Colorado Dawn (17 page)

Sitting back on his heels, he watched her and waited. He’d often seen such violent reactions in young soldiers once the rush and horror of battle was past, and he knew it would eventually play itself out.

Still, he was surprised when she hit him.

“Why aren’t you ever here when I need you?” She hit him again, apparently oblivious to the pain it must have brought to her injured hands. Tears were running down her face now, and her words were so garbled it was difficult for him to make them out. But the rage was unmistakable.

“You weren’t here when Mr. Satterwhite died—or when my parents died—or when I lost the baby. You’re never around when I need you!”

Baby? What baby?

Afraid she might further hurt herself, Ash leaned up and put his arms around her, trapping her against his chest. “Ssh, lass,” he whispered against her ear. “You’re safe. I’m here now.”

She began to sob, great, wrenching cries that made her whole body shudder. “No! You aren’t! You never have been!”

She fought him for a moment more, then as abruptly as the rage had come, it just as quickly burned itself out. Weeping, she slumped against him—not so much in surrender, as in defeat, which Ash knew were two verra different things.

He rose, lifted her from the chair, and carried her to the wagon. After stripping off her jacket and boots, he loosened the collar of her dress, then helped her into the bed, covering her shivering body with the quilt.

She dinna fight him, dinna speak. But her drooping eyes never left him, and the defiance he saw in them was clear: their first skirmish might have ended, but a war still raged in her head.

By the time he’d gotten the wee stove going, she was asleep.

Straightening as best he could in the cramped, low-ceilinged quarters, he studied her. Her eyes looked bruised. Dirt streaked her cheeks, following the path of long-dried tears. Her hair was a knot of auburn tangles around her ashen face. Poor lass. She looked like a discarded doll, roughly used and cast aside by a careless hand.

Something unfamiliar clenched in his chest. Regret, remorse, maybe even pity. He should have taken better care of her. She was his wife and he had failed her too many times.

Disgusted with himself, he turned and left the wagon.

Moving through habits so engrained he dinna give them a thought, he retrieved Lurch and the wheel from where he’d left them in the brush, unsaddled the horse and watered him. At the big gelding’s whinny, the mules came running back. After staking all three away from the wagon so they wouldn’t disturb Maddie, he turned his attention to the dead wolves.

They weren’t as big as the grays in the Crimea, but they were prime animals, and it sickened him to think of the damage they
could have done if Maddie hadn’t been armed. Trailed by Tricks and Agnes, he dragged the carcasses deep into the woods and heaved them into a ravine, then headed back to camp, gathering wood along the way.

The wagon door was still closed.

Once he had the fire going, he picked up the shovel and set to work on the grave his wife had started.

What baby?

Noon came and went. After patting down the dirt over Satterwhite’s grave, he checked on Maddie and found her still asleep.

Unable to stay idle, he busied himself with other chores through the early afternoon—gathering more wood, taking Lurch and the mules for an afternoon drink, feeding the fire, cleaning his weapons. Routine tasks that wore out his body and dulled his mind. But not his appetite. Realizing he hadn’t eaten since before dawn, he grabbed Satterwhite’s repeater, tied Tricks and Agnes to the back steps, and went to hunt up something for supper.

This time he got a turkey. After dressing it back at camp, he tossed the offal to the dogs and skewered the split carcass on a spit over the coals.

He went to check on Maddie again. Still asleep.

Since he couldn’t reset the wheel with her inside the wagon and he’d run out of things to do, he sat in her chair, arms crossed over his chest, boots braced on a rock beside the fire.

What baby? And why hadn’t he been told about it?

He could understand her anger over the rest of it. He had neglected her sorely, so he had. But he’d told her of his affliction and explained why he hadn’t written, and she’d seemed to accept that. As for his other lapses, he’d been in the hospital and hadn’t known of her parents’ deaths until she’d told him a few days ago. And he’d been gone when Satterwhite had died.

But the baby? Why had she not told him of that?

Unless it wasna his baby.

No. He couldna—dinna want—to believe that.

