Colorado Dawn

by Kaki Warner

  He sighed wearily. “For what, Maddie?”

  “To be my protector. My friend. My husband.” The tears started to flow, and her voice rose as her throat constricted. “Please, Ash. Make me your duty until Northbridge needs you. Give me this time, at least.”

  He realized his hands were shaking and clasped them behind his back rather than reach for her. “Donnan wasna well when I left.”

  “Then let us use the time we have.” She came around the bed and stood before him, her cheeks sheened by lamplight and tears. Her eyes were dark pools of pain in her stricken face.

  “And then what, love?”

  “We’ll go back. Together.”

  “But your photography—­”

  “I’ll give it up.”

  He stepped back, shaking his head. “No, I canna—­”

  She clutched his arm to hold him to her. “It’s not your choice, Ash. It’s mine. Please. Give me this time now, then when duty calls you, I’ll willingly go back and be the countess you need me to be.”

  He looked away, afraid she would see the wanting in his eyes. He would bargain with the devil himself to keep Maddie by his side. But he couldna let her give up her art. She would end up hating him for it.

  He felt her hand cup his cheek and gently force his head around until their eyes met. “It’s all right, Ash. This is what I want to do. My decision. Just give me a little more time, that’s all I ask.”

  Tipping his head into her hand, he kissed her palm. Then he gave her a smile he hoped would hide his doubt. “As it happens, love, time is all I have right now.” Then before she could see the despair in his eyes, he pulled her hard against his chest. He took a deep breath and let it out, knowing what he was about to do was wrong, but unable to keep himself from clutching at any reprieve he could find.

  “All right. I’ll stay here with you, lass. As long as I can.” But he wasn’t convinced it was the right decision. In the end, she still wouldn’t be able to leave, and duty wouldn’t allow him to stay.

  She reached up and pulled his head down and kissed him hard. Then again, gentler, her tongue sweeping the seam of his lips.

  That was all the invitation he needed. With shaking hands, he undressed her, then himself. He laid her across his bed and touched her with his hands and his mouth and his tongue until her breathing grew shallow and her body began to tremble. Then he settled into the warm cradle of her thighs. Resting his weight on his elbows, he kissed her, and whispered, “Tha gradh agam ort,” as he pushed inside.

  Her passion rose to meet his in soft cries and gentle touches, and when her head arched back and her breath caught in her throat and her legs closed hard around his waist, he knew she had bound him to her forever, and he could never leave this woman, no matter what duty called.

  KRIGBAUM MINE

  HEARTBREAK CREEK CANYON

  “I found the photographer,” Clete said as he slammed through the door of the abandoned mine overseer’s shack above Heartbreak Creek. “And guess what, Si?” He tossed his dusty black bowler onto the crate that served as a table. “It’s a goddamn woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “A woman. You know what women are, don’t you, moron? The ones with tits who run when they see your idiot face.” Clete laughed in that mean way that always made Si want to hide. “I ought to turn you loose on one, freak. You drooling and rooting around, trying to figure out what goes where, and her screaming like she had the devil up her ass. Be fun to watch.”

  “You didn’t hurt her, did you, Clete?”

  Si hated when his brother did bad things to women. When he heard them cry, it always made him cry, too, even though deep down he was glad. Because when Clete was sticking it into women, he wasn’t sticking it into him, and he was always glad of that.

  “Shut up, moron, and rustle us up some supper. I’m hungry.”

  While Si fired up the small cookstove, Clete sat at the table, taking sips from his bottle of Forty-­Rod. Si watched him, his fear going up as the whiskey in the bottle went down. Clete was mean enough when he didn’t drink. But when he did…

  “Supper’s ready, Clete,” he said, carrying the pot to the table.

  His brother looked into it, then spit a mouthful of whiskey into Si’s face.

  With a cry, Si staggered back, his eyes burning.

  “Christ! Beans again?”

  Si scrubbed at his face with his shirtsleeve. “That’s all there is, Clete. I swear. That and a tin of peaches.”

  “You ain’t having any peaches. Hand them over.”

