Colorado Dawn (12 page)

He smiled back. “Of course.”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then quickly away. “Then I dry the treated paper in darkness until I’m ready to place it in a frame with a glass plate that has been treated with the collodion emulsion mixture.”

“Collodion?” He especially liked that arch in her brows that gave her face a perpetual expression of wonder. It always drew him closer, as if being near her might cause some of that joy in life to rub off on him.

“It’s a liquid emulsion made of cellulose nitrate and ether and a few other ingredients. It creates fumes that are quite noxious, and if allowed to accumulate, can become highly flammable. That’s why I mix it outdoors.”

Ash blinked. “Flammable?”

She gave his crossed arm a reassuring pat. “Oh, I’m most careful. I store all my chemicals in airtight tins. And I hear they’re on the brink of developing a new dry process, which would eliminate—”

“Ether?” Ash straightened, his arms falling to his sides. He looked down at the boxes stacked at their feet, then at the wagon. “You store ether in there? With a woodstove?”

He must have shouted it because she stepped back, her eyes round with surprise. “Of course not. I’m not demented. Only the negative plates are stored inside. I keep all the dangerous substances in crates on top of the wagon. That way if something does go wrong, the explosion will go upward rather than down, and the plates won’t be damaged.”

“Plates? You’re worrying over
plates
? What about you?”

Another step back. “Don’t be silly. I take all necessary precautions. It’s not as if I’m dabbling in that experimental magnesium powder that can set your hair on fire or blow off your fingers.”

“Holy mother of mercy.” But before he could voice further objections, she slid her arm through his, and as soon as he felt the soft press of her breast against his arm, he completely lost his train of thought.

“I’ll show you.” She led him toward the camera, and still bemused, he followed docilely along like a spring lamb.

“We’ll start with a photograph of Buttercup and Maisy.” Releasing his arm, she moved the camera and tripod into position so that it faced the grazing mules. “First we focus.” She slid back the rear section of the camera and pointed to a glass pane in a wooden frame. “This is the focusing screen. We look through it at what we want to photograph.” Holding up the dark cloth, she motioned him forward. “Step under. Look through the glass and tell me what you see.”

Bending, he draped the cloth over his head and peered through the glass. “Nothing. It’s blurry.”

“Exactly!”

Moving out from beneath the cloth, he found her grinning up at him like he’d earned a great prize. One couldn’t fault the woman’s enthusiasm. Or his reaction to it.

“So how do we make the image sharper? By sliding this rear section in and out of the camera box.” She demonstrated.

In and out.
One of his favorites. In fact, he’d been told he was quite good at it. Once even by her. “Fast or slow?”

“Pardon?”

He motioned with his finger. “That in-and-out part. Should that be done fast or slow, do you suppose?”

She stared at his finger. A slight flush eased up her throat. “Slow, I should think. To maintain focus, as it were.”

“Focus. Of course. One wouldn’t want to lose focus at such a delicate time.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he gave her his best smile. “Pray continue.”

“Ah…yes, of course.”

After aligning the image, she put a cap over the lens protruding from the other side of the camera box and removed the glass focusing
screen from the rear. “Now comes the tricky part.” She held up a plain glass plate. “I must coat this with the collodion emulsion to sensitize it, then insert it into this holder.”

Insert.
Another favorite. “Then what?”

She pointed to a wooden frame with a dark plate on one side. “That plate will protect the glass from extraneous light until I’m ready to expose it. But first”—she carefully slid the glass pane into a flat pan—“I coat it with the chemical solution—collodion emulsion—to sensitize the glass. Then I put the wet glass in the holder and slide it into the camera. All that must be done out of the presence of light. And finally, we’re ready to take a photograph. Isn’t that exciting?” She beamed up at him.

He beamed back, and hoped he wasn’t required to remember all that.

“This will only take a moment, but I’d advise you to step back while I mix the emulsion. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” he asked, distraction forgotten.

But she was already under her dark cloth, with only her rounded arse poking out as she bent over the table, mixing her witch’s brew. He cocked his head to study the shapely contours, then stepped back to get the full effect. The woman had a lovely arse. He was looking forward to reacquainting himself with it.

At a sound, he straightened to find Satterwhite glaring at him from over by the wagon. “What?” he mouthed, feigning innocence.

