Color of the Wind

by Elizabeth Grayson

  The storm chased them all the way down the mountain, but the deluge didn't overtake them until they were almost back to the house. Myra hurried them all into hot baths and dry clothes, and served up soup for supper. They stood in the shelter of the back porch afterwards and looked out at the rain. The peaks where they had been only that morning were sheathed in clouds, deep impenetrable barriers that pulsed with light.

  "I'm glad we came home," China said, turning back inside. "Thunder and lightning scare me."

  The boys had both gone off to bed when someone came thumping up onto the porch and pounded at the door.

  Ardith and China exchanged startled glances. Who could be out in weather such as this? Ardith took up her pistol and, with China on her heels, went to open the back door.

  A rail-thin man stood shivering on the porch. His slicker was limp with wetness, and the brim of his Stetson straggled down in the front, all but hiding his face. When he snatched it off, he splattered water everywhere.

  "Lem?" Ardith asked, her lips gone suddenly stiff. "Oh, Lem, is Baird all right?"

  Lem wrung his hat in his two shaking hands. "Yes ma'am. He sent me down to tell you."

  "Tell me what?" Ardith held her breath.

  "There was an accident just after the storm blew in," Lem began, his pale eyes filling with tears. "I'm sorry to tell you, ma'am. Young Matt Hastings got struck by lightning."

  Ardith felt the blood drain out of her face. "Is he—Could you—"

  "He's dead, ma'am. I'm sorry."

  From behind her, Ardith heard a hopeless whimper of disbelief, and as she turned, China slumped to the floor.

  Chapter 11

  Ardith looked up from where she was seated at the edge of her niece's bed when she heard the tread of boots across the porch.

  "Do you think that's my papa?" China asked in a small, muffled voice, never raising her head from her tear-wet pillow.

  Ardith stroked back a few tangled strands of the girl's damp hair. "I'll go see," she promised and climbed to her feet.

  Baird was hanging his slicker on the coat rack when Ardith emerged from China's bedroom.

  "Thank God you're here!" she whispered, hurrying toward him.

  "Is China all right?" he asked and turned to her.

  Ardith stopped and stared. "Are you?"

  He was stoop-shouldered and haggard and soaking wet. His face was gray, and his eyes seemed as stark as the craters of the moon. Instinctively she reached for him.

  He straightened as if every bone and sinew were protesting. "I'm fine."

  Though she knew he was lying, she let it pass. She asked about Matt instead. "Lem said it was lightning that struck Matt down."

  Baird nodded, but seemed too weary to form the words to tell her more.

  She stepped closer to the man who just last night had been both her temptation and nemesis. Nearer to the man from whom she had sworn to keep her distance. She tightened her fingers around his arm, offering her strength, offering her comfort. Knowing full well that she must add to the burden he was carrying.

  "China needs you."

  Baird closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. "I knew she would. I wish I could have gotten here sooner, but I wanted to be the one to bring Matt home."

  Grief burned in her throat. The tears Ardith had held inside for hours threatened to breach the rim of her lashes. "I'm glad you took such good care of him."

  "My little girl loved him," he said simply. "It was the least I could do."

  He looked toward the door to China's bed chamber. "Is she in there?"

  Ardith inclined her head. "She's been waiting for you."

  "As if I knew what to say to her."

  His voice was as stark as his eyes, and she slid her arm around his waist, drawing him against her. She could feel the dampness of him through her clothes, sensed the marrow-deep weariness that made him bow his head over hers.

  "She's your little girl," Ardith whispered. "Why don't you start out holding her?"

  "Will that be enough?"

  Ardith wasn't sure anything either of them could do would be enough. She had been patting and stroking and babbling platitudes for half the night, but China was inconsolable.

  "You're her papa, Baird. She needs you with her."

  She felt him nod against her hair. He straightened slowly. She could feel his fear and reticence in every movement, in the way he shifted back onto his heels, in the deliberate lift of his chest, in the way he relinquished the hand he'd lain against her back.

