Colorado Dawn

by Kaki Warner

  She would have to tread carefully with this new Angus. This man looked to have a clear idea of what he wanted and the confidence to do what he must to get it. He wouldn’t take kindly to insubordination. Especially from a wife.

  Tossing the last of the scraps into the fire, he rose from the log bench. “If you’ll excuse us, lass, Satterwhite and I must tend the animals.”

  Earlier he had introduced his big gelding to her mules, Maisy and Buttercup. After a few snorts and sniffs, they had accepted each other and had been allowed to wander loose as they’d grazed the clearing throughout the afternoon. Now he went to collect Lurch, careful to approach from the front so the deaf animal would see him and not be startled by his sudden appearance. Then following Satterwhite and the mules, he led him to the creek for a last drink before staking him close to the wagon for the night.

  Maddie watched him, seeing in his distant form the young man she had once found so captivating.

  With his long-­legged lankiness and his gentle touch with horses, he was well suited to be a cavalryman, despite the fact that his initial enlistment had been with the Riflemen of the Ninety-­Fifth. She hadn’t known him then, as he had already transferred to the Hussars when she’d met him, “hoping to be sent to China for the Second Opium War.”

  Instead, the Tenth Hussars had been sent to Ireland, where, as he’d written in his last letter several years ago, he had been promoted to the rank of colonel “for no good reason other than I complement the flashy uniform and sit a horse well.” An odd thing for a man to say about himself and his own success.

  Yet despite his obvious disenchantment with the military, he hadn’t sold his commission, or come home to see his wife, or written to her again. And now, after years of silence, he was back in her life—­with a new title and a new name and all the power he needed to bend her to his will.

  Disheartened, she rose and began gathering the empty plates and dirty utensils. She wondered how he would react if she told him she wanted a divorce. If they were no longer married, she could continue her work, and he could find some fertile young thing to bear his heirs in exchange for the title of viscountess and a short letter every year or so. Divorce was the only sensible solution.

  And yet…

  It was almost dark when Ash returned from the creek with Lurch and Tricks. The breeze had died, and stars were winking to life in the cloudless dome overhead. It would turn cold in the night. He could feel it in his side.

  His wife sat huddled by the fire, lost in thought. After staking Lurch near the wagon, he untied the bedroll from his saddle and crossed toward her, Tricks at his heels.

  “Sit,” he told the dog. This time Tricks obeyed. Dropping the bedroll, Ash stepped over the log then sat, his hands extended to the warmth rising from the coals. “It’s a braw night, is it not? Reminds me of the Highlands.”

  “Except for the lack of fog and drizzle and stink of wet sheep.”

  So much for friendly conversation. Too weary to wrest pleasantness from an angry woman, he let it go. “Where do you want me, lass?”

  She looked at him, then at the bedroll, then back at him. He admired the way her brown eyes caught the flames and her fine cheekbones were tinted goldish pink by the glow of the coals. “Want you?”

  “To sleep. In the wagon or out—­”

  “Not in the wagon!”

  He studied her for a moment, then gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, wife?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Ash had seen fear in many forms over the years, from white-­faced recruits in India to shrieking men being carried into the surgeon’s tent in the Crimea during the siege of Sevastopol to the blank terror on a man’s face just before Ash fired the bullet that would kill him. But he’d never expected to see it on his wife’s face. He was unsure how to respond, or what to do to allay her fears.

  “I bear no grudge because of your desertion,” he assured her. “You’ve naught to fear on that score.”

  “My desertion? What about yours?”

  Ash sighed. Well, he’d tried. “Where does Satterwhite sleep?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere out here. Perhaps by the fire.” Leaning forward, she dropped her voice to add, “He’s afraid of bears.”

  “Bears? Are they a problem?”

  She sat back. “They have been. But not lately. They’re drawn to the smell of food, which is why we hang our supplies.” She pointed to where the old man had thrown a rope over a high limb and was now hoisting up a canvas bag of foodstuffs until it hung at least a dozen feet off the ground.