Shaking his head, the old man snatched up two water buckets and stomped toward the creek, Agnes and Tricks in tow.

Still under the drape, Maddie reached out to locate the camera, then working blind, slid the frame into the rear of the camera. “Ready?” she called out in a muffled voice.

“Ready,” he answered, having no idea what she was talking about but enjoying the show just the same. Trim ankles. Narrow feet. He recalled how soft the soles had felt sliding up the back of his calves.

“I’ve removed the dark protective plate,” she called from under the drape. “Now I’ll remove the cap from the lens in front”—which she did—“and the exposure will begin. Count to nine.”

Ash did, wondering if he might finagle a kiss if he did it right. When he reached nine, she replaced the lens cap and protective slide, then removed the holder from the camera. Wrapping it in the dark drape, she gave Ash a triumphant grin. “Now to process the plate in the dark tent. Come along.”

Ash put on an expression of regret. “As much as I would like to,” he hedged, “I feel I should help Satterwhite. I hate to see a man his age carrying those heavy water buckets by himself. Do you mind?”

She did, he was gratified to notice. But politely masking her disappointment, she waved him on. “Not at all. Go do what you need to do. I’ll be a while.”

Several hours later, Maddie slammed the door on the wagon and plopped down on her bed with a snort of disgust.

She was in desperate need of her friends. Ever since that conversation with Ash beside the fire the previous night and his attentiveness throughout the morning, she had begun to question her decision to send him on his way. Was she so weak-willed where the man was concerned that she could so easily overlook years of neglect just for a smile and an hour of polite conversation?

Conversation? She wanted a great deal more than that.

She was absurd. A ninny of the first order. One of those simpering, clingy, dependent women she so despised. But the ladies of Heartbreak Creek would quickly set her back on track.

With a sigh, she flopped back, arms thrown wide, hands dangling over the edges of the narrow bed. She stared up at the low ceiling, which she had papered with newspaper clippings of her favorite photographs, many taken by Matthew Brady during the War of the Rebellion, and others by Tim O’Sullivan, who so beautifully chronicled the expansion of the West. There were even a few of her own up there.

And the newest—a lovely albumen print she had taken in secret just this morning—was of Ash, with Tricks at his knee, talking to
Lurch. His head was slightly downcast, a fall of gray brown hair on his forehead, his eyes fixed on the horse’s face. His hand looked large and pale where it cupped Lurch’s dark jaw, and the horse seemed to lean toward him, his head slightly tucked on his glossy neck. Trust. Somehow she had captured that bond between the man and his horse. And along with it, the power and grace and magnetism of the man, himself.

And now that magnetism was working on her.

It was vexing in the extreme. She was being an utter fool…as her friends would no doubt be delighted to point out.

Lucinda would find her infatuation with her own husband immensely amusing. She would laugh and make some astute and clever observation that would cut straight to the heart of the matter. Edwina would immediately take her side, of course. But against what? Ash? Her own weakness? It didn’t matter with the fiercely loyal Southerner. She was the champion of them all, no matter what. And Pru, the beauty and possessor of the highest intellect in the group, would calmly explain that giving up a budding career as an expeditionary photographer and returning to the life—and the man—she had fled, would be illogical, at best.

She would listen, shed a few tears, and they would comfort her. Then hopefully she would be able to put aside this growing attraction to Ash and send him on his way so she could get back to her exciting and fulfilling life. Just two more days, and those would be spent traveling. Surely, she could manage that.

With determined steps, she left the wagon. As she came down the stair, she saw Ash and Mr. Satterwhite standing by the table in the clearing, arguing over some inconsequential thing, as they were wont to do.

“Gentlemen,” she called, crossing toward them. “If you would please help me pack up these boxes and load them onto the top of the wagon, I’m hoping we can depart for Heartbreak Creek first thing in the morning.”

·  ·  ·

They awoke to a heavy dew that clung to the grass and dripped from sagging spruce limbs. By the time they were ready to go, the mist had thickened to a cold drizzle that slowly sucked the yellow leaves from the aspens and turned the trunks of the firs and alders dark brown.

Maddie rode beside Mr. Satterwhite, Agnes in her lap. Even though the overhanging roof extending above the driver’s bench protected them somewhat from the rain, the cold dampness soon made her bones ache. She could see it was having a similar effect on Ash’s healing injury.