  She saw the long, hard look he gave at the bottles of whiskey on the sideboard. She would hardly blame him if he took a good strong dose of whiskey to prepare himself for what lay ahead.

  He made it to the door to China's bed chamber without so much as a drop. He knocked softly and wrapped his hand around the knob. He took a long, uneven breath and squared his shoulders. For a man who'd spent his life running from responsibility, opening that door and facing his daughter was an act of almost unimaginable courage.

  She watched through a sheen of tears as he pushed the panel wide. Beyond the door, China lay sprawled on the bed like a broken angel. Her face was stained with fresh tears, and at the sight of her father, any pretense she'd made of bravery crumbled.

  "Papa?" she said, her voice quaking.

  "It's all right, sweetheart," Ardith heard Baird murmur as he stepped inside. "You'll be fine now. Papa's here."

  * * *

  It's all right. Good God, what was he saying? He couldn't make this right for his little girl. Matt Hastings was dead. The boy his daughter loved had been struck down violently, senselessly, and he had the audacity to tell her he could make things better.

  What he wanted to do was hold her. He closed the door behind him and crossed to the bed. China lay pale and rumpled and limp, her tear-streaked face turned up to his.

  He eased down beside her, braced his back against the headboard, and gathered her into his lap. She sighed and curled against him like she used to when she was little, drawing up her knees and burying her face against his throat.

  "How are you, baby girl?" he whispered.

  He hadn't called her that in years, not since she'd stopped wearing pinafores and perching on his knee. The endearment brought her nestling, shifting against him, going heavier somehow. Not since the first time he'd held her had she felt so fragile in his arms.

  He rested his cheek against her hair.

  It took some time for her to get up the courage to ask. "Papa." He could tell she was trying to be strong, but her voice wavered anyway. "Is Matt—is Matt really dead?"

  Baird saw that he was going to be the one to crush the last of her hope. The knowledge of what he must say to her made him hate himself. The ache at the base of his throat was like a collar of iron.

  "I'm sorry, China. I'm so sorry, baby girl."

  She breathed a soft cry, and he gathered her closer.

  "It's not fair," she whispered around a sob. "It's just not fair."

  "No, baby girl, it isn't fair. It isn't fair, and I'd do anything in the world to change it if I could."

  She shuddered in his arms, weeping brokenly, then catching her breath and sobbing again. She clung to him, her slim body shivering with pain, and all he could do was hold her.

  He cradled his shattered daughter in his hands, rocking her gently. He stroked her hair and her cheek and the turning of her shoulder. He crooned to her, odd bits of a lullaby he hadn't even known he remembered.

  The wildness of her weeping gradually eased, and she lay against him. He felt her go still and did his best to steel himself for the things she would ask.

  "Were you—" she finally murmured, her voice breathy and small, "—were you there, Papa, when it happened?"

  He could tell she wanted the truth, and he could see no reason to lie to her. He tightened his arms around her before he spoke.

  "I was riding beside Matt, not ten feet away. We were trying to hold the cattle, trying to keep them calm. I don't know why the lightning
struck him instead of me."

  He felt her nod and take a long, uneven breath.

  "Was he—was he in any kind of—pain, Papa?" China asked, her voice clotted with tears.

  Baird hugged her closer. "Not for a moment, China. He never knew what happened. He was singing to the cattle. You know how he did."

  He felt her nod. "Kind of low, but pretty."

  Baird could almost hear the melody in his head. "He was singing to the cattle, when the lightning came and got him. It happened in an instant. It just stopped his heart."

  He could tell that she was crying softly again, and he pressed his cheek against her hair. "I'm sorry, little girl. I know how much Matt meant to you."

  "I loved him, Papa," she declared on another sob. "He was so kind and good. He made me laugh. And he treated me as if I was something more than pretty."

  More than pretty. Thoughts of Ariel skipped through Baird's mind. Had he ever given her that, made her feel as if there were more to who she was than her beauty, her allure? Had she ever wanted him to? Yet this simple, half-grown boy had given his daughter this very special gift.

