Baird fit out here. In some odd way he'd been absorbed into this society of rugged men and demanding work. It struck her all at once that he was going to have every bit as much difficulty shoe-horning himself back into his life in England as she was accommodating herself to hers in Massachusetts.
Shaken by the insight, Ardith turned to Khy again and tried to catch up with the conversation. "Fishing?" she asked. "You went fishing in the creek? Isn't a creek where most folks fish?"
"I went fishing in the creek, Aunt Ardith," the child explained with exaggerated patience. "I didn't go fishing with a pole. I went fishing with all of me."
Ardith burst out laughing and glanced at Baird. "I had no idea you were being so literal!"
"It isn't funny!" Baird scolded her. "Matt Hastings had to pull him out."
"He was down there taking a bath!" Khy volunteered. "He's in love with China, you know? And he said he didn't want to sit with her tonight smelling like cows."
Ardith laughed again with pure delight, and though Baird might have been scowling at his son, she could see a twinkle in his eyes when he looked at her.
"Damnit, Ardith!" he protested. "I figured he was old enough to be off by himself for a little while."
"I'll warrant he's just like you were when you were young."
Baird gave a comical, bone-rattling shudder. "Heaven help us all if he takes after me! My father had to cane me regularly for my shortcomings. Sometimes he was so determined to change my wicked ways that I'd have to stand at meals for two days afterwards."
Ardith could believe Baird had earned his share of punishment, but the lightness of his words belied such severity.
"Your father hit you when you were bad?" Khy piped up, understanding more of the conversation than either of them expected. "But, Papa, you never hit me."
Ardith saw the color leach out of Baird's face, saw the stark reality of his childhood dawn in his eyes.
Ardith smoothed Khy's hair and spoke the reassurance she could see Baird wasn't going to be able to give his son. "Of course your papa would never hit you, Khy."
Baird couldn't manage more than a shake of his head.
His silence and her own experiences with Baird's family made it easy enough for Ardith to imagine all the ways his father might have tried to subdue his impetuous son, and why the Northcrosses had written Baird off long before he'd had a chance to prove himself. Small wonder Baird's opinion of himself was such a shallow thing.
Ardith tucked the unexpected insight away and looked down at her young charge. "Now, Khy, will you tell me please, what happened to your clothes?"
"Jubal's hung them out to dry."
"I looked in the tent," Baird said, still sounding gruff and a little shaken. "I couldn't find anything except a pair of trousers with the knees torn out."
Ardith exhaled sharply, giving her opinion of his efforts, then brushed past him on her way into the tent. As she did, she felt his hand slip around her wrist, felt his fingers tighten and release. That fleeting touch left the imprint of his warmth on her, the imprint of his thanks.
Once inside the tent she stood breathing hard and trying to see past the sheen of tears. How could this man—of all men—have come to matter to her, too?
Swallowing her tears, she crouched beside Khy's cot and pawed through his saddlebag. She gathered up a shirt and trousers and a pair of socks.
As she emerged from the tent, Frank Barnes was riding into camp with a couple of pack horses in tow. "Buck sent me up with a few more supplies and a packet of mail," Barnes announced as he dismounted. "And there's something here he figured Miss Ardith would want as soon as she could lay her hands on it."
"Oh, what?" she asked him, as eager as a child.
With a grin, he pulled a rectangular package out of his bag. It was postmarked "Boston."
With fingers that shook she slipped the knots and ripped aside the paper. "It's my new book," she crowed, holding up a copy for everyone to see. "It's Abigail Goose Goes to Town."
Baird was suddenly beside her, peering over her shoulder. "You wrote this?" he asked her.
"I told you I was 'Auntie Ardith.'" She handed him the book and watched with a burst of anxiety as Baird leafed through the pages. She saw him smile at the illustrations and the bits of story.
Baird looked up at her, his eyes shining with pleasure. "Why, Ardith, I had no idea how clever your books were. This is the first time I've ever seen one."