  Si handed him the can of peaches, then watched his brother empty it in three bites, juice dripping down his whiskered chin. His own stomach rumbled like a growling dog. He hadn’t had peaches in a long time.

  Tossing the empty can aside, Clete pulled the pot closer. After eating his fill, he shoved the pot toward Si and picked up the bottle again.

  Si ate quickly, fearing any minute his brother would jerk the pot away from him. But Clete seemed too busy studying the picture of the smiling man standing beside his cabin in front of the peak that looked like a face turned sideways.

  “The bitch said she didn’t remember where she took it,” he said after a while. “I think she lied. I could see it in her face.” Clete looked up, his spooky eyes boring into Si. “Same as I see it in yours whenever you try to lie to me. But I always know, don’t I, moron?”

  “Yes, Clete.” Beneath the table, Si’s legs started to shake. He clamped his knees together to make it stop. The bottle was almost empty now, and Si knew what that meant. “You’re the smart one, Clete. Everybody says.”

  “Yeah, I am, moron. Which is why I have to look after you. And teach you. And show you how things are supposed to be.” He tilted the bottle up for the last swallow, then tossed it over his shoulder. It hit with a thud against the wall, clattered down, and rolled across the floor. “Ain’t that right, moron?”

  Tears were burning now and pressing hard against the back of Si’s eyes. He kept his head down, blinking fast to keep them back. “Yes, Clete.”

  “And what do I do when you lie to me?”

  Si felt the beans ride up in his throat, and with a shudder, swallowed them down again. “You hurt me.”

  “That’s right.” Abruptly, Clete laughed. Shoving the chair back, he stood and stretched.

  Si felt him looming over him, weaving a little, his breath hot and stinking of whiskey.

  “But not tonight, Si. Tonight, I’m thinking maybe one of the sweet little Coolie girls from the laundry might smell a whole lot better than you.” He took a step, almost tripped on the bottle, then kicked it aside and yanked open the door. “Pack the saddlebags, moron. We leave at first light.”

  Preparations for the trip to Denver began in earnest over the next few days. Because three women would be going, those preparations became as involved as redeploying a thousand troops three hundred miles across hostile territory. Ash tolerated it as long as he could, then assumed command.

  Mustering them in the dining room during the midafternoon lull two days before their departure, he stood before his traveling companions, feet braced, hands clasped behind his back. When the ladies finally settled and ceased prattling on about hairdos, the color, style, and fit of each other’s dresses, bonnets, shawls, et cet­era, he announced, “You will be allowed one valise each.”

  Immediately, a chorus of feminine protests rose.

  Declan Brodie sighed and shook his head.

  Raising his voice, Ash continued over the protests, “Unless, of course, you ladies are willing to do without potable water, rations, weapons, tents, extra bedding, grain for the animals, photography crates, emergency items, tools, and extra wheels for Maddie’s wagon and Miss Hathaway’s buggy. I leave it entirely up to you.”

  Despite the mutinous looks directed his way, Ash maintained his smile, and after a bit of muttering, they reluctantly complied.

  Mentally checking that one off his list, he moved on to travel arrangements. “In deference
to her delicate condition, and should she feel the need to rest along the way, Mrs. Brodie will travel during the day in Madeline’s wagon, either up front or in back. Her husband will drive.”

  Brodie was about to protest, no doubt preferring to ride horseback like Ash. But when Ash added that he and the sheriff would share driving detail on an alternating basis, he reluctantly nodded acceptance.

  “Questions so far?” Ash asked.

  The sheriff yawned. Mrs. Brodie smiled dreamily and stroked her protruding belly while Maddie looked out the window and Miss Hathaway leaned forward to examine something on the tablecloth. An attentive group.

  Rocking on his heels, Ash proceeded. “Miss Hathaway has stated she is comfortable driving her own buggy. Madeline will ride with her, and Mrs. Brodie, too, should she choose. When not driving Maddie’s wagon, the sheriff, or Tricks and I, will take the advance position to scout for problems ahead.” He and Maddie had already decided to leave Agnes behind with Prudence Lincoln and the Brodie children. “That’s it. So if there are no ques—­”

  “Where will we sleep?” Mrs. Brodie blinked up at him, her blue eyes round with worry. “We can’t all fit into that itty-­bitty wagon.”