  "I made sure I was the one to bring him home. That's why it took me so long to get here, because I was taking care of Matt for you."

  He could hear her swallow hard. "Thank you, Papa."

  The words were almost his undoing. His throat closed, his vision blurred. But it had been all he could really do for her.

  "You're welcome," he managed to whisper.

  "But, Papa—" From the tone of her voice, he knew what was coming, and tried to prepare himself.

  "Why—why did this have to happen?" she asked, "Why did Matt have to die?"

  He must have asked himself that a hundred times while he was bringing Matt back. He'd sought the answer in the hiss of the rain and the gusting of the wind. In the blackness of the night and the dark of his own soul. But he had no answer.

  "I don't know why," he whispered. "No one could have done anything to prevent it. It was just Matt's time."

  Baird wasn't sure if he was voicing the assurance for her or himself. He remembered how that spear of fire had burned out of the sky, like a finger pointing to one single man out on horseback in the rain. To Matt Hastings, a decent, innocent boy. Not to him.

  She lay heavily against him, and Baird rocked her in his arms. He breathed the scent of her, half milk-fed child and half flower-bedecked woman. She was a life on the cusp, so tentative and delicate, so much in need of protection, so close to flying free.

  "Oh, Papa," she breathed against his throat. "Promise you won't leave me."

  The vehemence in her voice surprised him. He wrapped his arms even more closely around her. "No, China, no. I'm here with you. I'll stay with you as long as you need me."

  "Oh, Papa. I'm so afraid."

  "Afraid of what, sweetheart?"

  She swallowed hard, then found the courage to speak. "First Mama died. Now Matt's gone, too. Aunt Ardith is going to leave for Concord." Her voice broke again. "Everyone I love goes away. Promise me you won't leave me, Papa. Promise you won't go away and leave me here alone."

  Baird closed his eyes, overwhelmed by what she'd asked. How could he give her that promise? How could he give her a promise no man on earth could keep?

  Yet how much better had he faced the loss of the people he cared about? With Bram he'd drunk himself insensible for weeks and only gone home because he'd had no choice. When he'd found out about Ariel, he'd turned to drink again, and thrown himself into work here at the ranch.

  The very notion of losing anyone else froze Baird's own heart. And in the face of his own terror, how could he refuse to give this promise to his grieving child?

  He bound her to him, trying to reassure her with his own warmth and breadth and strength, with his own vitality. But he knew she needed to hear the words, knew he needed to make the promise and be willing to fight the world to keep it.

  "I promise, baby girl," he vowed, his voice raw with conviction. "I swear I'll always be here to keep you safe."

  He patted her and crooned to her. He offered a haven of security in his arms. He held her to him, comforting himself with her warmth, with the beat of life within her.

  After a time, he felt her go lax with weariness. The grip on his shoulder eased. Her head drooped against his chest. When he was sure she was deeply asleep, he eased her down onto the bed and drew a blanket over her.

  He stood over his eldest child, seeing her tear-smudged face and frail, sad mouth. With her pure, fresh beauty and moonbeam-colored hair, she looked so very much like Ariel. But she was stronger than her mother had been. He'd seen that tonight. Even in her grief, what she'd cared about was Matt. She'd cared about someone besides herself.

  He bent and stroked away the last of the drying tears from China's cheeks. He would have sold his soul to spare her this. He might have to sell his soul to keep the promise he had made to her. But could a daughter expect less of her father? Could a father promise less to his child?

  Baird blew out the lantern beside the bed, and the room plunged into darkness. He stood there listening to his daughter breathe, slow deep breaths punctuated by a few whispery sighs. For tonight China was safe. For tonight she was at peace.

  Satisfied that he'd done everything he could, Baird eased out of the room.

  * * *

  Ardith heard the turn of the latch and glanced up at the clock on the mantel. It seemed as if she'd been waiting for hours, staring at the door of China's room and wondering if Baird had found a way to comfort his daughter.