Nine

M
addie awoke to late afternoon sunlight and the sound of the door opening. Sweating and disoriented, she tried to roll over but was so tangled in skirts and blankets she could scarcely move. Wondering why she would be abed at this hour, and fully clothed, at that, she leaned up on one elbow and looked over her shoulder to see Ash peering through the doorway.

“So you’re awake then, lass?” Without waiting for a response, he came all the way in, turning to wrestle their biggest bucket through the narrow opening. Setting it down not far from the woodstove, he straightened, wincing when his head bumped against the low ceiling. “I thought you might want to wash.”

Maddie blinked at him, trying to clear the fuzziness from her mind.

“Do you…” He motioned vaguely in her direction. “Need help?”

She looked down, saw her wrapped hands, and it all came rushing back—Mr. Satterwhite, the wolves, Ash returning. “No.” Kicking her feet free, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The sudden movement made her head spin. She started to slide.

His arm caught her. “Steady, love.”

Sagging weakly against his grip, she waited for the dizziness to pass. When it did, she straightened, breathing deeply to clear her head.

He continued to hover over her, his big form taking up all the space in the cramped quarters.

“I’m fine,” she said, pressing a trembling hand to her forehead.

He took a step back but was still a looming figure that dominated the small room.

She felt him. Felt the weight of his gaze. She didn’t need to look up to be keenly aware of each breath he took, of the scent of him, of the danger he posed to her in this weakened state.

“You needn’t stay.”

He didn’t respond. She was afraid he might question her about things she barely remembered saying to him earlier just after he had returned. She had been angry and exhausted. In her distraught state, she might have said more than she should have, revealed more than was wise.

“I’ll get water, then,” he finally said.

Before he could close the door behind him, Agnes rushed in and leaped onto the bed, wiggling and hopping in her face for kisses. By the time Maddie got the exuberant dog under control, Ash was back with two buckets of steaming water. He poured them into the bigger bucket, then straightened, bumping his head again. “There’s food,” he said, rubbing the top of his head. “Will you be coming out, or eat in here?”

Fearing he might want to join her in the wagon, she shook her head. “I’ll come out.”

He started for the door.

“Mr. Satterwhite? Is he…?”

He paused in the open doorway, his shoulders as wide as the opening. “I buried him.” He looked back at her. “You did a fine job protecting him, lass. It’s sorry I am that I wasna here to help you.” Then before she could think of a response, he left, quietly closing the door behind him.

A half hour later, she left the wagon, clean, refreshed, and a trifle nervous, although she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because Mr. Satterwhite was no longer there to act as a buffer. Or because being out here alone with Ash created a feeling of intimacy that made her uneasy.

She remembered how furious she had been with him earlier—the harsh words she had said. Even now, remnants of that anger and sense of betrayal still smoldered inside her.

But she also remembered his gentle care of her. And that confused her. The man, himself, confused her. It seemed for every step they took forward, something happened to pull them back. She could make no sense of it, and even though she had slept the afternoon away, she was still too weary to puzzle it through now.

As she came down the steps, Maddie glanced over, saw the mounded grave, and felt sadness mingled with relief. At least Mr. Satterwhite was finally at rest.

Ash rose from her chair as she approached. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.” And suddenly quite hungry. The smell of roasting meat reached all the way to her empty stomach, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in over a day. “What have you there? Turkey?”

“Aye. Along with two shriveled potatoes, four carrots, and a can of peaches. A feast.”

He held the chair as she took her seat, then bent and picked up a small round tin that was resting on a rock beside the fire. “But first, we must tend those hands.”

When he took the lid off the tin, a foul odor escaped. “What is that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Wound salve.” As he dropped to one knee beside her chair, he tipped the can to study the label. “Good for saddle sores, galls, wounds, and hoof rot. At least, I think that’s what it says. Hold out your hands.”

She balled them into fists. “No. Truly. They’re fine.”
Hoof rot?

“It’s not just for horses, love. Tricks has benefited from it, too.”

She looked at the tin, then up at him. “You’re jesting.”

He smiled. It didn’t reassure her. “It won’t hurt. I promise.”

