Colorado Dawn (7 page)

“Hold fast!” Ash ordered.

His wife obeyed. The rat dinna.

Without rising to his feet, Tricks lifted his head out of the frenzied creature’s reach as the dog yipped and jumped in his face.

“Easy, lad. The thing is mostly hair and gristle and wouldna go down easy anyway.”

Eventually the wee beastie wore itself out. Panting, its pink tongue drooping from its open mouth, the rat settled on its haunches and attempted to stare down the bigger dog.

Tricks responded by lifting a hind foot and scratching his ear.

“See, lass? All is well.”

“I thought for sure the big one would eat the little one.” Satterwhite sounded disappointed.

Ash studied the rat, trying to determine its ancestry. “One of those Mexican dogs, is it?”

“Half.” Still watchful, Madeline sank back into the chair. “The mother was a Corgi of low virtue who was also a sound sleeper. An unfortunate combination,” she added with a pointed look in his direction.

He ignored it. “I find it odd,” he said pleasantly, “that you named your wee dog after me. I might even have been flattered, had the animal been male.”

“Angus is a girl?” Satterwhite bent to study the dog’s furry underparts. “I never knew that. ’Course I never looked that hard, either.”

“She is.” His wife focused her attention on smoothing the skirt draped over her knees. “And her name is Agnes.”

“Agnes? You said it was Angus, missy.”

“I fear you misheard, Mr. Satterwhite.”

Ash watched her lips twitch. A smile, perchance? It gave him hope that the fine sense of humor he remembered might still lurk beneath that starchy reserve. “A common mistake, so it is.”

“Indeed.”

Turning to the old man, Ash said in a friendly tone, “In the future,
Satterwhite, you willna call my wife ‘missy.’ She is a viscountess and should be addressed as my lady or Lady Madeline or Viscountess Ashby.”

“Oh, rubbish,” his wife interjected. “And I suppose next you’ll insist I call you Lord Ashby. Don’t be such a stick. Missy is fine, Mr. Satterwhite. We are friends, after all.” Turning back to Ash, she added as if he were a blithering numptie, “Americans do not recognize titles,
Angus
. And as I have not yet accepted yours, I choose not to use it.”

He managed to keep his voice calm. “It’s not a matter of choice,
Maddie
. I am Viscount Ashby. You are wedded to me. Thus, you are Viscountess Ashby. And even though it’s customary for peers to be addressed by their titles rather than their given names, if Ashby is too lofty for you, I’ll answer to Ash.” He punctuated that with a wide grin.

She looked away, her lips pressed in a thin, flat line.

Again, Ash wondered why she was fighting him on this. Most women he knew would jump at a title. Yet, she wanted none of it. Why?

Or was it him she wanted naught to do with?

“Stew’s done, Your Majesties,” Satterwhite announced. “Grab your plates.”

They ate the burned food beside the fire. Although it was still early evening, the sun had dropped behind the trees and long shafts of dappled light slanted across the wispy grass. Already the air was cooling, and Maddie was grateful when Angus—Ash—added another log to the coals.

Ash.
It suited him. As did the gray hair. With his imposing figure and handsome face, and now a lofty title, he would have no trouble finding another woman to be his viscountess. Then she would be free to take her pictures and travel when and where she wanted, and answer to no one.

She frowned. Put that way, it sounded rather lonely. Was that
truly what she wanted? To dwell on the fringes of her friends’ lives? To rock their children to sleep without ever holding her own? Could she be content to never again feel a man’s arms around her?

If it meant having control of her own life…absolutely.

Ash had been a skilled lover, and she had missed that intimacy these last six years. She liked men. She liked the way they moved and laughed and smelled—the texture of their skin, the strength in their bodies, the power they took and gave in the marriage bed.

They?
He.

Memories eddied through her mind as she looked across the fire at the only man who had ever made love to her. Would it be the same with other men? Would she ever find that wonder and bliss again?

Perhaps she should find out. There were several men in Heartbreak Creek who had shown interest—admittedly, most had been patrons of the Red Eye Saloon next to the hotel, and their attentions had been more like harassment than true interest. Even Mr. Satterwhite had made an offer, although Maddie knew the only reason he had done so was out of his determination to see her protected. Mercy sakes, the dear man was old enough to be her father. Her grandfather, even.

