Colorado Dawn (15 page)

You twit.
He had survived six years without her worrying about him. He could certainly make it through one more night. Not that she was worrying, of course.

Flopping over onto her back, she pulled the pillow over her head to muffle sound, and prayed that morning would come soon, lest she stuff a pillow over Mr. Satterwhite’s snoring head, too.

She awoke to frosted windowpanes and someone calling her name. She rolled over, blinking in confusion, wondering if she had actually heard a voice, or if it was another of those unidentifiable sounds Mr. Satterwhite made in his sleep.

Agnes crawled out from under the covers and yawned, her ears pricked toward the door. Still only half awake, Maddie leaned up on her elbows and listened.

There it was again. Muffled. Weak. “Missy.”

Alarmed, she flipped back the covers and stepped to the window. Wiping the frost away, she peered out.

At first she saw little but the fog of her own breath. Then she noticed movement on the other side of the smoking fire. Mr. Satterwhite, his hands clutching his chest. As she watched, he sagged to the ground.

Whipping a blanket off the bed, she threw it around her shoulders, yanked on her walking boots, and raced from the wagon.

“Mr. Satterwhite,” she shouted, almost slipping on the icy grass as she ran to kneel at his side. “Wilfred, can you hear me?”

His face contorted in pain. His fingers grabbed at his chest. “Missy.”

She fluttered around him, wanting to help, but not knowing what to do. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

He gasped for air, his crooked eyes wild and unfocused, his back arching off the ground. “Jesus.” It was a long, hissing exhalation that ended abruptly. He sank back. His fingers relaxed. Slowly, his hand slid off his chest to flop, palm up, on the frosted ground.

Silence.

Oh God.

Maddie knew. But it was too sudden. Too shocking. She didn’t
want to believe it. “Mr. Satterwhite!” She gave his shoulder a hard shove. “Wilfred!”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t blink. What color was left in his whiskered face began to fade away.

“Wilfred! Say something!”

He didn’t. And that loosened a wave of terror that burst from her mouth in a torrent of angry words. “Come back! Don’t you dare leave me!” Grabbing his shoulders, she shook him so hard the back of his head made a soft thump when it struck the earth. “Wake up! Wake up now!” She shoved hard against his chest.

A sound burst out of his slack mouth. Startled, she lurched back, almost tumbling onto the frozen ground. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched him, waiting for him to rise up.

He didn’t. And she knew then that the sound he had made was just air escaping his lungs when she had pushed on his chest. He was gone. Pressing both hands to her mouth, she rocked back and forth, her mind numb with despair.
Please, Wilfred. Come back. Don’t leave me.

But she knew.

And this time she couldn’t deny it.

Lifting her face to the clear, sunlit sky, she cried out in anguish, startling the mules and sending a squirrel chattering through the branches. Then strength left her and she dropped her face into her hands and wept. For him. For her. For all the unspoken words she had meant to say.

After a while, the chill reached through the blanket and her thin nightdress, and she began to shiver. She tried to rise, but she had knelt for so long her legs had gone numb. When she finally managed to stand, Agnes got tangled in her feet, almost making her fall on Mr. Satterwhite.

For a moment, she stood blinking down at him through her tears, not sure what she should do. Try to drag him into the wagon? She would never get him up the steps. Bury him? In the frozen ground? No, she would wait for Ash. He would know what to do.

Her stomach churning, she bent down and closed his lids and
jaw. He felt so cold. Even knowing nothing would warm him now, she pulled the blanket from her shoulders and laid it over his body.

The draped mound looked smaller than she would have expected. Not quite real. Not really true. But when she saw the pale tips of his fingers showing at the edge of the blanket, she knew it was true and her friend was gone, and she had never had a chance to tell him good-bye. The reality of that was like a fist against her chest.

Blinded by tears, she stumbled to the wagon and collapsed on her bed, her mind whirling with useless regrets. After she had cried herself out, she rose and dressed in her warmest flannel underskirts, her work dress, and wool stockings. Then she sat at her tiny vanity and pinned up her hair.