  “No, you canna. But because you and Madeline have husbands to see to your comfort, you will stay with them in tents. Miss Hathaway will sleep in the wagon.”

  Edwina Brodie opened her mouth to argue when her husband leaned over and whispered something in her ear. Color inched up her neck. Her mouth formed an O, then widened into a speculative smile. Turning back to Ash, she nodded demurely.

  Ash guessed the sheriff had used the same inducement on his wife that he had used earlier on Maddie—­privacy, and all the benefits that came with it.

  “Then it’s settled. Muster behind the hotel at dawn, day after tomorrow. Dismissed—­I mean, good day, ladies.” As the females filed out, Ash motioned for the sheriff to stay behind.

  “You don’t know much about women, do you, Ashby,” Brodie said, clapping a hand on Ash’s shoulder in a friendly way.

  “I know what’s important,” Ash defended, affronted by the accusation. His wife certainly wasn’t complaining.

  “It’s like herding turtles,” Brodie went on as if Ash hadn’t spoken. “The harder you push, the slower they move. They’ve got one speed. Their own. Best accept that now, or you’ll be chewing through your stirrup leathers before we get halfway to Denver.”

  Seeing the wisdom in the sheriff’s words, Ash nodded.

  Giving his shoulder a last pat, Brodie rested his hands low on his gun belt. “So what did you need to talk to me about?”

  “Anything on that Zucker fellow?” Ash had told the sheriff about the tall blond man’s meeting with Maddie. He’d also described him, asking Brodie to let him know if he saw the man about town.

  Declan Brodie shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve alerted Thomas, too, since he’ll be taking over as sheriff while I’m gone. Did you know Zucker wasn’t traveling alone?”

  Ash looked at him in surprise. “Maddie dinna mention that.”

  “Probably didn’t know. Thomas did some checking, found sign that someone had been using the abandoned overseer’s shack up at the mine. Two horses, both shod. Several discarded food cans and fresh ashes in the woodstove. By the size of the boot prints in and out of the shack, he guesses two men, probably blond, one with a scar on his forearm.”

  Ash stared at him. “You’re jesting.”

  “ ’Course I am.” Brodie laughed. “One was probably more sandy-­haired than blond. Thomas isn’t so good with colors.”

  Ash realized he’d been the butt of another prank. “Bugger off,” he said with a grin, liking this sheriff more every time he talked to him.

  “Right. Anyway, seems they’re gone now. One of the laundry girls took a beating, but those Chinese folks are pretty closemouthed and no one’s talking. I’ll keep checking. Seems too coincidental. If Zucker shows up again, Thomas will be sure to ask him about it.” Brodie’s smile carried menace. “He’s really good at getting answers.”

  Two days later, when dusty blue and gold clouds hung in wispy disarray across a sky as pink as the inside of an abalone shell, Ash led his wee convoy out of Heartbreak Creek.

  It felt good to be on the move again.

  They traveled without incident through the morning, stopping near noon to rest the animals and “enjoy a nice luncheon alfresco” as Edwina Brodie put it. That lasted about ten minutes until black flies had the ladies running for Maddie’s wagon.

  After loading up again, they continued traveling through the afternoon, finally stopping when the sun was sinking toward the peaks. The temperature began to drop, which curbed the insects somewhat, and once Ash got a fire started, smoke drove the rest of them away.

  While Declan tended the animals and set up the tents, Ash went to Maddie’s wagon for the eight-­foot angler’s rod he had bought at the Heartbreak Creek Mercantile, along with a tin of wet flies and a simple reel wound with silk fishing line. Whistling under his breath, he headed downstream with Tricks to where the creek they had been following emptied into a sizeable lake. He had grown up with a fishing rod in his hand, although in Scotland he had fished more for salmon than trout. But he’d heard about the native cold-­water trout in this area and was anxious to give them a try.