"But I sent copies to Ariel. Didn't she—"
"No." His gaze met hers, then slipped away. "I can't ever remember her showing me—"
Ardith's heart constricted. She'd thought Ariel would be proud of her.
"Well, you may have that copy, if you like," Ardith offered, then went hot and cold with mortification. Good Lord! What would a man like Baird do with a book for children?
He looked up from the pages, and those bright blue eyes held hers this time. They were shining with warmth and pride. "I'd like having this. Thank you."
A smile stole across his face, making Ardith's breath catch and her stomach dip queasily. The charm and intimacy of that smile dazzled her.
Khy shuffled toward them, still clutching the blanket around him. "May I have one, too?" he asked.
Ardith drew a quick, shivery breath to regain control of herself and gave Khy her second copy. "Of course you may. I wrote it for children right around your age. You'll have to let me know if you think they'll like it."
China appeared around the corner of the chuck wagon with Matt only half a step behind her. "Oh, Aunt Ardith, please! Might I have a copy of my own?"
There had been ten volumes of Abigail Goose Goes to Town inside the package. She handed a copy to her niece, then passed another across to Durban.
He ducked his head as if he was chagrined to be offered a book meant for children so much younger than he, but something about the way he cupped the volume in his two hands made Ardith think he was pleased to have it.
The cowboys gathering around the fire for the evening meal each wanted to examine a copy, and she passed out all but one. The men who didn't read exclaimed over the illustrations. The ones who could read passages aloud. Even Khy took a turn.
None of her previous books had received such a joyous reception when they arrived at the house in Concord. She was not sure the people she'd lived with for sixteen years had so much as turned a page or read a syllable of what she'd written.
Now Matt and China sat with their heads together looking at the pictures. Jubal Devereau clutched a copy in one hand while he stirred the beans with the other. Baird gathered Khy on his lap so they could read together. Durban fell over laughing at one of the illustrations. Brawny, gruff-voiced men discussed Abigail's adventures as if they were the Bard's own words.
Ardith had never seen anyone smile at her pictures or chuckle over her sly humor. She hadn't known that watching people read her work could warm her so, that it could give her such a feeling of belonging, of sharing herself. She clasped her own copy to her chest, knowing that no matter what she had written before or would write after this, the book about Abigail Goose would always be her favorite.
* * *
Ardith didn't get around to the letter Gavin had sent with the books until everyone else was in bed. She read with the bed-covers bunched around her ears against the chill and the lantern turned low.
Boston, Massachusetts
July 17, 1882
My Very Dear Ardith,
Enclosed please find ten copies of "Abigail Goose Goes to Town," your most recent publication from Rawlinson Books. I believe this is your finest effort to date. The text is wonderfully wry, and the illustrations are so colorful and lively that it should come as no surprise that in the last three days we have sold nearly a thousand copies in our Boston bookstore alone! The other "Auntie Ardith" books are selling well, also. Two of them have gone back to press. Needless to say, your most humble publisher (me) is delighted with your success.
All this wonderful news has ma
de me wish that you were here. I would love to overwhelm you with flowers and take you somewhere special for a celebratory supper. We might even toast your considerable accomplishments with a sip of champagne.
Ardith smiled, imagining herself seated across the table from Gavin. There would be the gleam of silver and crystal, a soft melody from a violin ensemble playing nearby, an attentive waiter bringing glasses.
Gavin would smile at her, his eyes that warm, deep amber. She imagined how a flush would rise in her face, as he raised his glass to her. "To you, my very dear Ardith," he would say.
Ardith squeezed her eyes shut to hold on to the fantasy, but it was replaced almost immediately by the reality of Khy nestled in Baird's lap as they had read together only a few hours earlier. Of China and Matt poring over one of the slim volumes, of Durban and the grizzled cowboys laughing.
She blinked the memory away and turned up the lantern.
