Home by Morning (29 page)

After the wedding feast, the tables were carried away to make room for dancing, and Ethan got out his fiddle. A man with a mouth harp joined him, and another, who beat an empty kettle like a drum. But before the music started, people gathered around for a wedding toast. After the cups were filled with lemonade for the women and a splash of Ash's Scotch whisky for the men, Rafe Jessup stepped forward.

“Since I drew the short stick, I have to give the toast.”

Laughter greeted his announcement, since everyone in town knew Rafe Jessup talked even less than Declan Brodie.

“I haven't been acquainted with Thomas as long as Declan has,” he began. “And I only met Prudence recently. But I know of no finer people, and I'm glad they've come home to stay.” Turning to the groom, he said, “Thomas, we've crossed an ocean together, shared a jail cell, and beaten each other to a pulp in an English corral. I'm proud to call you my friend, and I promise next time I'll let you win.”

Cheers and shouts. Thomas crossed his arms and scowled, despite the laughter in his eyes.

“And to the lovely bride,” Rafe said, turning to Pru, “I pray you're as patient as you are beautiful—you'll need to be. I wish you joy and prosperity, and hope all your ups and downs with this man will be between the sheets.”

After the laughter faded, he told Pru to hold out her hand.
“Thomas, put your hand on top of hers. Now I ask everyone to pay silent homage to this solemn moment, 'cause this is the last time in this marriage Thomas will have the upper hand.” He waited for the cheers and shouts to die down, then raised his glass high. “In the words of our red brothers . . .

“‘May the warm winds of heaven blow softly on your home,

And the Great Spirit bless all who enter there.

May your moccasins make happy tracks in many snows,

And may the rainbow always touch your shoulder.'

“To Thomas and Pru!”

And the party began.

Hours later, just before the sun slipped behind the high canyon walls, Maddie prepared her camera for the photograph dearest to her heart—the one of the three women who meant so much in her life—the beautiful ladies who had come with her to Heartbreak Creek two years ago.

Setting the tripod at the precise angle she wanted, she turned the camera over to Roger and hurried over to sit with the three ladies gathered around a small draped table.

“I'll make copies for each of us,” she said, blinking furiously as she took her place. “So we'll always remember this moment, no matter where life takes us.”

“I'm going to cry,” Edwina said with a sniff. “I don't want us ever to be apart again.”

“Don't you dare start,” her sister warned in a wobbly voice.

“Stop it, all of you.” Lucinda swiped a hand over her eyes. “We'll have years and years of these gatherings.”

“But we'll never be as pretty as we are today,” Edwina said.

“Or as young,” Pru added.

“But we'll always be the first ladies of Heartbreak Creek,” Maddie, the optimist, said. “Now smile.”

The past is a blanket of many colors

And each thread will lead you home.

—Thomas Redstone, Cheyenne author

HEARTBREAK CREEK, COLORADO, MAY 1935

T
hey must be newlyweds,
the old woman thought, watching the young couple coming hand in hand down the wide staircase of the Grand Heartbreak Creek Lodge. She had noticed them several times over the last few days, and their happiness was almost painful to see.

Crossing the foyer, they sent a nodding smile toward the table where she sat, then paused to read the daily activities notice posted on the wall beside the tall carved doors that led into the dining room.

The day was fine for late May, and the breeze coming through the tall arched windows was cool and pine-scented with only a faint trace of sulfur from the pool. The old lady had enjoyed a lovely afternoon watching the lodge guests come and go. But these two were her favorites. So refreshingly American. And so young. Just hearing their laughter made her smile.

“Looks like the whole town is invited to the Spring Social.” The young man checked the watch hanging from a chain on his belt. “We have plenty of time. Shall we go?”

“Why not? It's a beautiful day.” His bride leaned in to study
a photograph in one of the inset displays along the wall. “Isn't that a beautiful horse?”

“His name was Pembroke's Pride,” the old lady said, unable to remain silent. She loved talking about the photographs.

The young woman flashed a surprised smile. “Did you know him?”

“I met him a time or two before his owners took him east. Sired many fine foals. Even had a great-great-grandson in the Derby several years back. If you're into thoroughbred racing, you might have heard of his owner, Rayford Jessup. The man had a magical touch with horses. He and his wife set up a big stable in California, but they've retired here in Heartbreak Creek. Their daughter runs the stable, now.”

The young couple walked slowly along the wall, studying the line of old photographs. “Do you know all these people?” the man asked.

“I do. Some are gone now, but the younger ones try to make it back every year for the annual Spring Social. An amazing group.”

“In what way?”

“There was a joke about it. ‘What happens when a mail-order bride, her half-black sister, a thief, and a runaway wife ride into town? They marry a sheriff, an Indian, a lawyer, and a soldier.'”