  Within an hour, he had eight good-­sized fish flopping on the bank. Pleased with his success, he strung them on a stick and headed back to camp.

  It became immediately apparent none of these women could cook.

  “My God,” Miss Hathaway gasped when she saw that a couple of the fish were still twitching. “Are they alive?”

  “Not for long,” Ash said and picked up a rock.

  Maddie fled for the wagon.

  “I think I’m going to be ill,” the sheriff’s wife sputtered, reeling for the bushes, Miss Hathaway on her heels.

  Ash looked questioningly at the sheriff, who shrugged. “She dressed a chicken once. Took her a week to get over it. She was doing better, though, until she started breeding and her stomach went south.”

  Yet, somehow, once the fish had been cleaned, dredged in cornmeal, and fried in bacon drippings, the lasses managed to find their appetites again. God love them.

  Fifteen

  Two evenings after the others left for Denver, Thomas stood on the porch of the Brodie house and watched a coyote weave in and out of the shadows along the track that ran in front of the house. A full blood moon perched on the tips of the mountains, and by its light, okom would eat well.

  It was a good night for hunting.

  He glanced back at the house. The sounds from the kitchen had grown quieter. The voices of the children had long since faded. Only the soft footsteps of his woman reached his ears.

  He smiled into the darkness, hoping tonight would mean good hunting for him, as well.

  A few minutes later, Prudence came onto the porch, the En­glishwoman’s little dog running past her and down the porch steps. Thomas glanced at the brush. “Nenaasestse,” he called to the little dog. “Okom is hunting.”

  “Okom?” Prudence asked, coming to stand beside him.

  He pointed to the lean, bushytailed coyote watching from the bushes beside the creek. “The full moon lights his way.” He smiled down at her. “Perhaps okom will not be the only hunter this night, eho’nehevehohtse.”

  One who walks in wolf tracks. That was his name for her because she was smart like a wolf. There were other words he called her, but he did not tell her their meaning because she was not ready yet to hear them.

  He frightened her. He knew this. He also knew it was not because of anything he had done to her, but because of what others had done. Eho’nehevehohtse was wounded in body and spirit. But she was strong, as well. He could see in her eyes and in the tremble of her body when he brushed his hand along her arm that she was coming to accept him.

  That was good. His patience was not boundless.

  The little dog made water, then came back
up the steps and scratched at the door. Prudence let the animal inside, then returned to her place at his side. “It’s a beautiful night.”

  “The children sleep?”

  She let out a long sigh. “Yes, thank goodness. It’s like being pecked to death by chickens. I don’t know how Edwina can keep up with them.”

  By day, her skin was the rich color of tanned leather. But in the moonlight, her face glowed like dark, polished quartz. “You will kiss me now,” he said.

  She drew back with a nervous laugh. “I will?”

  He waited, saying nothing.

  After a moment, she rose onto the tips of her toes, and as gently as a butterfly seeking nectar from the flower, she brushed her lips against his.

  He stood without moving, his arms locked at his sides to keep from pulling her body against his.

  When she drew away, he forced a smile, even though his heart kicked against his chest. “Are you katse’e—­a little girl?” he teased. “Or nahe’e—­my woman?”

  She gave that false laugh again. “Did you know that Maddie and Edwina made bets on whether or not Indians kissed?”

  “That was not a kiss.” Cupping his hands around her head to keep her from pulling away, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. He felt her body go rigid, but he continued to hold her and run the tip of his tongue along her closed lips. She slowly relaxed. Her mouth parted beneath his. After a moment, he lifted his head and smiled at her. “That was a kiss.”

  She said nothing, but he saw the softness in her face and the way her gaze followed his mouth as he spoke. It encouraged him to be bolder. “Indians also do this.” Taking one hand from her face, he put it on her breast.

  She immediately pulled back as far as his other hand would allow.

  “No, heme’oono,” he said gently. “You cannot run from me forever. You must free your mind from the past. Do not let fear rule you.”

  He stroked her through the cloth of her dress, felt a tremble run through her, and heard her breath grow shallow. “Think of me,” he whispered against her mouth. “No one else.”