  “Tricks will alert us if they come near.” Reaching down, he patted the wolfhound’s knobby head. “He’s verra canny, so he is.”

  They lapsed into silence. She poked at the coals with a stick, sending up a swirling plume of sparks. Somewhere in the shadowed forest an owl hooted, which brought the wolfhound’s head around, his eyes scanning the trees. From farther away came the bugle of a bull elk, another sign of winter closing in.

  He wished she would retire to her wagon so he could sleep. Even though his headache was gone, a lingering weariness remained. And her nearness further weakened him, teased him with memories best forgotten—­the softness of her skin, the way she moved when he touched her, the sounds she made when he did.

  Bollocks. It promised to be a long night.

  After tying off the rope suspending the bag from the tree limb, Satterwhite stepped into the brush at the edge of the clearing. A few minutes later, he walked back out with an armload of firewood and carried it into the wagon. It wasn’t long before a puff of smoke coiled above the stovepipe sticking out of the roof.

  Ash studied his wife, wondering why she was wary of him and why he’d come this far seeking a woman who dinna even want him. Had he been that bad a husband? Or was it as she had said, because he had ignored her? A poor excuse. A soldier couldn’t rush home whenever the mood struck him.

  But maybe he could fix that now, show her some attention, perhaps even coax out a smile. “What will you do when it’s too cold to travel these mountains?” he asked pleasantly.

  “I’ll go home. That’s where we’re headed now. My shipment of albuminized paper and silver nitrate has probably arrived from E. and H.T. Anthony’s of New York, and I need to send my latest negative plates to London for engraving.”

  “Home, you say. And where would that be, lass?”

  She pulled the shawl tighter and anchored it beneath her crossed arms. “Heartbreak Creek. It’s a little mining town about fifty miles from here.”

  “Aye. I was through there recently.” He gave a wry smile. “You’re a difficult woman to track down, so you are.”

  “I wasn’t in hiding, Angus—­Ash. In truth, I didn’t think you would care enough to come after me.”

  Not care enough to track down his own wife and the woman who would bear his heirs? He almost laughed. Yet, in view of her resistance to him, he wondered if he should have bothered to come after her. But he had come this far, and if he was ever to fulfill his duty, he would have to resolve this marriage, one way or the other. A sad state of affairs, so it was.

  With a sigh, he leaned forward and rested his crossed arms on his bent knees. Since his wife seemed so set against him, perhaps a divorce would be best.

  And yet…

  A moth circled above the fire until the heat and smoke sent it plummeting into the flames. He felt like his own life had been in a similar downward spiral since leaving the Hussars. He’d been on the move and under orders for over seventeen years. But now that his military life was over, he no longer knew where he belonged, or what his duty was. His title was only a courtesy rank given him as the heir to an earldom; no lands or responsibilities came with it. So other than securing the line by producing heirs—­which he couldn’t accomplish without a wife—­what was he to do with himself? Gamble his nights away? Learn to tie a neckcloth properly? Wait for Donnan to die? Such a useless life was repugnant to h
im. He almost envied his runaway bride for finding a purpose she could believe in.

  “Heartbreak Creek,” he said after a while. “An odd place for a gently bred Englishwoman to call home.”

  “I have dear friends there. A family almost.”

  “Aye. I met some of them.” He stared into the flames and thought of the loyal blond hotel owner and the tall, overprotective sheriff. “But you have family in Scotland, too.”

  “No. You have family there. Mine are all gone.”

  “Gone?” He turned his head and looked at her.

  “If you’ll recall, my parents died in a carriage mishap.”

  “Did they?” Why hadna he been told? Then he remembered what an uproar the house had been in when he’d returned—­the fevers still running their courses, the funerals coming one upon the other, his own disoriented state. Still, he should have known. “When?”

  “Three years after we married. In September of sixty-­eight.”

  A month after the explosion. “I’m sorry, lass. I dinna know.”