Still, the idea bore consideration. Perhaps if she encouraged advances from other gentlemen—not Mr. Satterwhite, of course—Ash would become so disgusted with her he would go on his way and leave her to her tintypes. She could continue to reside in Heartbreak Creek near her dear friends Lucinda and Prudence and Edwina, and all would be as it was.

With a sigh, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and stared with disinterest into her plate of stew.

Unless Angus—Ash—was so intent on getting his heir, he dragged her back to Scotland to suffer the arduous task of petitioning Parliament for a divorce so he could marry someone who could give him a son.

It was all so wretchedly unfair. She fingered the heavy signet ring on her finger and wondered why she still wore it. The man who
had given it to her was long gone. A figment of a lonely young woman’s imagination.

Suddenly aware that her husband was watching her, she forced herself to take a nibble of the dry-as-dust hardtack that Mr. Satterwhite insisted on serving with every meal.

Not that she could do any better. She was an artist—not a cook. When she had interviewed Mr. Satterwhite for the position of driver and cook and he had proclaimed himself excellent at both, she probably shouldn’t have taken him at his word. But after spending several months in his company, she was glad she had. He was a dear old thing, even if he was a ghastly cook. And she had greatly enjoyed his companionship on her treks through mining camps, Indian reservations, army posts, and lonely homesteads. With his help, she had captured the spirit of the West so vividly that after Mr. Chesterfield at
The Illustrated London News
had received her first shipment of whole plate negatives, and
carte
portraits, and stereoscopic panoramic slides, he had written immediately back, demanding more and hinting at a leather-bound compilation of her work.

She was making a name for herself—by herself. Mr. Satterwhite was part of that success, and she couldn’t give up on him, no matter how poor a cook he was, any more than she could give up on her work, no matter what Angus—or Ash—said. Somehow, she would make her husband understand that having known the joy of independence these last two years, she would never willingly give it up. Not even for a husband, or a title.

She watched Ash sneak pieces of stringy meat to his dog when Mr. Satterwhite wasn’t looking, and tried to stay mad at him for his cavalier treatment of her. But gentler memories kept intruding.

Her husband wasn’t a bad man. As a young cavalry officer, he had been brash and energetic and perhaps too ready to rush to the next adventure. Not that she blamed him. She had lived with his family. She knew how suffocating and judgmental they could be. But in the years since she had last seen him, he seemed to have settled somewhat. This older man she now had to think of as Lord
Ashby was more subdued, perhaps a bit jaded, and there was a weariness behind his green eyes that hinted at painful experiences. The rough edges were gone, leaving behind a seasoned, hard-faced ex-soldier who was accustomed to getting his way.

She would have to tread carefully with this new Angus. This man looked to have a clear idea of what he wanted and the confidence to do what he must to get it. He wouldn’t take kindly to insubordination. Especially from a wife.

Tossing the last of the scraps into the fire, he rose from the log bench. “If you’ll excuse us, lass, Satterwhite and I must tend the animals.”

Earlier he had introduced his big gelding to her mules, Maisy and Buttercup. After a few snorts and sniffs, they had accepted each other and had been allowed to wander loose as they’d grazed the clearing throughout the afternoon. Now he went to collect Lurch, careful to approach from the front so the deaf animal would see him and not be startled by his sudden appearance. Then following Satterwhite and the mules, he led him to the creek for a last drink before staking him close to the wagon for the night.

Maddie watched him, seeing in his distant form the young man she had once found so captivating.

With his long-legged lankiness and his gentle touch with horses, he was well suited to be a cavalryman, despite the fact that his initial enlistment had been with the Riflemen of the Ninety-Fifth. She hadn’t known him then, as he had already transferred to the Hussars when she’d met him, “hoping to be sent to China for the Second Opium War.”

Instead, the Tenth Hussars had been sent to Ireland, where, as he’d written in his last letter several years ago, he had been promoted to the rank of colonel “for no good reason other than I complement the flashy uniform and sit a horse well.” An odd thing for a man to say about himself and his own success.

