Colorado Dawn

by Kaki Warner

  “I do.” Her voice sounded thin and wispy as woodsmoke. “All the time. But I’m afraid.”

  “Not of me.” Taking his other hand from her cheek, he began to loosen the long row of buttons down the front of her dress.

  She shivered. “No. Not of you. But Thomas…​I…​please…”

  “Please what, heme’oono? Look upon you?” He pushed the edges of her dress aside. A thin cloth still covered her, but he could see the fine web of scars rising above it and up across her shoulder. He trailed the tips of his fingers over the scars and tried to stem the fury rising inside.

  Declan had told him what had happened. Edwina had dropped a pitcher of milk. A simple thing. But her mother began to beat her for it, and when Prudence tried to stop her, the enraged woman had dumped a pot of scalding water on her. Edwina had been six, Prudence, seven. Babies, still. Too young to know such evil.

  Thomas spread his hand over the scars and wished he had the power to take them from her memory.

  She was shaking now, her body poised for flight. He could feel the pulse of her fear beneath his hand, but she did not draw away from his touch. As he pulled the thin cloth down to bare her breasts, he felt something hot and wet drop onto the back of his hand and he knew she was crying.

  “You are beautiful, Prudence Lincoln.” He looked up and smiled.

  Blinking against her tears, she gave that laugh again. But she did not try to hide herself from him and did not cringe from him when he bent and pressed his lips to her scars.

  “Only a Cheyenne warrior would think so,” she said.

  He lifted his head and tried to read her expression in the slanting moonlight. “Why do you say that?”

  She put her hand over his heart. Even though a shirt covered him, he knew she could feel the thick ridges of his own scars from the ordeal of the sun dance ceremony.

  “Do my scars disgust you?” he asked.

  “No. But it hurts me to think of what you must have endured.”

  He laughed softly. “Foolish he’e.” He kissed her breast, then followed the trail of scars up her shoulder to her neck, where he dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat. “Scars are badges of strength and courage. They tell the story of what we have endured. Only survivors wear them.”

  “Or the very clumsy.”

  He continued to stroke her and listened to her breathing change from fear to wanting. “Nemehotatse,” he whispered against her warm skin. I love you.

  “This is highly improper,” she gasped, her fingers twisting in the cloth over his arms. Beneath his lips, her heart beat like the wings of a trapped bird.

  “What is the meaning of improper?”

  “N-­not right. Incorrect. Oh, my…​that breeze is cool.”

  He smiled and warmed her with his hand. “Between you and me, heme’oono, this is most correct. You are my heart mate, Prudence Lincoln. As I am yours. You will never free your spirit until you accept that.”

  “By l-­letting you d-­do this?” It was a whisper, yet he heard the invitation beneath the sigh.

  “And more. Tonight I will not sleep in the carriage house. Tonight I will sleep beside you.” He started to loosen the sash of her dress, then paused when he heard a distant sound. He cocked his head.

  A horse was moving up the track. A shod horse. Odd time to be out for an evening ride. Turning back to eho’nehevehohtse, he pulled her dress back over her breasts and kissed her lips. “You will go inside now and wait for me.”

  “Oh, will I?” She laughed a true laugh, and the sound of it made his heart sing. “I don’t like being ordered about like a field hand. Even by you.”

  “Ho. Already your spirit grows stronger.”

  In the paddock behind the house, Thomas’s horse whinnied. The horse on the road answered. “If you will not go inside, at least cover yourself. A rider comes.”

  “A rider? Oh, dear!” Prudence fumbled with her buttons. Thomas tried to help her, but she batted his hand away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just did.” He opened the door. “Go inside. I will see what he wants.”

  She continued to fuss with her dress, then her hair until all was right again.

  Thomas moved his rifle from inside the door and leaned it against the porch rail.

  “He could be going on to the Kendal place,” Prudence said, taking her place once more at his side.

  “Or he could be coming here. As sheriff, I order you to go into the house, Prudence Lincoln.”

  “What do you suppose he wants at this hour?”