She wanted it to look nice. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps to honor her friend. Perhaps because she dreaded going back out there and doing what she knew needed to be done. But her hands were shaking so badly it wasn’t as neat as she would have liked. Finally unable to delay longer, she donned her heavy coat and kid gloves, called Agnes, and left the wagon.

She had a time of it removing the canvas drape from over the driver’s bench, and ended up losing her temper and yanking on it so hard the cloth ripped on one corner. The violence of it released some of the pain and gave her a false strength that kept her moving.

She spread the canvas beside Mr. Satterwhite then removed the blanket she had draped over him. She was glad she wore gloves now because he looked pale and waxy, except where his skin was beginning to mottle, and she feared she might cast up her accounts if she had to touch his dead flesh. Yet as ghastly as it was, the sight of his deterioration helped, because he no longer looked like her friend. Mr. Satterwhite was gone now; she was simply cleaning up behind him.

Once she had rolled him up in the canvas, she folded the loose ends over his head and feet so that every part of him was covered, then cut lengths of rope and tied them around him to hold the canvas in place. As she straightened, she saw that the sun was high
overhead. Half the day had passed and she hadn’t untethered the mules, or put wood on the fire, or fed Agnes. The thought of eating anything, herself, was so repugnant it made her stomach roll.

Glad to stay busy, she tended those duties, and soon had a fire crackling and a stack of wood ready beside it. The normalcy of such mundane tasks soothed her, insulated her from the chilling reality of the dead body lying on the other side of the fire. But as that first wave of shock and grief began to recede, the enormity of her predicament began to penetrate her numb mind.

She was utterly and completely alone in an isolated spot away from the road, with few supplies left, a broken wagon, and only a tiny dog, a scattergun, and a near-useless palm pistol for protection. If Ash didn’t come before dark, the animals would.

They would come for Mr. Satterwhite.

A new kind of terror engulfed her, filling her mind with such horrific images her mind started to spin. It took all her strength to bring the fear back down so she could think again.

Ash would come. He would return soon and take care of everything.

Clinging desperately to that thought, she went back for her weapons, just in case a creature came nosing about. She debated staying inside where she would be safe and warm until Ash came. But how could she leave Mr. Satterwhite out there alone?

Shaking but resolved, she gathered up her weapons and a blanket, and went back to the fire. After positioning her chair upwind of the smoke, she set the loaded guns within reach, stoked the flames, then sat with a blanket over her shoulders and Agnes on her lap to await Ash’s return.

It shouldn’t be long. He said he would only be gone a night and a day, and there weren’t many hours in the day left. He was probably already on his way and would come riding through those trees any moment now. He would come back to her like he said. He wouldn’t let her down this time.

·  ·  ·

“Tomorrow!” Ash gave the smithy his most intimidating scowl. “I need it sooner!”

The beefy man retreated a step, hands upraised. “Takes that long for the hub to set up. Then I have to seat the spokes and tack on the metal rim. Otherwise, wouldn’t last ten miles.”

Ash bit back a string of curses. He’d told Maddie he’d be back by dark. Now it would be another day.
Bluidy hell.
He dinna like leaving her with just an old man to look out for her. This colder weather would bring all sorts of predators down from the high country. Bears, mountain lions, wolves. He’d seen in the Crimea the damage wolves could do, and how when they hunted in a pack they could take down anything on two legs or four. “If it’s ready by daybreak,” he told the blacksmith, “I’ll pay you double.”

At least Maddie could shoot, he consoled himself as he headed back to the hotel. And with Satterwhite and his repeater, she would be well protected. Still, it worried him.

He glared down at Tricks, trotting happily at his side. “You should have stayed with her, you mangy cur. If anything happens to her, I’ll sell you to the Chinamen, so I will.” Leaning down, he added sternly, “And they eat dogs.”

As he straightened, he realized what he’d done. Threatened his loyal companion over a woman who, up until a few days ago, he hadn’t even been sure was still alive. The same woman who had deserted him and led him on a merry chase across an ocean and half a continent. A woman who dinna even want him.

“She’s doing it to me, again,” he muttered to Tricks. “Just like six years ago, when she made me cast aside good sense and my family’s blessing, and enticed me to stay with her longer than I should. Which almost cost me a promotion, so it did. And all because of one wee kiss and a smile. But not this time, Tricks. This time I willna let her weave her spells about me. I promise you that.”