Things here at the publishing company have gone on as you would expect. I did steal away to our place at the shore for several days, as the weather has been very fine. My nieces and nephews do so enjoy playing in the ocean. I took everyone out in the sailboat one afternoon, which left us all tired, a little waterlogged, and very sunburned.
As much as I enjoy spending time with my sisters' children, I am beginning to consider having a few of my own. Can you imagine, my dear Ardith, that I would make a passable husband and father? Do you think that there is a woman somewhere who might be willing to take up with a gruff old bachelor like me?
As a matter of fact, Ardith had given Gavin Rawlinson's qualifications as a husband and father a good deal of thought. He'd proved himself responsible by taking over the family business when he was only eighteen. He'd looked after his widowed mother and six younger sisters. He liked and understood children. He'd known enough about children's needs to insist she book a sleeper and overnight in Chicago on the trek to Wyoming. He'd been considerate enough to provide a hamper of food for the first leg of the trip.
Gavin wouldn't lack for women willing to share his life, once he started courting. He was handsome, well-spoken and rich—the answer to a maiden's prayer. Once she'd imagined he was the answer to hers. She'd been smitten with Gavin the moment they met and had indulged herself in fantasies of what things might have been like if she'd been pretty and a few years younger. Of course, those fantasies had come to naught. He had never noticed her, never seen the way she looked at him, never considered her more than a friend. He had certainly never imagined her as part of his future. And now even Gavin was becoming a part of a life that felt too staid, too confining. Too tied to the dreams of a woman Ardith feared she would never be again.
With a sigh, she went back to reading.
Before I put this in the post, I do want to comment on the watercolor sketches you sent with your last letter. I was very taken with the one of the Negro cowhand. You captured him so very well. I could see both the ravages of slavery in his countenance, and the pride he must feel at being his own man. You have a talent for portraiture, my dear. One, I venture to say, that is only beginning to break free. Do send me more of your work when you can. I would also very much like to see your oil paintings when you feel you have perfected your technique.
Odd as it may seem, I find that the longer this visit to Wyoming lasts, the more your absence chafes at me. I am most disturbed to learn that you are staying longer than you planned. I had not realized how much I cherished seeing you, or how much of a hardship your absence would become. I often find myself wondering what you would say about some play or lecture I've attended, or someone new who has joined our circle. I try to sustain myself with rereading your letters, but it is not the same as having you here.
Considering your fascination with the West, I know you must be enjoying your experiences. But do not forget that there are those of us in the East who wish you would conclude your business and come home. Count me as one of them.
Most affectionately,
Gavin
Ardith smiled and tucked the letter away. Bless Gavin for his faithful correspondence. She would have a good deal to tell him about these weeks in the summer camp—everything from what the country was like to how they had managed without the most basic facilities. She would write him first thing in the morning.
* * *
Where had that fool woman gotten off to now?
Baird had warned Ardith not to go sketching by herself. Buck had warned her, and Jubal had admonished her about it at breakfast. This wasn't like stealing away to paint the view from the ridge above the ranch. It was wild country up here. Ardith would do well to remember that.
Following her trail, Baird nudged Dandy up the course of a fast-flowing stream. Over the millennia it had scoured its way through solid rock to gouge a narrow, steep-sided valley that sliced deep into the heart of the towering peaks. Water hissed along its course in lace-trimmed swirls, and the air was so crisp it burned your lungs to breathe it.
He leaned sideways in the saddle and studied the damp, scattered stones at the edge of the stream. Ardith had passed this way not long before, moving slowly, probably looking for something to paint. He had nearly reached the end of the jagged valley when he came upon her. She was settled half a dozen yards up the bank with her drawing board braced across her knees, and her art supplies arrayed around her.
She was hard at work and oblivious to his arrival, just like she'd been that day on the ridge. But Primrose, her buttermilk pony, had whickering once in greeting.
Baird squinted at the scene before him, trying to see it with an artist's eye. Aspens rustled in whispers of green and gold. The cliff face was stained dark where the stream trickled down from above. A pristine pool lay at the base of the cliff, holding up a mirror to the azure sky.