  Thomas sighed. “Then move to my other side, so you do not block my knife arm.”

  · · ·

  Ash’s troops made better progress the second day, and long before dusk, they had left the road that continued toward Breckenridge and the Blue River area, and had turned right, onto the flatter, more southerly route into Denver.

  “You want to stop here tonight?” Brodie asked, reining his big bay alongside Maddie’s wagon. “Or go on a bit farther?”

  Ash studied the small clearing for a defensible position. They needed to stay close to water for the animals, but he disliked these narrow canyons where visibility was blocked by tall firs and rocky bluffs. “Is there something more open ahead? Maybe a ridge or higher position that would give us a better view of approaching riders?”

  “Higher position?” Brodie’s brows furrowed over his deep set brown eyes. “How high? I don’t much like high.”

  Ash shrugged. “As long as it’s open. I could scout ahead and see what I can find.”

  “I’ll do it. I’m already saddled. And I’ll get something for supper, too. Something with fewer bones than those trout last night.”

  Ash hid his disappointment. He had been driving Maddie’s wagon all day and would have welcomed a brisk gallop. “If you’re not back in an hour, I’ll set up camp here.”

  Brodie nodded and rode off.

  Ash drove the wagon off the road, set the brake, and climbed down. After folding down the steps at the back door, he knocked on the side of the wagon and called to Edwina Brodie, who had been napping inside, telling her they would be stopping for a while if she wanted to get out and stretch her legs. Then he went to the buggy to tell Maddie and Miss Hathaway the reason for the delay.

  Maddie gave him a grateful smile as he swung her to the ground. “It has been rather a long day. Would we have time for a spot of tea, do you think?”

  Next they would be wanting scones and jam. But Ash nodded and soon had a wee fire going and the kettle heating. Once the ladies had tended their needs in the brush, he slung the strap of his carbine over his shoulder, and with Tricks zigzagging ahead of him, went to explore the creek. This time of year, bears often prowled the banks of rivers and streams, hunting fish, berries, bark, even insects to fill their bellies before their long winter hibernation. He saw horse tracks—­shod—­and signs of deer, elk, raccoons, and other varmints moving through, but naught that alarmed him.

  Convinced there was no immediate danger, he went back to the wagons, accepted a tin mug of tea from his wife, and settled beside the fire to wait for Brodie’s return.

  As the rider approached, Pru watched Thomas move to the top of the porch stairs. He said nothing, did nothing. Yet lethal intent radiated off his strong, sturdy body like heat from a fire.

  This was the Cheyenne warrior she had seen only one other time, when he and Declan had come to the Indian village to rescue her from Lone Tree. This was the savage side of the patient student who sat in the back of her little school, struggling to learn his letters, or the quiet guardian who walked silently beside her in the evenings when she headed to the hotel for supper or went to visit with Edwina at the Brodies’. This Thomas bore little resemblance to the gentle man who had held her in his arms in the sweat lodge he had built for her, waiting for Mother Earth to draw the evil memories from her mind.

  She loved them both. Feared them both.

  “Is this Sheriff Brodie’s place?” the
man in the road called.

  Thomas nodded.

  “I hate to be coming by so late, but I’ve been waiting in town all afternoon to speak to him. Is he here?”

  Thomas shook his head.

  Pru elbowed him in the ribs. “Be nice,” she hissed. “It could be important. Find out what he wants.”

  Thomas gave her a warning look, then turned back to the man in the road. “I am his deputy. What do you want?”

  “That’s nice?” Pru muttered.

  “I’m Aaron Zucker,” the man called. “From Pennsylvania. I sent the sheriff a letter recently about my brother who’s gone missing. Do you know if he received it?”

  Pru looked at Thomas in surprise. “Wasn’t that the name of the man who met with Maddie at the hotel?” she whispered.

  Thomas nodded. She could tell by his closed expression he had reached the same conclusions she had. Even in the shadowed moonlight, the man in the road looked nothing like the man Ash had described to Declan—­tall, blond, black bowler hat. This man was more round than tall and wore a porkpie hat.

