Colorado Dawn (11 page)

Actually, he had defied orders to come see her as soon as the sale was completed. And after he’d forced himself to leave her the next afternoon, he’d had to ride through the night to get back to the ship before it sailed. Again, he’d risked everything—and again, all she saw was that it wasn’t enough. “I’m sorry, lass. I would have come more often had I been able.”

She made a dismissive motion, then let her hand fall back to her lap. “That aside, I have made a new life here. A fulfilling, happy life—peopled with dear friends and challenged by interesting, meaningful work to which I am totally committed.”

Looking down into her upturned face, he saw the fire and passion that at one time had been directed at him, and he realized with
sudden clarity that by armoring himself against this woman, he had lost something valuable and irreplaceable. Something he never even knew was within his grasp until it had already slipped through his grip. “Your tintypes.”

“Precisely. There is a man in London who, even now, is clamoring for more of them.”

Ash nodded. “Chesterfield, at
The
Illustrated London News.
I spoke with him. In fact, it was through him that I tracked you here.”

“I’ll have to remember to thank him,” she muttered.

“I would have found you without his help. Remember, I was a forward rider with the Riflemen in my early career.” He smiled down at her. “Chesterfield showed me some of your photographs. You’re verra good, lass. Your spirit shines through in every picture.”

She looked away. “Mr. Chesterfield has been most encouraging.”

“As well he should. He sells a lot of newspapers because of you.”

He watched her stroke imaginary dust from her skirt—a gesture he was beginning to recognize as one she used when she was nervous or feeling shy—and sensed his words had pleased her. Which pleased him.

So he expounded. “In fact, all London is talking about the talented A. M. Wallace.”

“All?” A smile teased her lips. “Even the children and illiterate? How remarkable.”

Tipping his head, he studied her face in the fire glow, willing her to look up at him. When she did, he asked, “Why don’t you put your full name on your work, Maddie, instead of just your initials? Are you ashamed of your talent?”

She shrugged. “If subscribers thought I was a man, I would have a greater chance of success. There are less than a handful of female photographers, and their work is rarely taken seriously because of their gender. Also”—she sent him a pointed look—“I thought it would make me more difficult to track.”

He grinned. “And so it did. I had to use all my persuasive powers to convince Chesterfield to tell me where you were.” Along with
the threat of Newgate Prison for abetting the desertion of the lawful wife of a peer.

“Ah. I thought so. ‘Tall, overbearing, and unpleasant.’ That’s how he described the man seeking information about me. Who else could it have been but you?” Her teasing smile took some of the sting out of the words. “I just don’t know why you went to the bother of finding me.”

He looked at the ring he’d given her that she still wore, and wondered again if she might still harbor feelings for him. “You’re my wife.”

“So it’s all about possession, then?”

He grinned. “Not
all
.”

She opened her mouth—to berate him, no doubt—when a rustling sound in the brush drew her attention.

Ash turned and studied the trees. Beside him, Tricks lifted his head and stared fixedly toward the creek, his nose quivering as he drew in scent.

Moving without haste, Ash picked up his Snider-Enfield, which he’d loaded and left propped against the stack of firewood. Holding it by his side, he scanned the trees that ringed the meadow.

He saw nothing. Heard nothing. Glancing over at the mules and Lurch, barely visible at the edge of the firelight, he noted they stood quietly, ears relaxed, heads drooping as they dozed. After a moment, the wolfhound lost interest, and with a wide, tongue-curling yawn, dropped his head back onto his paws.

Reassured, Ash rested the rifle back against the wood and straightened to find his wife watching him. “It’s naught, lass. You’re safe. Tricks and I will watch over you.”

“I can see that. And I thank you for it.” Tossing off the blanket so that it draped over the slatted back of the chair, she rose and snapped her fingers. “Come, Agnes. Let us leave our guardians to their duty.”

The little dog bounded up, stretched, gave Ash’s boots a sniff, then trotted ahead of her master toward the wagon. Tricks continued to sleep.

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
p
s and
q
s and
d
s and
f
s and
t
s 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

A
sh 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.”