Colorado Dawn

by Kaki Warner

  Seeing her turn away, and wanting to keep her there for just a wee bit longer, he blurted out the first words that came into his mind. “I canna read.”

  Bluidy hell. Why had he admitted that?

  She stopped, slowly turned. He couldn’t see her face clearly in the dim light, but the sudden stiffness of her body told him he’d blundered badly. Bleeding, bluidy, humping—­

  “You can’t read?”

  Heat rushed into his face. That old panic gripped his throat so tight for a moment he couldn’t respond. “What I mean is,” he finally managed, “I can read, but it’s…​difficult. That’s why I dinna write more often.”

  She watched him, waiting.

  “The letters jumble up and make no sense.” He looked away, shame burning through his chest. “I canna explain it.”

  He heard her come closer and braced himself. If she showed him pity, he wasn’t sure what he would do.

  With a sigh, Agnes returned to the wolfhound’s side.

  “Is it your vision? Because of your injury?”

  He dared a glance but saw only concern in her eyes. Letting out a deep breath, he felt some of the tension go with it. “I wish it were that simple, lass. My eyes are fine. In fact, during my time with the Green Jackets I won most of the regimental rifle competitions. This”—­he gestured vaguely toward his eyes—­“is an affliction I’ve suffered all my life.” He thought of the beatings, the ridicule, all the long hours sweating over pages and columns that were indecipherable in his head. “But I’m verra good at other things,” he said emphatically. “I’m not simple.”

  “How could you be? You attended University, did you not?”

  “Aye.”

  “And fooled them all, it seems.”

  He allowed a tight smile. “So I did.”

  Lifting the blanket from the back of her chair, she draped it once more over her shoulders, then sat. Pulling the rough wool tight against the chill, she crossed one leg over the other and looked up at him. “How?”

  He gave a scornful laugh. “The son of a lord—­even a third son—­is given some latitude. And I have a sure memory, so I learned to do numbers and verses in my head.”

  “And if something needed to be read or written?”

  “Harry Ridgeway would help me.”

  She thought for a moment. “The same Major Ridgeway who died in the explosion?”

  “Aye.”

  He could almost hear her mind fitting pieces together. “And your letters to me? They were also written by Major Ridgeway?”

  Another wave of heat up his neck. “At my dictation,” he defended.

  A pause, then in a dry tone, “That accounts for the lack of ardor, I suppose. Did he also read my letters to you?”

  “No. I pieced those together as best I could.” He frowned down at her. “You should attend your penmanship, lass. Your ps and qs and ds and fs and ts all look the same, so they do.”

  She met his scolding look with a smile. “I’ll work on it.”

  “So you should.” Rocking back on his heels, he looked up into the night sky, feeling suddenly as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. She hadn’t laughed or mocked him, so maybe she could accept his affliction and think no less of him. If she stayed with him at all.

  “Thank you for telling me.” Rising from the chair, she carefully folded the blanket and set it on the seat, then bent and scooped up Agnes.

  “I never meant to hurt you, lass.”

  She looked up at him, the flames reflected in her eyes.

  She looked so beautiful standing there in soft golden firelight that he wanted to reach out and feel the warmth in her skin to assure himself she was real. “And I was never indifferent to you. Ever.”

  That shift in her expression again, but she looked away before he could define it. “It occurs to me,” she said as she idly scratched Agnes’s ear, “that I don’t have to be in Denver until the end of the month. Perhaps it would be best for your injury if we delayed our return to Heartbreak Creek for a day. The mules can use the rest, too.”

  “I’m fine, lass.”

  “And I noticed earlier,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “that with the sun riding low as autumn wanes, it creates the most extraordinary contrasts of shadow and light. I should like to photograph that.”

  Ash smiled. “And I should like to watch you do so.”

  “Excellent.” A quick smile, then she turned away. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  “Tomorrow, lass.” Ash watched her all the way inside her wagon, then lifted his head and smiled into the starlit sky.