She felt bad for him. Earlier, she had offered to let him take her place up front, but he had refused—stubborn, prideful man that he was—and now rode alongside, a dripping flat-crowned coachman’s hat covering his head, and an oiled duster draped over his legs. Tricks trotted at his side, his rough coat matted with rain and mud.

Before long, the drizzle gave over to a steady rain that didn’t let up throughout the morning. Soon the wagon track became a slippery morass, and Buttercup and Maisy were struggling for footing on the inclines, and sliding hock deep in mud on the downward slopes. As the hours passed and the rain continued, runoff cut deep grooves into the sodden earth.

By early afternoon, when the rain showed no sign of slacking and their progress had slowed to a crawl, Maddie turned to Mr. Satterwhite. “Perhaps we should stop for the day,” she shouted over the drumming of rain on the top of the wagon. She was chilled to the bone, Agnes was shivering, and it was apparent from the paleness of his face and the tight line of his mouth that Ash was suffering, as well. Even Mr. Satterwhite was showing the strain, sitting hunched over the reins, his head drooping.

“We’ve got one more crossing,” he shouted back. “It’s the deepest, so we’d best cross now before the water rises too high.”

“How far?” Ash called, angling Lurch close to the wagon.

“Mile. Maybe two.”

“I’ll scout it.” Kicking Lurch into a trot, he went ahead of the wagon, Tricks loping alongside.

As they disappeared down the road, Maddie turned again to Mr. Satterwhite. “He’s in pain. We should stop as soon as we can.”

“He’s in pain? What about me?” Mumbling under his breath, he snapped the reins and pushed the mules to a faster pace.

When they rounded the bend a few minutes later, Ash was sitting on Lurch beside the rushing creek, a worried look on his face. “Over two feet deep and moving fast. I’ll lead the team across.”

Mr. Satterwhite nodded and urged the mules forward.

Maddie clung to the arm rail as the wagon bounced over the rocky streambed. Ahead, reining Lurch with one hand and gripping a rope hooked to Maisy’s driving bridle with the other, Ash called encouragement to the frightened mules. Soon water churned around their knees and the animals were lifting their hooves high and setting them down cautiously. Buttercup, the more timid of the two, began to tremble.

Looking down, Maddie saw that the wheel on her side was half-submerged, and clutched Agnes tighter.

“Get on! Get on!” Mr. Satterwhite shouted as the mules scrabbled on the uneven streambed, struggling to drag the wagon over a large rock. With a bounce that almost tipped the wagon over, they cleared the obstacle. But when the heel chains slapped against Buttercup’s rear legs, the startled mule leaped forward, knocking Lurch off balance. The horse went down, throwing Ash out of the saddle, and suddenly both mules were lunging toward the opposite bank.

Lurch regained his feet and splashed after them. No sign of Ash.

Shouting “Whoa” in a panicky voice, Mr. Satterwhite reared back and wrestled with the reins. From inside the wagon came the crash of tumbling boxes and shifting furniture as they careened over the streambed.

Maddie looked back, saw Ash rise, dripping and cursing, out of the water, and went almost giddy with relief. Bracing her legs, she fought to stay seated, one hand gripping the roof support, the other clutching Agnes to her chest. With a jarring bounce, the wagon cleared the stream and started up the muddy incline, Lurch racing
wild-eyed alongside. A loud grating sound came from the axle beneath the bench, then just as the wagon reached flat ground, the wheel under Maddie gave with an explosive crack.

The wagon tipped to one side, flinging Agnes from her arms and Satterwhite against her shoulder. Maddie flailed for a handhold. The wagon teetered, then rocked back, finally slamming to earth at a precarious angle over the broken wheel.

Hands grabbed her, yanked her to safety.

“Are you all right?” Ash demanded, running his hands up her arms to grip her head. “Are ye hurt, Maddie? Speak to me!”

“Yes. N-No. I’m all right.”

“Sweet Mary.” He pulled her hard against his body, one big hand pinning her head so tightly to his chest she could feel the vibration of his thundering heartbeat against her cheek. “Ye scared the bluidy hell out of me, ye daft woman. You’ll no’ do that again.”