  Determined to get to the bottom of this, Pru stepped forward and down the steps. “Yes, your letter came, Mr. Zucker. Would you like to come inside and have a cup of tea while we discuss it?”

  Thomas’s hand clamped over her shoulder before she had gone two steps. “Go inside, Prudence,” he said in a voice that carried the weight and warmth of steel. “I will bring Mr. Zucker in after he ties his horse.”

  Pru went into the house. She had just set the tea to brew when boots thudded on the porch. Only one set. Thomas wore soft-soled moccasins and never made a sound when he walked. The door opened, and Pru turned with a smile that spread when she saw the man in the doorway, standing with his hat in his hands and a white collar about his neck.

  “Why, Mr. Zucker…​I didn’t realize you were a priest.”

  “A reverend, only, ma’am. And not even that to my wife. She calls me a pulpit-­thumper with a hammer for a fist.” He said it with a fond smile.

  Liking him immediately, Pru introduced Thomas and herself, then motioned toward the table in the center of the kitchen. “Do please sit. The tea will be ready in a moment.” As Reverend Zucker took his seat, she set the teapot and cups on the table beside the lamp, then took the chair across from him. “How may we help you, Reverend?”

  Zucker smiled uncertainly up at Thomas, who stood with his back to the closed door, feet planted, arms folded across his chest. He might be dressed in his town clothes, but there was no mistaking he was an Indian, and not a particularly friendly one, at that.

  “I wrote to the sheriff,” the reverend began, “asking him to pass on a letter to the photographer who took this.” As he spoke, he pulled a photograph from his coat pocket and set it on the table beside his porkpie hat. His face softened as he looked at the image of a man outside a crude cabin. “That’s my brother, Ephraim. This was taken outside his diggings in the Blue River area. I don’t know exactly where. I was hoping the photographer might remember where he took it.” He looked up, his expression hopeful. “Is he in town, do you know?”

  “I’m afraid not. And the photographer is a ‘she,’ not a ‘he.’ ”

  He leaned back. “A she? A female photographer?”

  While the reverend tried to cover his obvious surprise that there could be such a thing as a woman photographer, Pru poured the tea. Thomas, still standing, picked up the photograph and held it to the lamplight to study it. After a moment, he returned it to the table, pushing it to the far side as if wanting to distance himself from the image.

  Pru knew many Indians thought cameras stole their spirits and considered the image of themselves on the piece of paper as proof of that. But she had thought Thomas too worldly to accept such a notion. Yet there was much about the Cheyenne Dog Soldier she still didn’t know, which was one of her major reservations about him. As a mulatto, she had enough difficulty trying to fit into a world dominated by whites. She didn’t know if she had it in her to bend to the Cheyenne culture, as well.

  “One man has already come through Heartbreak Creek looking for your brother,” Thomas said in that solemn way he had. “He also carried the name Aaron Zucker and had this same image on a piece of paper.”

  The reverend’s round face went slack. He set his teacup down with a clatter. “Another man? Claiming to be me? But who? What did he look like?”

  “Yellow hair. Tall. Eyes from two fathers.”

  “He means mismatched,” Pru cut in, with a look of apology to Thomas. “One eye was blue and the other a grayish brown.”

  The reverend shook his head. “I know of no one like that. Oh, dear Lord.” He pressed the heel of his hand over his brow as if to block a thought too horrible to face. “It’s the claim. He’s probably after my brother’s claim.” Taking his hand away, he looked up at Thomas, his eyes moist with unshed tears. “Ephraim wrote that he’d found gold. Not just placer nuggets in the river, but a real vein. He was most secretive about where. In his last letter, he wrote that the claims office in Breckenridge had mailed all the paperwork to the territorial office in Denver. He planned to check that everything was registered when he passed through there on his way to meet me in Omaha.”

  “Why Omaha?” Pru asked.

  “To buy mining equipment.” With trembling hands, he pulled a folded paper from his pocket. Opening it, he shoved it across the table. “Here’s his letter, and the name of the bank where I was to meet him. But he never came, and no one at the bank had ever heard of him.”

