Even after what she’d been through with the Sebastians, she couldn’t honestly tell herself that she would dread having him touch her that way again. Madness. Deep down, she knew she wasn’t ready for any form of intimacy. But the feelings were still there—and growing stronger. It was as if a tiny leak had sprung in a dike, and no matter how hard she tried to hold back the flow, the feelings seeped into her anyway. She guessed it was because Matthew was so nice. She’d started to think of him as a friend, and she trusted him now almost as much as she did her brothers. Being attracted to him felt right somehow, and natural.

  She returned to her place at the opposite side of the fire and crouched back down. “I’ve shocked you. I apologize for that. My brother David says I’m the most plainspoken person he’s ever known, and he doesn’t mean it as a compliment. You asked me a question. I knew better than to answer it, but you insisted.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face and blinked. She’d seen him do that once before when she’d scolded him for trampling the clematis. She guessed it was a habit of his when something set him off balance.

  Matthew surprised her by saying, “You’re not thinking straight right now. That’s all it is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “It’s clear as rain to me. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, I rescued you, and now your feelings about me are all mixed-up. It used to happen a lot to women taken captive by Indians. After all the mistreatment, they fancied themselves in love with the first brave who showed them any kindness. Sometimes they were so convinced of it that they resented being rescued and didn’t want to be taken home to their families.”

  Eden considered that possibility and couldn’t say for certain that he was wrong. Her emotions were in a tangle, no question about it, and she did feel profoundly grateful to Matthew, not only for saving her, but also for his kindness and understanding. When she stepped back from the situation and looked at it rationally, she had to concede that her attraction to him might stem from confusion and fade with time. On the other hand, it felt very real to her right now, and her feelings were her feelings, no matter what caused them.

  He studied her for a moment and then drew his watch from his pocket to trace the writing on the back with his thumb. “Don’t take that to mean I’m not flattered,” he told her. “Any man would be. You’re a pretty lady, and I’d have to be blind not to notice that.”

  “Thank you.”

  He returned the watch to his pocket. “There’s a problem, though. I’m not free to do anything more than look. I swore off marriage after what happened to Livvy. I failed to keep her safe, and if I took another wife, I might not be able to protect her either.” He gestured limply with one hand. “Even if I could get past that, I can’t get involved in another relationship until I’ve caught the Sebastians, and that may never happen.”

  Eden had come to understand that about Matthew, and she respected him for it. He’d vowed to love his wife forever, and he was a man of his word. That he’d honored a graveside promise for three long years, no matter how rough the going, was proof of that.

  He picked up the dirt-encrusted tin cup and stared at it as if he’d never seen it before. Then he tossed it back on the ground and strode off into the darkness. A moment later, she heard him talking to the animals. She listened to the low thrum of his voice and sighed. Would she never learn to keep her mouth shut? David was right; honesty wasn’t always the best policy. Now Matthew felt uncomfortable around her, and she couldn’t blame him. It had been inappropriate to confess her feelings. When a lady felt attracted to a man, she was supposed to bat her eyelashes, simper, and blush prettily, not come right out with it.

  The odor of scorched stew startled her into jerking the pot from the fire. She gave the contents a stir, and then tasted to see how badly it was burned. Passable. Maybe if she added more salt, he wouldn’t notice.

  He returned to the fire a few minutes later. After rinsing his cup and pouring more coffee, he hunkered down across from her again. Eden had grown accustomed to long silences between them, but this one was different. The air was thick with tension. When she could bear it no longer, she said, “I’m sorry, Matthew. I—”

  “Let’s let the subject drop. Okay?”

  She glanced up at him. “I was only going to say that I burned the stew.”

  He had just taken a sip of coffee and almost choked on it when he laughed. “Oh.”

  Pleased that he was smiling again, Eden gave the contents of the pot another stir. “I don’t think it’s too bad. I caught it in the nick of time.”

  “I’ve eaten burned stew before. I reckon I’ll survive as long as my belly gets full.”

  She moved the bread off the coals and went to the packs to get them each a plate and spoon. Minutes later, they settled down to eat, at first in silence, then with occasional exchanges of impersonal conversation. Eden knew Matthew’s sudden uneasiness was entirely her fault. Down at the creek, they’d laughed and joked while they washed their clothes. Now it was as if he had erected a wall between them.

  “I’m sorry for being so forthright about my feelings, Matthew. Truly, I am. I know it was inappropriate. I have a tendency to say whatever’s on my mind. It’s an unbecoming trait, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t find it unbecoming, just a little unsettling.”

