Navajo Sunrise. Elizabeth Lane
to her lips. The man was in no condition to ride. If he passed out again he could lie unconscious all night, exposed to the coming storm. But one glance at his stubbornly set face confirmed that arguing would do no good. Not with a man like Ahkeah.
Grimacing with effort, he brought the rack-ribbed animal alongside the wagon. No one made a move, either to assist him or to hinder him, as he eased one leg over its back and slid awkwardly into place. The wind whipped his raven hair as he swung away from the wagon and turned, for the space of a heartbeat, to lock his gaze with Miranda’s. His contemptuous eyes ignited sparks of black fire through a glaze of pain. Then, as lightning forked across the sky with an earsplitting crack, he wheeled his mount and galloped into the darkness.
The silence that hung over the small company lasted for the space of a long breath. Then another bolt of lightning ripped the gathering clouds, and the full fury of the storm burst out of the sky. Lashing sleet, driven almost sideways by the wind, pelted them like buckshot. Mules brayed. A horse screamed and reared. Galvanized to action, the cavalry and wagon formed a column and headed like an arrow for Fort Sumner.
Teeth chattering, Miranda gathered her dusty cloak from the wagon bed, flung its sheltering warmth around her head and shoulders and clambered onto the jouncing seat beside the driver. The thick, soft wool still carried the pungent wood smoke scent of Ahkeah’s body. As she closed her eyes against the stinging sleet, the aroma stole into her senses, evoking the memory of his obsidian eyes piercing her defenses, his sharp-boned features molding the shape of her breast.
She pictured him now, galloping his half-starved mount through the icy storm, his water-soaked clothes freezing to his skin. She imagined the horse stumbling, startled, perhaps, by a fleeing animal or a sudden clap of thunder. She saw the reins slip from the frozen bronze fingers…
Stop it! Miranda admonished herself. You can’t allow yourself to fret over the man! You’re not responsible for what happens to him! And yet she knew in her heart she was responsible. If she had not stopped to help a pathetic old woman, none of this ongoing debacle would have taken place. If Ahkeah came to further harm tonight, the blame would be squarely on her own shoulders. That awareness weighed on her, darkening her thoughts as the buckboard and its escort thundered through the flying sleet toward the shelter of the fort.
Miranda awoke the next morning to the cold, gray silence of the spare room in her father’s quarters. For a long moment she lay quietly beneath the flannel sheet and thick woolen army blankets, watching the play of light beams through a crack in the shuttered window. Her gaze wandered to the rough-timbered ceiling and down the plain adobe walls, bare, even, of whitewash. She inspected the peeling wardrobe, standing askew as if it had been hauled in from some dusty storage room for the purpose of her visit.
As her mind roused to full wakefulness, she remembered last night’s arrival—the flaring torchlight, the steaming breath of the mules as she dismounted stiffly from the buckboard. She remembered the strained, hasty supper of cold beans and bread in the officers’ mess, and her father’s brusque silence, which she’d tried to fill with chatter about her long trip. She’d wanted to ask him about Ahkeah, but had decided against it. Things were too unsettled between the two of them, too raw and confusing. Oh, why had she come here? Why had she placed so much importance on making peace with the man who’d fathered her, when it would have been so much easier to simply let go? Why had she allowed Iron Bill Howell to matter so much to her, when she clearly mattered so little to him?
As she turned onto her side, she saw her leather trunk, standing open as she’d left it last night after rummaging for a clean nightgown. She had fallen into bed, too tired even to brush her hair or wash her face. Now she felt rumpled and gritty-eyed, her hair damp and coarse with alkali dust. What she wouldn’t give for a bath! But this was no time for self-indulgence. It was time to get up, pull herself together and face whatever the day might bring.
Tossing back the covers, Miranda swung her legs out of bed. Her serge traveling suit lay damp, dirty and hopelessly rumpled where she’d spread it on the single wooden chair last night. She took a moment to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles and rearrange the folds. Then she selected another gown from the chest, a simple, dark brown twill, its severity softened by a white lace collar. Hastily she dressed, then splashed her face at the washstand and twisted up her hair.
The silence from the other two rooms told her, even before she opened the door, that her father had already risen and left. His bedroom stood open, the simple bunk made up with military precision. There was no fire in the potbellied stove, and the rudimentary cooking facilities looked as if they had never been used. A quick inspection of the cupboard revealed nothing but a few dishes and not so much as a crumb of food. Clearly Iron Bill took his meals in the mess hall and expected his daughter to do the same—if indeed he’d given any thought to the matter.
Miranda’s blue cloak hung neatly on a rack beside the door. As she lifted it down, she saw that it had been brushed free of dust; but even now the faint aroma of wood smoke clung to it, whispering of Ahkeah. The scent enfolded her as she slipped the cloak over her shoulders, worked a single button through its satin-bound hole and opened the door.
The morning breeze was chilly, but not really cold. Once the sun was high, she realized, the cloak would be too warm. Stepping back into the room, she replaced it on the hook and selected a cashmere shawl—another of Phillip’s gifts—from her trunk. With the shawl’s airy warmth wrapped around her shoulders, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
Miranda had glimpsed the lay of the fort last night in the darkness. Now the vista of open desert and low-slung adobe buildings spread before her, not enclosed by walls, as she might have expected a fort to be, but sprawling over acres of barren land, unconstrained by factors of space and safety. Clearly the small military unit that remained here to keep order and protect the Indian Agency had little to fear from their captives or from outside attack. Her eyes picked out what she guessed to be barracks, stables and offices, and one large building that resembled a warehouse—some kind of commissary, she surmised. The ground was still glazed with a thin coating of sleet. Bare earth steamed and glittered in the morning sunlight. There was little or no grass, and the few trees she could see were stunted and bare. How did her father stand this desolate place?
Lifting her skirts above the frozen mud, Miranda strode across the empty square of land that passed for a parade ground toward what she remembered to be the mess hall. The few soldiers who were loitering outside the door straightened to a semblance of attention, tipping their hats as she passed. One of them, a quiet young man who’d been part of her escort from Santa Fe, smiled shyly and held open the door. With a nod of thanks she stepped over the threshold.
Her heart sank as she surveyed the long mess hall with its sea of empty tables and benches and the more genteel officers’ section at the far end. Where was her father? Couldn’t he at least have waited for her to join him for breakfast? Did he think she’d traveled all this distance to wander around this desolate place alone?
“So here you are, my dear.”
Startled by the sound of a feminine voice, Miranda turned to see a plump, birdlike woman hurrying toward her from the direction of the kitchen. She was well into middle age, her badly dyed brown hair sculpted into rigidly upswept curls. Her wine-colored gown was elaborately ruffled at the neck, sleeves and hem, giving her the look of a drooping garden peony.
At closer range Miranda saw that the woman’s childlike face was webbed with lines, but traces of faded beauty lingered in her molasses-brown eyes. Those eyes sparkled as she seized Miranda’s fingers in her small, lace-mitted hand. “Your father had pressing duties this morning and couldn’t be here. I offered to wait and show you around—after you’ve had breakfast, of course. My name is Violet Marsden. My husband is quartermaster here at the fort, and I…” She caught her breath, as if the very effort of speaking had strained her. “I can’t tell you how very pleased I am to welcome you here!”
Still a bit dazed, Miranda allowed the woman to lead her to a table in a corner of the deserted officers’ mess. It was cheerlessly set with a threadbare linen cloth, chipped but serviceable white porcelain and heavy silver plate that bore a patina of long use. But someone had placed a sprig of tiny yellow spring