  Thomas studied the obviously worried middle-­aged man for a long time, betraying nothing of his thoughts. Finally, he spoke. “How do we know which of you is Aaron Zucker?”

  The reverend blinked, as if he’d never been confronted with such a dilemma, which he probably hadn’t. “I have this letter—­”

  “Letters can be stolen,” Thomas cut in.

  “I may have an idea.” Rising, Pru went into the parlor, found a sheet of paper and a stub of pencil, then returned to the kitchen. She set them before the befuddled reverend. “Write as much as you remember of the last paragraph in your letter to A. M. Wallace. Then sign your name.”

  She had seen that letter and had noted the careful script and the way the reverend had penned his signature. She also had a keen memory of the text. If the wording and script matched the letter Declan Brodie had given Maddie, there was a good chance the reverend was Aaron Zucker.

  Reverend Zucker did as instructed, then passed the paper back to Pru.

  After looking it over, she nodded to Thomas. “It’s the same.”

  “Then I will warn Declan.” He turned toward the door.

  “Wait.” Pru touched his arm. “Warn him of what?”

  “That the blond man is a trickster. They could be riding into an ambush.”

  The reverend lurched to his feet. “I’ll go with you.”

  “They left two moons ago. It will be a hard ride.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  The two men stared at each other. Finally, Thomas nodded. “Bring food and warm coverings. I will meet you at the hotel.”

  “You’re leaving tonight?”

  Thomas nodded. “The moon is full. The horses and I will find our way. You have only to follow.”

  After the reverend left, Thomas turned to Pru. “You will kiss me before I go.”

  Smiling to hide her worry, Pru walked toward him. “Yes, I will.”

  This time when she kissed him, she allowed herself the luxury of sliding her hands up his chest and across his thick shoulders. He felt warm and solid, and from the faint tremor in his arms when he pulled her hard against his body, she knew he was as captured by the kiss as was she.

  When he finally pulled his mouth from hers, his breathing was ragged. “You will take yourself and the children to the hotel in the morning. You will be safe there. I will go now to ask Mayor Gebbers to find another deputy until I return.”

  She nodded, her gaze pinned to his lips, the tast
e of him still on her tongue. She wondered if he would kiss her again.

  As she watched, those lips widened into a grin. “Do not look at me that way, heme’oono. Or I will not be able to leave you.”

  She saw the laughter in his black eyes. And the love. She knew what he wanted from her. But whenever she thought about what that entailed, the coil of fear lodged in her chest tightened a little more.

  “And when I return, Prudence Lincoln,” he went on, once again the solemn, austere warrior, “you will accept me as your heart mate. You will join with me and become my woman. If you cannot do this, we will part our ways. Do you understand?”

  Pru felt an edge of panic cut into her heart. She wasn’t ready. It was too soon.

  His expression softened. “I see your fear, eho’nehevehohtse. It hides behind your eyes when you look at me, and in your hands when you allow yourself to touch me. But I am not your enemy, heme’oono. You will think on that while I am gone.” Reaching out, he gently brushed his fingertips across her jaw. “Nemehotatse, Prudence Lincoln.”

  “What does that mean? I don’t understand what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, eho’nehevehohtse. You know.”

  When Declan hadn’t returned by the allotted hour, Ash set up camp.

  He spaced out the wagons and tents along the edge of the trees so the animals had most of the small clearing to graze, then gathered enough firewood to see them through the night. He was debating trying his hand at fishing again when Declan rode up with a small doe tied behind his saddle.

  And the deer wasn’t the only thing he had brought back.

  Behind him rode a man Ash dinna recognize—­young, light-­haired, his face bruised, a half-­healed cut through one brow. The vacant look in his swollen eyes and the slackness of his jaw made Ash wonder if he might be simple.

  But the other man—­on foot and leading a limping horse—­Ash did recognize. Tall, wearing a black bowler, the hair poking out beneath it so blond it almost appeared white, and mismatched eyes that had the color and warmth of dirty snow.

  Aaron Zucker.

  Sixteen