  “Yes, Ash, you did. Or would have, if you’d actually read any of the letters I sent you.” With a look of disgust aimed in his direction, she rose from the chair. “I have an assignment in Denver coming up and must return to Heartbreak Creek to gather supplies. Mr. Satterwhite and I will be leaving at first light. We’ll try not to wake you. If I don’t get a chance to speak to you again, I’ll bid you good-­bye now and wish you safe journey back to Scotland.”

  Ash watched her walk toward the wagon. Not walk—­more like parade march, with that stiff-­backed stride. The woman had spirit. And a lot of anger. He wondered if it would be possible to rid her of one without breaking the other.

  Satterwhite came down the steps to meet her, the rat right behind him. They spoke for a moment while the rat did her business, then his wife and the dog went inside and Satterwhite walked to the front of the wagon. After pulling a bundle from beneath the driver’s bench, he crossed toward Ash. “It’ll get cold tonight,” he said, dumping his bundle of bedding on the ground beside the fire. “Hope you got something warm to wrap up in.”

  Ash looked at the wagon and thought of his wife in there all snug and cozy. With a sigh, he picked up his bedroll. At least he had Tricks to warm his back. “I’m a Highlander,” he said as he spread his blanket on the dirt. “We invented cold.”

  “Doesn’t say much for your intellect,” the old man muttered.

  Ash laughed. “Oh, it’s not so bad. On cold, clear nights like this you can see every star in the heavens. I’ve spent worse nights in worse places, so I have.” He stretched out, hands clasped behind his head, his dog snug on one side, the smoldering fire on the other, and an endless array of stars winking down at him from overhead.

  Silence settled around him, so sharp and clear he could hear Tricks breathing beside him, the hiss and pop of the fire, aspens rustling in a breeze that felt as soft as a woman’s breath on his cheek.

  It was odd sleeping in the open without the sound of soldiers moving around him, voices calling out on the picket lines, or the distant boom of cannon and crack of rifle fire. Usually he liked the solitude of it. But tonight he felt a little lost in all the dark stillness. Like one of those lonely stars hanging overhead.

  “So,” he said to the old man, suddenly needing to fill that empty silence. “Tell me about Heartbreak Creek and these friends she has there.”

  Four

  The first thing Maddie saw when she opened the door of her wagon the next morning was Ash coming up the trail that led to the creek, his hair wet, his braces off and dangling by his thighs, and his shirt hanging open.

  The second thing she noticed was the puckered web of ropey, purplish scars that covered the left side of his rib cage. She gaped in shock. When had he suffered such a massive injury?

  Then she remembered the explosion he’d said had left his horse deaf and himself so badly injured it had ended his military career. But that had happened two years ago, yet the wound was still red in spots, as if it had only recently begun to heal. Had he been recovering all that time? And why hadn’t she been told about it? Hadn’t she the right to know if her husband had been so gravely injured?

  But then, how would anyone have known where to reach her? Other than her publisher, and now her husband, no one had ever tried.

  Agnes darted past her through the open door and down the steps, then came to a full stop when her toes touched the cold, dew-­frosted grass. Balancing on her front legs, she lifted her rear high off the ground and glanced back at Maddie for help.

  “Go on, you silly thing. Do your business.”

  Her voice drew Ash’s head up. When he saw her in the doorway of the wagon, he pulled his shirt closed and angled toward her, sidestepping Agnes as she ran to greet Tricks. “So you’re finally up, lass. Will you be wanting breakfast, before we go? I believe there’s some of Satterwhite’s hardtack left.” He stopped at the foot of the steps, which put their eyes at the same level. “I saw how much you enjoyed it last evening.”

  He had the finest eyes. Green and lively and full of laughter. They were the first thing that had drawn her to him. Even now, she felt their power and had to force herself to look away. “No. But thank you.”

  “Then stow your belongings,” he called back as he walked on toward the cold fire where his jacket and bedroll lay draped over the log. “We’re hitched and ready to leave whenever you are.”