  He emerged at last, sagging like a man whose life had been bled away. Whatever had gone on in there had scoured deep, fresh lines between his brows and worn hollows in his cheeks.

  Ardith got to her feet and went to him. "How is she?"

  "She's asleep," he answered, his voice nearly as worn and faded as he looked.

  "And she's all right?"

  "She's as all right as she's likely to be for a while."

  Ardith ducked her head in acknowledgment. Grief took time, weeks or months of thinking and missing and weeping. She wished she knew a way to spare her niece the pain of it.

  "I'm so glad you were here when she needed you," Ardith told him. When he only nodded, she went on. "I've made some tea."

  There was a tea-cozied pot and two porcelain cups on a tray at the end of the table. Baird cast a glance at the row of decanters and sighed. "Tea would be lovely."

  As he eased into his place at the head of the table, Ardith fixed his cup. She nudged a plate of Myra's cookies in his direction. "Have you had anything to eat today? I could go to the kitchen for something more substantial if you want—"

  Baird caught her arm and steered her into the chair at a right angle to his own. "It's all right, Ardith. Food isn't going to make this better."

  She shivered a little when he took his hand away. She needed his touch. Needed it in a far different way than she had down by the stream when he'd drawn her into his arms and kissed her. She needed his warmth and his consolation, but she was afraid to ask more of a man wrung dry from giving to his daughter.

  She reached for the tea instead of him and doctored her cup with sugar and cream. "Myra has been washing and getting Matt ready," she finally said. "He looked so young lying there, like a little boy who'd just fallen asleep."

  Baird stared down into his tea and nodded.

  She drew a breath, and then continued. "I've sent Frank Barnes to see if there's anyone at Fort McKinney who could say a few words at the service tomorrow. I thought that grove of trees on the hill would be a proper place to bury Matt. Lem and Buck are going to dig the grave as soon as it's light."

  Baird closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair.

  She stared at his bowed head and noticed a few gray strands woven through the waves of silky black. There wasn't much—not even enough to make him look distinguished—but Ardith noticed. It reminded her that he was not the raffish rogue he'd been at twenty-four.

  B
aird had changed. She'd tried so hard not to admit that to herself, tried so hard not to admit that life had worn away his brashness, his thoughtlessness and arrogance. It was safer to pretend he was still the reckless youth who'd betrayed her than to acknowledge the man Baird Northcross had become. But the last of that illusion had died tonight, the moment he'd turned from hanging up his slicker and she'd seen his eyes.

  She reached and stroked his tumbled hair.

  He shuddered at her touch, and his voice was raw and low. "Please tell me there is nothing I could have done to prevent Matt's death."

  Her heartbeat fluttered and her fingers stilled. She should have known he'd blame himself.

  "Of course there was nothing you could do! Matt was out in a thunderstorm doing his job. He knew the risks—all the men know them."

  "I just keep trying to go back and rearrange what happened," he said without looking up. "As if by doing that, I can make it come out differently."

  "You were out there, too, weren't you?" When he shifted his shoulders in confirmation, she went on. "It could have been you. It could have been Lem or Bear or any of the other men."

  "It should have been me." The words hung in the air like the last notes of an organ echoing through a vast cathedral.

  She felt the heat come up in her face, took both his hands in hers, and waited. Waited until he looked up. His eyes, eyes that had always been the clear cobalt blue of prairie skies, were dark tonight. They were clouded with sorrow and weariness and resignation.

  She held tight to his hands, feeling the shift of bones and tendons beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his flesh. "But it wasn't you," she told him fiercely. "It was Matt. It was just Matt's time."

  In her mind she saw the boy's soft face, his wispy mustache, the peace on those half-formed features.

  "It was just Matt's time," she said with fresh conviction.

  She could see how much Baird wanted to believe her, how much he wanted to lay down the terrible burden of this responsibility. She held him tighter, willing him to accept the things he could not change and might never understand.