  Judging by his tense behavior, Eden guessed that was an understatement. They cleaned up after supper and went to bed without speaking. Ton
ight Matthew didn’t put his arm around her, and Eden fell asleep missing the comforting weight.

  The following morning, Matthew said very little over breakfast, and whenever Eden tried to meet his gaze, he looked quickly away. While they readied the horses to ride, he avoided touching her. She also noticed that he frequently drew his watch from his pocket to trace the lettering on its back, almost as if it were a talisman to protect him against evil. At first that irritated Eden; then it began to amuse her, and finally, it made her feel sad. Any man who went to so much trouble to hold a woman at arm’s length had to feel threatened by her. Given that Eden lacked the physical strength to overpower him, the only explanation for his wariness was that he must be as attracted to her as she was to him.

  Poor Matthew. Living as he did wasn’t natural. Didn’t he realize that he had needs, not only physical ones, but emotional needs as well? He was a caring, gentle person. She had witnessed his kindness with the horses and mule, always putting their welfare before his own. During breaks and at the end of the day, the animals drank, ate, and were rubbed down before Matthew ever saw to his own comforts. He was a man with a deep capacity for love, and he was denying himself that to honor the memory of a wife who probably wept in heaven to see him leading such a lonely and joyless existence.

  Midmorning, Matthew suddenly reined Smoky to a stop and then steered the horse sharply to the right before pulling to a halt again. At first Eden thought he meant to give the animals a rest, but when she saw the rigid set of his shoulders, she realized something was wrong.

  “Stay back, Eden,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t move and draw attention to yourself. If he leaps, I want him to come for me.”

  Eden glanced frantically around, and then she saw the cougar, a huge male, crouched just above Matthew on an outcropping of stone. The cat was tensed to spring. An adult mountain lion had powerful jaws that could snap a man’s spine with one crushing bite at the nape of the neck. It was also capable of disemboweling prey with one swipe of its claws.

  Doing as Matthew had told her, she kept her gaze riveted on the cat and didn’t so much as twitch a muscle. Matthew. He had moved between her and the lion, and he meant to keep it that way so she wouldn’t get hurt. In that moment, Eden knew she was falling in love with Matthew Coulter—hesitantly and warily, yes, but falling in love, all the same. He was putting his life on the line to protect her from harm.

  She held her breath, praying that the creature would back off and leave them alone. Why on earth didn’t Matthew grab his rifle? The Sebastians, she realized. He was afraid the sound of a high-powered weapon would carry and lead the gang right to them.

  Just then, Herman smelled the cat and let loose with a frightened bray, sidestepping and jerking against the lead rope to get away. The shrill scream of the mule was all it took to spur the feline. A blur of speed, it leaped from the rock at Matthew, knocking him off his horse upon impact. Eden drew both her guns, but man and lion rolled over the ground in such a tangle that she couldn’t fire her weapon. Oh, God, oh, God. Matthew was going to be ripped to pieces.

  She slid off her mount and ran closer, hoping to get a clear shot. She was trying to take aim when steel flashed in the morning sunlight. Matthew’s hunting knife. He swung it out to the side and, with a powerful thrust, buried the blade in the cat’s neck and then twisted the hilt. For a horrible instant, the lion kept fighting, but then it growled low in its throat and went limp with a whining sigh, pinning Matthew under its dead weight.

  Holstering her weapons, Eden sprang forward. “Matthew? Oh, God, Matthew, how badly are you hurt?”

  He pushed at the cougar to get it off him. Eden bent to help. Working together, they finally managed to roll the cat away. Eden dropped to her knees at Matthew’s side. His blue shirt was in shreds and soaked with blood. His dark face glistened with sweat, and his blue eyes were glassy. Grabbing the front plackets of his shirt just below the open collar, she gave a hard jerk and sent buttons flying. The sight that greeted her eyes nearly made her pass out. Deep, crimson scores ran at an angle across his well-muscled chest.

  “Oh, Matthew. Did he get you on the back, too?”

  “Just the front,” he pushed out. “I’m . . . lucky. Could’ve killed me.” His larynx bobbed as he swallowed. “Get the . . . whiskey. Nothin’ worse . . . to get infected. Gotta wash the cuts . . . as fast as you can.”

  Eden raced back to the horses. Herman was still braying and trying to break the lead. She took a moment to calm the mule so he would stand still while she dug through the packs. “It’s okay, Herman. It’s okay. It’s dead, sweetie, and can’t hurt you now.”

  When she finally found the whiskey, she hurried back to Matthew. As she tugged the cork from the jug, she couldn’t help but think how badly the alcohol would sting. Matthew fixed her with a glassy gaze. “Don’t hesitate. Do it . . . fast, and get it . . . over with.”