  We? “You intend to travel with us?”

  “Aye.”

  “Even though we’re headed in the opposite direction?”

  “Opposite from what?” he asked over his shoulder as he tucked his shirt into his fitted cavalry-­style trousers.

  The fabric of his shirt clung to his damp skin, giving her an inspiring view of his sturdy body in motion. As she let her gaze drift over him, a sudden image flashed in her mind—­that long back, the gentle dip of his spine, those broad shoulders and narrow hips tinted pink by the setting sun as he had dressed by the window before he had left to rejoin his regiment. She remembered lying in bed, watching him, a feeling of possession taking hold as she realized that for the rest of her life that fine strong body was hers to touch, to claim, to enjoy.

  If she’d only known then the pain that awaited her.

  “Opposite from the direction you’re headed,” she finally answered, coming the rest of the way down the steps.

  Dipping his shoulders, he shrugged on his braces, then turned to face her. “And what direction is that, lass?” he asked, reaching for his jacket.

  Away from me. “East. Toward Scotland.” She waved at the trees.

  “That’s south.” With a broad hand, he smoothed back his damp hair. It needed a trim, and where it had started to dry, the gray hairs glistened in the sun like spun silver. “And will you be coming back to Scotland with me?”

  “No.”

  “Well then.” Bending, he picked up his bedroll. “I’ll not be going to Scotland, either. Not yet, anyway. Come, Tricks.”

  Maddie frowned after him as he and his dog crossed to where Lurch stood saddled. Blast. The last thing she wanted was for her husband to insinuate himself further into her life. He’d happily ignored her for the last six years—­why couldn’t he leave her alone now?

  With a huff of irritation, she looked around for Mr. Satterwhite and spotted him at the front of the wagon, harnessing Buttercup and Maisy. Careful of her footing on the slick, frosty grass, she marched toward him. “He’s coming with us,” she muttered when she reached the old man.

  “If you mean the foreigner,” he said as he tested the curb on Maisy’s bridle, “I know.”

  “But why? He has no reason to hound me all the way to Heartbreak Creek. I’m not going back to Scotland with him. Ever.”

  “So you said.” Satisfied with the rigging, the old man walked back toward the front of the wagon.

  Maddie followed. “Besides, the man eats like a horse and we’re already running low on supplies. You said so, yourself.”


  He climbed up into the driver’s box and unwound the reins from the brake handle. “I know.”

  “You know?” Maddie gripped the wheel, the metal rim cold and gritty against her palm. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “That you’ll help me.”

  The old man sighed heavily. He muttered something under his breath, then turned to her, an impatient look in the faded blue eye pointed her way. “Help you do what, missy? Shoot him?”

  “Heavens, no!” She drew back, her whole being recoiling from the suggestion. “How could you even think such a thing, Mr. Satter­white?”

  “I wonder.” Another sigh. “He’s your husband, missy. And he seems a good man. I’d give him a chance. You riding up here, or in back?”

  “What? I—­in back, I guess.” Why was he acting this way?

  “Then get your dog and let’s be off. It’ll take us three days to reach Heartbreak Creek as it is.”

  Hurt, Maddie whirled and marched to the rear, her eyes stinging. She desperately needed her friends. Lucinda and Pru and Edwina would help her figure out what to do. They wouldn’t let her down.

  She came to an abrupt stop when she found Ash waiting by the step, Agnes tucked under his arm. The wretched beast was licking his stubbled chin like it was coated with honey.

  God. Was everyone turning against her?

  She glared at him.

  He smiled back, and the wicked twinkle in his eyes told her he must have overheard every word of her conversation with Mr. Satter­white.

  “Up you go, love, so I can secure the stair.”

  “ ‘Love’?” she mimicked. “What happened to ‘lass’? Or have you suddenly become English now that you’re a member of the peerage?”

  He grinned and sketched a bow. “I’m a bit of both, leannan, with a wee drop of the Irish thrown in.”