Yet even in the midst of all this splendor, Baird found his gaze drawn to Ardith. She had changed so much, changed in a way that made it impossible for him to find even a wisp of the reticent girl he'd known in London. The way she'd jumped down from the buggy and faced him that first day had made him realize how strong and stubborn she'd become. Now she seemed to have changed again, becoming calmer, softer, though no less determined that he accept his responsibilities where the children were concerned. Bringing them to the summer camp had proven that. Still, she expected no more of him than she did of herself.
Somehow it was holding her book in his hands, reading her words and lingering over her illustrations that made him able to see the whole of her transformation. It made him realize how bright and fine she had become, how gentle and funny and caring. Half a world and half a lifetime from where they had begun, Ardith had become a hundred things he'd never once imagined she could be.
For now, Baird was content simply to sit back in his saddle and watch her paint. But when the cold, familiar tickle brushed the back of his neck, he knew better than to ignore it. He instinctively scanned the sun-dappled shadows of the aspen grove and the parchment-gray boulders to the left of the stream where Ardith was still hard at work.
Whatever this was, Ardith's pony sensed it, too. Primrose's nostrils flared, and his ears lay back. He shifted on his feet, his attention on the rocks above Ardith's head.
Baird squinted at the spill of boulders, too. At first all he could see were jumbled shapes, sunlit crowns and blue-gray shadows. Then something moved halfway up the slope.
The hair stirred along his arms. His mouth went dry. He reached for the rifle in the saddle holster and closed his hand around the stock.
A sinuous flicker of yellow came and went—a good deal closer to Ardith this time. He was just pulling the rifle free when the animal broke cover. Baird froze.
It was a tiger.
Gooseflesh swept down his back and arms. His ears rang. He started to shiver. Dandy sensed his agitation and shifted restively.
The cat stalked nearer. A yellow head came into view. A tail switched and disappeared.
It was a mountain lion.
Ardith's pony huffed and blew, straining a
gainst the looped reins.
Ardith kept working.
What the hell was wrong with her? Didn't she sense the danger? He'd warned her and warned her...
He sucked in breath to shout and couldn't squeeze so much as a word up his throat.
Bram hadn't had any warning, either.
Baird dragged the Winchester fully out of the saddle holster, his hands slick with sweat.
He had to save Bram.
He had to save Ardith.
Backpedaling, Ardith's pony whinnied, frantically fighting his tether. Ardith finally looked up, blinking like a sleepwalker.
Realizing there was something wrong, she shoved her drawing board aside. She scrambled to her feet, pistol in her hand.
Behind her Primrose screamed, half rising on his haunches. His tether snapped and the horse bolted, splashing up the stream. Dandy tried to follow, but Baird checked him hard.
The cat loomed on the rock not ten feet above Ardith's head.
The tiger appeared out of the trees.
Ardith lurched backward and raised her gun.
Baird jammed the rifle stock into his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel, sweat stinging his eyes. He was shaking too hard to draw a bead on the animal.
"Goddamn you!" he His heartbeat throbbed in his throat. "Goddamn you, shoot!"
He was failing Ardith, just as he'd failed Bram.
He couldn't pull the trigger.
The big cat jumped.
Ardith straightened, raised her pistol like a duelist and fired. The report of the gunshot chattered up the canyon.
The lion yowled and landed hard barely a yard from where Ardith had been sitting. She raised her gun and backed away.
Fighting its way to its feet, the cat snarled, then limped off into the aspen grove.
Ardith watched him go, then teetered like a child's tower of blocks as her knees gave way. She crumpled to the ground.
Baird shoved the rifle into his saddle holster and kicked Dandy upstream. He dismounted on the fly, sank down beside her and dragged her into his arms.
"Ardith! For the love of God, Ardith! Are you all right?"
Color of the Wind Page 18