Tricks looked up at him, his dark eyes round and sad.

Ash sighed and ruffled the dog’s wiry brows. “You’re right, lad. But I can at least try.”

Eight

W
hen the last of the sun finally slipped behind the trees and plunged the small clearing into twilight gloom, Maddie’s spirits sank with it.

Ash wasn’t coming back.

She should have known. The man’s promises were as substantial as the smoke rising from the fire. She had to accept that. Still, it hurt—hurt almost as much as Mr. Satterwhite’s passing, for in a way it, too, was a death—of hope, of faith. She had actually begun to believe that despite their rough beginning, Ash was coming to care for her. How foolish was that?

Furiously, she swiped a hand over her burning eyes.
Well, no more.
She had shed her last tear over that man.

An animal cried out, startling her. The sound was barely heard over the babble of the creek nearby, so she wasn’t sure what it was—a squirrel, maybe even a bird. But it served to remind her that she couldn’t dwell on Ash’s desertion now. She had a night to get through and a plan to devise that would allow her to salvage what she could from the wagon and get back to Heartbreak Creek. But first…

She glanced over at the canvas-wrapped body on the other side of the fire. First, she had to figure out what to do with Mr. Satterwhite,
because she certainly wasn’t going to leave him to the animals. She owed him more care than that.

She supposed she could suspend him from a tree like they did their supplies. Loop a rope around him, throw the other end over a sturdy branch, then use Maisy to hoist him up. An excellent plan if she hadn’t cut up the rope to bind the canvas around Mr. Satterwhite’s body. And besides, she thought, looking around, she wasn’t sure where the mules were. She had been too distraught earlier to restake their pickets, thinking they wouldn’t wander far. They probably hadn’t, but she didn’t have time to go chasing after them. The sun was sinking fast and she needed to tend to Mr. Satterwhite while there was still sufficient light.

That left burying him. With sunshine throughout the day, the ground had probably thawed enough to make digging possible. He was too heavy to move far, so she would have to dig right where he was now—close to the fire and the light, and where the ground would be warmest.

“Off you go,” she said, shooing Agnes from her lap. Rising on cold-stiffened legs, she went to the storage box on the underside of the wagon to get the shovel.

The light lasted about as long as her gloves did. This close to the creek, the dirt was littered with river rocks, from round, fist-sized stones to others almost too heavy to lift. After an hour of hacking at the earth, she had dug a hole barely big enough to hold her valise, much less a human being. Her back was a mass of cramping muscles, blisters were already forming beneath her shredded gloves, and she was almost out of firewood.

Throwing down the shovel in disgust, she grabbed her scattergun, dumped a handful of cartridges into her jacket pocket, and tromped into the trees, hoping Mr. Satterwhite hadn’t already scavenged all the available wood. Agnes trotted ahead of her, sniffing here, piddling there, and almost tripping Maddie in the growing gloom. No sign of the mules. Luckily she found ample wood, although most of it was damp from the rain. After several trips back and forth, she had a substantial pile drying beside the fire.

As darkness descended, the temperature dropped. Knowing she would stay warmer if she were active, she picked up the shovel and resumed digging. Slowly, the hole grew—as did her blisters—until finally it was too dark to see and her hands could take no more.

So discouraged and weary she wanted to weep, Maddie forced herself to stay calm so she could think clearly. She considered her options. There were only two: Give up, retreat to the wagon, and let the animals have Mr. Satterwhite. Or stay out here by the fire, standing guard over him with her scattergun until daylight, then come up with another plan.

With a sigh, she draped a blanket around her head and shoulders and set her guns within reach. Then pulling her chair as close to the fire as she dared, she cuddled Agnes in her lap and settled in to await the morning.

It was a beautiful, moonless night, so crisp and clear the stars seemed to hang just above the treetops. Occasionally, odd streaks of light would shoot up in wavy spikes behind the trees to the north, then fade, then rise again, sometimes with a greenish hue, or even a blue. At first, she thought it might be someone coming—perhaps a wagon with a night lantern swinging from a hook. But though she listened hard, she heard no sound other than the rushing creek, and after a while, the streaks faded.