The young couple blinked at her.

She gave a dismissive wave. “I guess you'd have to know them.”

Pushing herself from her chair, she walked forward, happy to share what she knew. Not many people stopped to look at old photographs anymore. The past held little charm for the young. “That big photograph in the center says it all.”

The young woman smiled in delight as she studied it. “An outdoor wedding?”

“A second-time-around wedding.” The elderly woman pointed to the couple on the left of the bride and groom. “Those are the Jessups I just mentioned. Their daughter wasn't yet born when this photograph was taken, but that's their son beside them. He inherited a grand estate in England, although no title came with it. Their parents have passed on, but I expect he and his sister will be here for the gathering. They come almost
every year. It's become as much a reunion as a spring social nowadays.”

“And these people?” The bride pointed to the next couple in the photograph, a tall, slim man and a petite woman.

“Those are the Hardestys. Audra was the town's newspaper publisher and editor. Ethan was the architect and builder of this lodge. Those big smiles are because the same day this photograph was taken they announced they had a baby on the way. Nice folks. Passed on about a decade ago, but their daughter, Phyllis, married a local rancher and still lives here.”

“What about the bride and groom?” The young man leaned in to study the faces in the photograph. “They seem rather unusual.”

“They were.” The old woman laughed, remembering the way strangers always stared at the handsome couple. “The groom, Thomas Redstone, was a Cheyenne Dog Soldier and later became a famous author for his time. His wife, Prudence, was the prettiest woman I ever saw. She became famous in her own right for advancing education among ex-slaves after the Civil War. That child standing in front of them is Lillian, their adopted daughter. She's still alive. You may have heard of her, too. She was a gospel singer who toured with the evangelist D.L. Moody. Poor thing was blind most of her life, but she never let it keep her down. She's seventy-three now, but still does charity work at the Fanny Crosby Memorial Home in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Never married, but was like a second mother to every child she met. Quite a character. Temper, too.”

“What happened to her parents—the bride and groom? Are they still around?”

That tug of memories plucked at her again. She had been fascinated with Thomas Redstone. Especially when he'd donned his Indian attire, complete with eagle feathers and war axe. And he'd had the most startling smile. “The Redstones died within a day of each other in the 1918 Spanish Influenza outbreak. It was sad to lose them, but at least they were together.”

The young man nodded in understanding. “My grandfather and uncle died in that. I was just a kid, but I remember the church bells never stopped ringing.”

“A tragedy. A half a million people gone in no time at all.”

“Did they have other children? Seems I've heard the name Redstone recently.”

“A son, Lincoln Redstone. He's been in the news lately, stirring up Congress over his Indian rights proposal. A fine man. And quite handsome, like his parents. He would have made them proud.”

They moved on past several more photographs—Tait Rylander and Ethan Hardesty standing in front of the half-built lodge, children playing, a panoramic view of the storefronts along the main street in Heartbreak Creek in 1872.

“These pictures are amazing.” The young woman stopped before a portrait of a man in a kilt holding bagpipes, the woman beside him holding a baby. She studied the writing below the photograph and gave a laugh. “A Scottish earl? How exciting.”

“A Highlander and proud of it. An unusual man. Born out of his time, I always thought. But he could charm the birds from the sky.” She smiled, fondly. “His countess, Maddie, was the kindest woman I ever knew.” Puffed with pride, she waved an arm toward the photographs along the wall. “She took all these pictures. Female photographers were quite unusual back then, but she was a true artist.”

“Are the earl and countess still alive?”

“Sadly, no.” Emotion put a wobble in the old lady's voice. “They were on the
Titanic
in 1912, traveling with Tait and Lucinda Rylander back from Scotland to Heartbreak Creek. A terrible loss, not only for their families, but for the whole town.”

“And their son?”

She gave a low laugh. “He's very much alive and, like his father, can charm the birds from the trees.”

They moved slowly down the line of photographs. “Are the Rylanders pictured here, too?” the young woman asked.

“Of course.” The old woman pointed to the family portrait of a tall, handsome man with a scar down one side of his face and a beautiful blond woman holding an infant in her arms. “The town hasn't been the same since that ship went down. One of the survivors said the women wouldn't leave their men, no matter how hard they tried to get them into the lifeboats.”

“This is a large family.” The young man had moved farther down to stand before the Brodie family portrait.

Glad of the distraction, the old lady followed. “Declan and
Edwina Brodie.” Smiling, she shook her head. “You wouldn't believe the stories their grandchildren tell. Declan was a rancher and sometime sheriff and the biggest man in town. Edwina was his second wife—a mail-order bride. It was rough going at first, but Ed managed to win them all over. She was a force of nature, that one.”