  Six

  Ash lay propped against his saddle, one hand tucked behind his head, the other balancing a steaming mug of tea on his chest. Across the clearing, Satterwhite carried yet another box of photography equipment from the wagon to where a folding wooden table had been set up in the grass.

  He supposed he should go help. Or at least call Agnes so she wouldn’t keep getting underfoot. But he wasn’t yet fully awake after spending a restless night plotting strategy, and besides, if the snoring that had come from the photography tent all night was an indication, the old man was well rested. As was his wife, it seemed, judging by the briskness of her step as she moved back and forth from the tent to the clearing.

  He admired the way the rising sun haloed the wispy copper curls that had escaped her topknot and bounced about her face with every step. No measured, ladylike glide today, he noted in amusement. But the march of a woman on a mission. His wee wife had always been especially energetic in the mornings, he remembered. God bless her.

  A shadow drew his gaze, and he looked up to see a wide-­winged hawk drift by on currents rising off the warming earth. He watched it, feeling a spark of kinship with the solitary bird, as if his unfettered spirit soared beside it.

  He had told her of his affliction, and she hadn’t seemed to mind. A wondrous, liberating thing, so it was.

  At his side, Tricks yawned, which made Ash yawn.

  He really should get up.

  Instead, he lifted his head off the saddle, took a sip of tea, and sank back with a contented sigh. What a braw morning it was.

  Across the clearing, Satterwhite cursed as he tried to wrestle the wooden leg of a gangly tripod from Agnes’s snarling jaws. Nearby a brownish bird perched on Lurch’s withers, checking his mane for lice, while at the edge of the wood, wee yellow birds with black crowns and black-­and-­white wings darted in and out of the high branches, scolding a striped ground squirrel. Nary a cloud marred the icy blue of the sky.

  He wouldna mind waking up to this every morning of his life.

  Glancing over at the pot of water steaming on the coals, Ash debated whether to use it for another cup of tea or for shaving. He hated shaving in cold water. Or maybe he should ask his lady wife to shave him with that straight razor she kept in her apron. There’s a right fine idea.

  Closing his eyes, he pictured it in his mind—­sweet Maddie leaning close, her curls tickling his nose, her lips pursed in concentration just inches from his own, as if begging him to—­

  “Are you going to be a slugabed all day?”

  He opened his eyes to find his wife frowning down at him, elbows akimbo, hands on hips…​which presented an inspiring view of the underside of her full breasts as they pressed against the taunt cloth. “Hmm?”

  “It’s well past dawn. Aren’t you ever going to get up?”

  Oh, he was definitely up. Bending a leg to hide evidence of that, he smiled and lifted the mug. “Will you join me in a cup of tea, lass?”

  “I’ve had my tea. Hours ago.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll renew your offer to shave me?” He rubbed a palm over his stubbled cheek.

  Muttering, she whirled and marched toward Satterwhite.

  “Or if you’d like,” he called after her, “you can watch while I do it.”

  “Exposing a negative plate is a delicate process,” Maddie explained to Ash a half hour later as she bent to check
the thumbscrews attaching the bulky box camera to the tripod. “And to prevent light from ruining the image before the plate is to be exposed, I use this.” She held up the corner of a black cloth draped over the back of the camera. “The entire process must be completed in the dark and before the collodion emulsion on the glass has dried. Usually about five minutes.”

  “Sounds complicated.” Leaning a hip against her folding table, Ash crossed his arms and suppressed a yawn. Although he appreciated the final product, he wasn’t that interested in the process of photography. He was more a man of action. But as part of his campaign to win over his reluctant wife, he was willing to suffer through a lecture or two. Besides, he enjoyed spending time with her.

  “The tedious part is the preparation.”

  “Is it?” She had such pretty eyes. A rich, deep brown with yellow flakes in the irises, and lashes that were so long the sun shining through them cast spiky shadows across her cheeks. “Show me.”

  He liked watching her work, her hands deft and sure, her attention so focused on what she was doing he had plenty of time to focus on her, which he happily did. She was an intriguing woman, this stranger who was his wife—­smart and independent and saucy. He wanted to learn as much as he could about how her mind worked before he began his full frontal assault.