He had to coax her fists open. But he was right—it didn’t hurt, although it smelled ghastly and had the feel and consistency of axle putty. “What’s in it?” she asked as he rewrapped her slimy hands with another torn handkerchief.

“A soldier’s hope. There. All finished.” He rose, slipped the tin into the pocket of his jacket, and wiped his greasy fingers on his knee-high cavalry boots. “Good for leather, too, so it is.” Grabbing a knife stuck point-first into the log beside her, he began carving on the turkey still spitted over the coals. “Grab a plate, Your Majesty. Supper’s ready.”

She faltered, then did as he asked. “Mr. Satterwhite often said that.”

“Aye. A remarkable man, your Mr. Satterwhite.”

Blinking hard, she watched him pile succulent pieces of breast on the plate she held out. “Yes, he was. I shall miss him.”

“I’m sure even now he’s frowning down at my poor attempt at cooking, but I couldna just let it burn.” After filling his own plate, he settled back on the log beside her chair. “I hope you dinna mind.”

She gave a shaky smile. “I shall press bravely on.”

“He would expect no less.”

They ate in silence under the hopeful eyes of Tricks and Agnes. Watching the amount of food Ash consumed, she doubted there would be many tidbits left.

“He had to make a new hub,” Ash said after a while. “The wheelwright. That’s what took me so long.”

She didn’t respond.

“I would have come sooner, lass, had I been able.”

A tired refrain. She was weary of it. But when she turned to tell him that, she saw the worry in his eyes and her anger faded away. What did it matter if Ash had come yesterday or today? Mr. Satterwhite’s heart would have stopped whether he had been here or not.

“I’ll put on the new wheel first thing in the morning.” Leaning forward, he cut a drumstick from the rapidly dwindling carcass,
then sat back. Tearing off a bite of meat with his fine, white teeth, he stared into the fire, his jaw working as he chewed.

It was a nice jaw, despite the stubble. Strong and square, with a slight dip in the middle of his chin. Not quite a cleft.
More like a wee fairy’s thumbprint,
he had told her once when she had explored it with her fingertip. Then her lips. Then her tongue. And with that wayward thought, the memory of him burst into her mind—the salty taste of his skin, the warm, male scent of him, the dark promise in those moss green eyes when she had raised her body over his.

“What baby?”

Startled, Maddie choked on a bit of potato, then coughed to clear it. “Pardon me?” she asked in a strained voice.

He took another bite, watched her while he chewed, then swallowed. “You said you lost a baby. What baby? And why dinna I know about it?”

Irritated by the challenge in his tone, she answered more sharply than she intended. “Because your father asked me not to tell you.”

Suspicion gave way to surprise. “Why?”

Appetite gone, she set her plate on the ground. Immediately Agnes pounced. Tricks would have, too, but halted at a word from Ash. “He felt you shouldn’t be bothered. ‘The lad has more important things to attend,’ ” she mimicked in his father’s gruff voice. “ ‘He canna help what he canna change.’ He was right, of course.”

Ash muttered something in Celtic under his breath.

Maddie didn’t need to understand the words to catch the meaning. “I’ll not argue with you on that score. But on this occasion, I agree with him.”

Ash turned his head and looked at her. She saw the anger and pain in his eyes and wondered if it was for her, or the babe who would never be, or his father’s high-handedness. It was a sad thing on all accounts. But remembering her own grief, she softened to his. “What could you have done had you known, Ash? You had only been back with your regiment for three months, and were newly promoted, at that. They wouldn’t have allowed you to leave
again so soon. And even if they had, by the time you reached home, the crisis would have been long past. These things happen.”

He frowned, that one scarred brow arcing up, instead of down. “You sound as if it dinna matter to you. Did you no’ want the babe?”

To cover a sudden, sharp swell of emotion, Maddie bent to pick up her plate. “Of course I did.” Hearing the wobble in her voice, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Of course I did. More than anything in the world. Especially since it will probably be my one and only chance to ever bear a child.” Setting the plate on the log beside her, she pressed her hands on her thighs to still the trembling.

“It doesn’t have to be, lass. Come back to Scotland with me and I’ll give you all the bairns you want.”