Starting from the left, she pointed out the Brodie children. “This is the oldest, R.D., and the image of his father. He married young, but after his wife died in childbirth, he went off to join Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders. Had a distinguished military career and retired with a chest full of medals. Very likeable fellow, but doesn't talk much. Like his father in that respect. If you go to the social, you'll notice him straight away. He's even taller than his father was.

“The light-haired boy next to him is Joe Bill, a troublemaker if there ever was one, but a charmer, nonetheless.” She smiled, despite the sad memories flooding her mind. “Fell in love with a local girl, but she had her attention fixed elsewhere. When she married, he left Heartbreak Creek. We heard he caught gold fever and headed up to Alaska during the Yukon gold rush. Never married.”

“Did he strike it rich?” the young man asked.

She shook her head. “Not in yellow gold, but he did spend the next twenty years hunting for black gold along the North Slope and around Cook Inlet. Had better luck with that. I don't know if he'll be at the social. Some years he just shows up, unannounced. Joe Bill was always a bit unpredictable.”

She pointed to the next Brodie child, a dark-haired girl with a big grin. The camera had done a fine job of capturing the mischief in her startling gray eyes. “This pretty thing was their only sister, Brin. What a beauty. Ed convinced Declan to send her off to finishing school, hoping to curb her wildness, but just after her twenty-first birthday, she ran off to join Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show. You should have heard the row that caused. But that was Brin. Headstrong and free-spirited. She toured for fifteen years, then eloped with an Italian count. They're living the high life in Paris now.

“And this is Lucas.” She pointed to a slight boy with a shock of dark hair hanging over one eye. “A brilliant boy. Very quiet and studious. Became fascinated with airplanes, and
later worked on internal combustion engines for aerodromes. Made enough of a name for himself that he was appointed to the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics. He's in his seventies now, but they still call him in to consult now and then. Married a lovely woman. They'll be here for the social with some of their grandchildren.”

“And the baby?” The woman nodded toward the toddler sitting on his father's shoulders.

The old lady chuckled. “That baby is a year older than me. Whit Brodie. He's the one who married the Hardesty girl, Phyllis. They took over the Brodie ranch when Declan retired. They're still there, although their children now handle the day-to-day operations. The senior Brodies are long dead and sorely missed.”

She was almost sorry she'd started this conversation. Talking about friends she hadn't seen in so long, and others who had changed greatly over the years, brought an ache to her heart. These were her people. Her family. And time had left so many of them behind, except for these slowly fading black-and-white photographs.

“Do you live here?” the woman asked, walking with her toward her chair.

“Not for a long time. But I try to return for the annual social every few years.”

The young woman paused, her attention drawn to a photograph of four women gathered around the same small, draped table where the old woman had been sitting. She read aloud the caption below the print:
The First Ladies of Heartbreak Creek
. “Who are they?”

“The ones who started it all.” She smiled at the beautiful faces, so familiar to her even though they'd been gone for many years. “They arrived together when this town was little more than a dying mining town. Sixty-five years ago last month. As feisty a group as you'd ever want to meet. You've seen them in other portraits along this wall. Lucinda Rylander, Edwina Brodie, Maddie Wallace, and Prudence Lincoln. An Irish businesswoman, a Southern princess, an English photographer, and a Negro educator. Brilliant, beautiful women, and so full of life they lit up a room.” She pressed trembling fingertips to the glass over the images. “I still miss them.”

“Are you in any of these photographs?”

Taking her hand away, the old lady stiffened her back and blinked away her tears. Ladies didn't weep in public and make spectacles of themselves. Especially ladies in her position. “Only one. I was scarcely three months old when these photographs were taken.”

“Oh? Which one are you in?”

She turned to point out the portrait of her family, then hesitated when a tall, white-haired gentleman stepped onto the porch, a rangy, gray wolfhound straining at the leash in his hand.

“There you are, love,” he said in a lilting brogue.

She smiled, that breathless, jittery feeling rising in her throat as it always did whenever he walked into the room. She forgot her earlier sadness and the young newlyweds standing beside her. All of her attention focused on the man walking toward her, his back straight, that rakish gleam in his green eyes, and a smile that melted bones. Even after over forty years of marriage, she never tired of watching the man move.

Bending down, he kissed her cheek. “I dinna ken where ye'd disappeared to, Rosie, lass.”

She gave him a chiding look. “I've been waiting right here, Donnan, as well you know.” Taking his arm, she sent a gracious smile to the wide-eyed newlyweds. “The earl and I must be off now. The Spring Social wouldn't be a party without a piper, now would it? And I do hope you'll attend. Everyone is always welcome in Heartbreak Creek.”