  Success is as much in the planning as the execution, his old commander often said.

  And Ash was planning on success. He wouldn’t let this woman drift away from him a second time.

  Satisfied that the camera was secure, she returned to the table to sort through one of the crates. Finding what she sought—­a thick piece of cotton paper—­she placed it on the table. “First I coated this with a mixture of egg whites and salt. Then once it dried, I dipped it into a solution of silver nitrate and water.” She paused to send him a bright smile. “That’s what makes the paper sensitive to light exposure, of course.”

  He smiled back. “Of course.”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then quickly away. “Then I dry the treated paper in darkness until I’m ready to place it in a frame with a glass plate that has been treated with the collodion emulsion mixture.”

  “Collodion?” He especially liked that arch in her brows that gave her face a perpetual expression of wonder. It always drew him closer, as if being near her might cause some of that joy in life to rub off on him.

  “It’s a liquid emulsion made of cellulose nitrate and ether and a few other ingredients. It creates fumes that are quite noxious, and if allowed to accumulate, can become highly flammable. That’s why I mix it outdoors.”

  Ash blinked. “Flammable?”

  She gave his crossed arm a reassuring pat. “Oh, I’m most careful. I store all my chemicals in airtight tins. And I hear they’re on the brink of developing a new dry process, which would ­eliminate—­”

  “Ether?” Ash straightened, his arms falling to his sides. He looked down at the boxes stacked at their feet, then at the wagon. “You store ether in there? With a woodstove?”

  He must have shouted it because she stepped back, her eyes round with surprise. “Of course not. I’m not demented. Only the negative plates are stored inside. I keep all the dangerous substances in crates on top of the wagon. That way if something does go wrong, the explosion will go upward rather than down, and the plates won’t be damaged.”

  “Plates? You’re worrying over plates? What about you?”

  Another step back. “Don’t be silly. I take all necessary precautions. It’s not as if I’m dabbling in that experimental magnesium powder that can set your hair on fire or blow off your fingers.”

  “Holy mother of mercy.” But before he could voice further objections, she slid her arm through his, and as soon as he felt the soft press of her breast against his arm, he completely lost his train of thought.

  “I’ll show you.” She led him toward the camera, and still bemused, he followed docilely along like a spring lamb.

  “We’ll start with a photograph of Buttercup and Maisy.” Releasing his arm, she moved the camera and tripod into position so that it faced the grazing mules. “First we focus.” She slid back the rear section of the camera and pointed to a glass pane in a wooden frame. “This is the focusing screen. We look through it at what we want to photograph.” Holding up the dark cloth, she motioned him forward. “Step under. Look through the glass and tell me what you see.”

  Bending, he draped the cloth over his head and peered through the glass. “Nothing. It’s blurry.”

  “Exactly!”

  Moving out from beneath the cloth, he found her grinning up at him like he’d earned a great prize. One couldn’t fault the woman’s enthusiasm. Or his reaction to it.

  “So how do we make the image sharper? By sliding this rear section in and out of the camera box.” She demonstrated.

  In and out. One of his favorites. In fact, he’d been told he was quite good at it. Once even by her. “Fast or slow?”

  “Pardon?”

  He motioned with his finger. “That in-­and-­out part. Should that be done fast or slow, do you suppose?”

  She stared at his finger. A slight flush eased up her throat. “Slow, I should think. To maintain focus, as it were.”

  “Focus. Of course. One wouldn’t want to lose focus at such a delicate time.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he gave her his best smile. “Pray continue.”

  “Ah…​yes, of course.”

  After aligning the image, she put a cap over the lens protruding from the other side of the camera box and removed the glass focusing screen from the rear. “Now comes the tricky part.” She held up a plain glass plate. “I must coat this with the collodion emulsion to sensitize it, then insert it into this holder.”

  Insert. Another favorite. “Then what?”