Yet despite his obvious disenchantment with the military, he hadn’t sold his commission, or come home to see his wife, or written to her again. And now, after years of silence, he was back in her
life—with a new title and a new name and all the power he needed to bend her to his will.

Disheartened, she rose and began gathering the empty plates and dirty utensils. She wondered how he would react if she told him she wanted a divorce. If they were no longer married, she could continue her work, and he could find some fertile young thing to bear his heirs in exchange for the title of viscountess and a short letter every year or so. Divorce was the only sensible solution.

And yet…

It was almost dark when Ash returned from the creek with Lurch and Tricks. The breeze had died, and stars were winking to life in the cloudless dome overhead. It would turn cold in the night. He could feel it in his side.

His wife sat huddled by the fire, lost in thought. After staking Lurch near the wagon, he untied the bedroll from his saddle and crossed toward her, Tricks at his heels.

“Sit,” he told the dog. This time Tricks obeyed. Dropping the bedroll, Ash stepped over the log then sat, his hands extended to the warmth rising from the coals. “It’s a braw night, is it not? Reminds me of the Highlands.”

“Except for the lack of fog and drizzle and stink of wet sheep.”

So much for friendly conversation. Too weary to wrest pleasantness from an angry woman, he let it go. “Where do you want me, lass?”

She looked at him, then at the bedroll, then back at him. He admired the way her brown eyes caught the flames and her fine cheekbones were tinted goldish pink by the glow of the coals. “Want you?”

“To sleep. In the wagon or out—”

“Not in the wagon!”

He studied her for a moment, then gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, wife?”

“Why would you think that?”

Ash had seen fear in many forms over the years, from white-faced
recruits in India to shrieking men being carried into the surgeon’s tent in the Crimea during the siege of Sevastopol to the blank terror on a man’s face just before Ash fired the bullet that would kill him. But he’d never expected to see it on his wife’s face. He was unsure how to respond, or what to do to allay her fears.

“I bear no grudge because of your desertion,” he assured her. “You’ve naught to fear on that score.”

“
My
desertion? What about yours?”

Ash sighed. Well, he’d tried. “Where does Satterwhite sleep?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere out here. Perhaps by the fire.” Leaning forward, she dropped her voice to add, “He’s afraid of bears.”

“Bears? Are they a problem?”

She sat back. “They have been. But not lately. They’re drawn to the smell of food, which is why we hang our supplies.” She pointed to where the old man had thrown a rope over a high limb and was now hoisting up a canvas bag of foodstuffs until it hung at least a dozen feet off the ground.

“Tricks will alert us if they come near.” Reaching down, he patted the wolfhound’s knobby head. “He’s verra canny, so he is.”

They lapsed into silence. She poked at the coals with a stick, sending up a swirling plume of sparks. Somewhere in the shadowed forest an owl hooted, which brought the wolfhound’s head around, his eyes scanning the trees. From farther away came the bugle of a bull elk, another sign of winter closing in.

He wished she would retire to her wagon so he could sleep. Even though his headache was gone, a lingering weariness remained. And her nearness further weakened him, teased him with memories best forgotten—the softness of her skin, the way she moved when he touched her, the sounds she made when he did.

Bollocks.
It promised to be a long night.

After tying off the rope suspending the bag from the tree limb, Satterwhite stepped into the brush at the edge of the clearing. A few minutes later, he walked back out with an armload of firewood and carried it into the wagon. It wasn’t long before a puff of smoke coiled above the stovepipe sticking out of the roof.

Ash studied his wife, wondering why she was wary of him and why he’d come this far seeking a woman who dinna even want him. Had he been that bad a husband? Or was it as she had said, because he had ignored her? A poor excuse. A soldier couldn’t rush home whenever the mood struck him.

But maybe he could fix that now, show her some attention, perhaps even coax out a smile. “What will you do when it’s too cold to travel these mountains?” he asked pleasantly.

“I’ll go home. That’s where we’re headed now. My shipment of albuminized paper and silver nitrate has probably arrived from E. and H.T. Anthony’s of New York, and I need to send my latest negative plates to London for engraving.”