  She nodded and splashed the alcohol over his chest. He sucked in a sharp breath, clenched his teeth, and lay in rigid agony until the burn finally abated. Perspiration beaded on his face and ran into his dark hair. Struggling to stay calm, Eden examined the cuts.

  “Oh, Matthew, some of these will need stitches. They’re deep.”

  He closed his eyes at that news. Then, his voice gravelly, he told her where he kept his needles and thread. After finding what she needed, Eden jerked several strands of hair from Smoky’s tail before returning to Matthew. After sterilizing everything with whiskey, she laid the spare strands of horsehair on Matthew’s striated belly and threaded the needle.

  “This is gonna hurt . . . like blue blazes,” he told her haltingly. “While you’re . . . sewing me up, talk . . . to me.”

  Eden’s fingers were quivering so badly that she feared she would botch the job. She’d watched her mother stitch up her brothers, but she’d never had to perform the service herself. “What should I talk about?”

  “Any . . . thing.” He let his eyes fall closed. “Give me something . . . to think about besides . . . the pain.”

  Eden could think of nothing. The horrible task that lay ahead of her dominated her thoughts. She fixed her gaze stupidly on a scar near his heart, which she guessed had been put there by one of the Sebastians’ bullets the day of the ambush at the Lazy J.

  “There’s a mark . . . on your left ring finger,” Matthew said. “Tell me . . . about that.”

  Eden glanced at her left hand, and sure enough, John’s ring had left a faint impression. “Would you like some swallows of whiskey before I start stitching?”

  “Better save it for the cuts. Cat claws carry a lot of germs.”

  As Eden pushed the needle into his flesh, he clenched his teeth and knotted his fists with such force his knuckles went white. Frantic to distract him, she started talking, her voice trembling with regret at causing him such pain.

  “Until a week before the train robbery, I was engaged to a man named John Parrish. The impression on my finger is from the ring he gave me five years ago.”

  Matthew unclenched his teeth to ask, “What . . . happened?”

  Eden forced the needle through again. She had started to sweat almost as much as Matthew was. The needle was dull. She had to shove on it and could feel the resistance of his flesh with every pass. Knowing how badly she must be hurting him, she felt sick to her stomach.

  “Keep . . . talking,” he urged. “Don’t think . . . about what . . . you’re doing. . . . Just talk.”

  “But I’m hurting you.”

  “I’ve felt . . . worse, and I’ll . . . live through it. What . . . happened? Why aren’t . . . you wearing the . . . ring anymore?”

  “My origins didn’t measure up to his parents’ expectations.” Eden pushed on the needle again and gulped to keep from vomiting. “Oh, Matthew, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t think. . . . Just talk, I said.”

  She swallowed again. “Where was I?”

  “His parents didn’t . . . approve.”

  Her hands shook as sh
e tugged the needle through. “That’s pretty much it. They disapproved of me, and John’s father threatened to disinherit him if he went through with the marriage.”

  “So John . . . backed out?”

  “Not for quite some time. Instead he stalled and made excuses to postpone the nuptials. Idiot that I was, I never suspected that he wanted out until he wrote me a letter to end the engagement.”

  “Bastard. What the hell’s . . . wrong with your . . . origins?”

  Eden had finished sewing up the first cut. While she rethreaded the needle, she told him about her real father, Connor O’Shannessy. “He was a horrible man, a liar, a swindler, a drunk, and a killer. He took cruel advantage of my mother, knowing he wouldn’t spare her husband’s life, no matter how she shamed herself. In short, Matthew, I’m the bastard. John’s pedigree is without blemish. I don’t suppose I can blame his parents for not wanting me as their daughter-in-law or as the mother of their grandchildren.”

  “Bullshit.” He flinched at a stab of the needle. His lips had grown gray from the pain. “They should . . . have welcomed . . . you into the family with . . . open arms. Did you . . . love the . . . spineless asshole?”

  Under any other circumstances, Eden might have smiled. She’d had the same thoughts about John a few times herself. “I thought I did, early on. I was young when we met, only seventeen—eighteen when we became engaged.” Matthew had been wise to insist that she talk. It helped to take her mind off what she was doing. “Looking back on it now, I think I was more in love with the idea of being in love than I was with the man. At first, it was so exciting. Choosing my wedding dress, planning our honeymoon, poring over cookbooks so I’d be able to manage our kitchen staff, deciding what costume to wear when John took me to the theater or opera. I was so focused on all the fun things that I had very little time for soul-searching—and to be honest, at that age, I don’t think I understood what true love felt like, anyway.”