  She pointed to a wooden frame with a dark plate on one side. “That plate will protect the glass from extraneous light until I’m ready to expose it. But first”—­she carefully slid the glass pane into a flat pan—­“I coat it with the chemical solution—­collodion ­emulsion—­to sensitize the glass. Then I put the wet glass in the holder and slide it into the camera. All that must be done out of the presence of light. And finally, we’re ready to take a photograph. Isn’t that exciting?” She beamed up at him.

  He beamed back, and hoped he wasn’t required to remember all that.

  “This will only take a moment, but I’d advise you to step back while I mix the emulsion. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?” he asked, distraction forgotten.

  But she was already under her dark cloth, with only her rounded arse poking out as she bent over the table, mixing her witch’s brew. He cocked his head to study the shapely contours, then stepped back to get the full effect. The woman had a lovely arse. He was looking forward to reacquainting himself with it.

  At a sound, he straightened to find Satterwhite glaring at him from over by the wagon. “What?” he mouthed, feigning innocence.

  Shaking his head, the old man snatched up two water buckets and stomped toward the creek, Agnes and Tricks in tow.

  Still under the drape, Maddie reached out to locate the camera, then working blind, slid the frame into the rear of the camera. “Ready?” she called out in a muffled voice.

  “Ready,” he answered, having no idea what she was talking about but enjoying the show just the same. Trim ankles. Narrow feet. He recalled how soft the soles had felt sliding up the back of his calves.

  “I’ve removed the dark protective plate,” she called from under the drape. “Now I’ll remove the cap from the lens in front”—­which she did—­“and the exposure will begin. Count to nine.”

  Ash did, wondering if he might finagle a kiss if he did it right. When he reached nine, she replaced the lens cap and protective slide, then removed the holder from the camera. Wrapping it in the dark drape, she gave Ash a triumphant grin. “Now to process the plate in the dark tent. Come along.”

  Ash put on an expression of regret. “As m
uch as I would like to,” he hedged, “I feel I should help Satterwhite. I hate to see a man his age carrying those heavy water buckets by himself. Do you mind?”

  She did, he was gratified to notice. But politely masking her disappointment, she waved him on. “Not at all. Go do what you need to do. I’ll be a while.”

  Several hours later, Maddie slammed the door on the wagon and plopped down on her bed with a snort of disgust.

  She was in desperate need of her friends. Ever since that conversation with Ash beside the fire the previous night and his attentiveness throughout the morning, she had begun to question her decision to send him on his way. Was she so weak-willed where the man was concerned that she could so easily overlook years of neglect just for a smile and an hour of polite conversation?

  Conversation? She wanted a great deal more than that.

  She was absurd. A ninny of the first order. One of those simpering, clingy, dependent women she so despised. But the ladies of Heartbreak Creek would quickly set her back on track.

  With a sigh, she flopped back, arms thrown wide, hands dangling over the edges of the narrow bed. She stared up at the low ceiling, which she had papered with newspaper clippings of her favorite photographs, many taken by Matthew Brady during the War of the Rebellion, and others by Tim O’Sullivan, who so beautifully chronicled the expansion of the West. There were even a few of her own up there.

  And the newest—­a lovely albumen print she had taken in secret just this morning—­was of Ash, with Tricks at his knee, talking to Lurch. His head was slightly downcast, a fall of gray brown hair on his forehead, his eyes fixed on the horse’s face. His hand looked large and pale where it cupped Lurch’s dark jaw, and the horse seemed to lean toward him, his head slightly tucked on his glossy neck. Trust. Somehow she had captured that bond between the man and his horse. And along with it, the power and grace and magnetism of the man, himself.

  And now that magnetism was working on her.

  It was vexing in the extreme. She was being an utter fool…​as her friends would no doubt be delighted to point out.

  Lucinda would find her infatuation with her own husband immensely amusing. She would laugh and make some astute and clever observation that would cut straight to the heart of the matter. Edwina would immediately take her side, of course. But against what? Ash? Her own weakness? It didn’t matter with the fiercely loyal Southerner. She was the champion of them all, no matter what. And Pru, the beauty and possessor of the highest intellect in the group, would calmly explain that giving up a budding career as an expeditionary photographer and returning to the life—­and the man—­she had fled, would be illogical, at best.