Relief washed over Yiska when they finally dropped Crawford off at the livery. Although he was grateful that the man had finally fessed up, Yiska didn’t like the way he ogled Miss Van Horn and bragged about his new-found wealth.
As they drove away, the old miner waved his floppy hat in the air and hollered, “What about my daguerreotype? You promised!” Eliana, her father, and Mr. Whiley burst into laughter. Yiska shrugged his shoulders and enjoyed Miss Van Horn’s wide smile and dancing eyes.
Whiley parked his rig near Sanborn’s Café. Yiska reached up and took Miss Van Horn by the waist to help her down. Her eyes stayed hitched on his while he lowered her to the ground. He winced in pain, but with her looking at him, he soon forgot about it. As he set her down, he hesitated before he let her go.
“Oh, Mr. Wilcox.” Her hands remained steadied against his arms, her voice barely above a whisper. “I feel so responsible. Can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Miss Van Horn.”
“Are you injured?” She took a step back, looking him over, and her cheeks colored.
He hooked his thumbs in his pants pockets. “Only my pride.” He held his gaze but wanted to take in all of her, from the tousled honey locks peeking out from her hat to her tiny laced boots.
Miss Van Horn glanced at the ground then looked at him beneath dark lashes. In the silence of the moment somehow their hearts spoke, yet there remained a quiet resistance.
“Injun, Injun, stinking Injun!” some mischievous boys shouted out. The rascals disappeared between some buildings.
Eliana shrank back, the spell broken. Her eyes shot to Yiska’s hatchet. She said nothing.
“Mr. Wilcox,” her father called. He tossed Yiska his hat.
Yiska caught it with both hands.
“Hey, you found it! Mighty obliged, Mr. Van Horn.” He dipped his head and put the hat in its rightful place.
As they approached Sanborn’s Café, Mr. Whiley held open the door, allowing Miss Van Horn to enter, and then slipped in behind her. He handed off the door to Yiska with a triumphant grin. What was Whiley up to now?
As the troupe entered the café, customers murmured and gave them odd looks. Mrs. Sanborn scurried over and greeted them with all measure of curiosity. “Eliana, dear. I’m glad to see you’re doing well. I heard you had quite a time of it today. Almost got run over by a herd of wild horses, and then attacked by an Indian.” Mrs. Sanborn eyed Yiska. It was obvious she wondered where he fit in to all of this.
Eliana laughed. “I was almost run over by a wagon, but this gentleman saved my life.” She hoped that would set things straight. What was it like to have to live under a veil of judgement?
Mrs. Sanborn looked at Yiska with astonishment. “Is that so?” Not waiting for a response, she rattled off the day’s menu and took their orders.
The pleasing aroma of Mrs. Sanborn’s famous pot roast and strawberry rhubarb pie filled the air. She brought their meals to the table herself, serving Yiska last.
“We’ve much to be thankful for this day,” Eliana’s father declared. He reached for her hand and lowered his head in silent prayer. Eliana bowed but dared not close her eyes for fear that her emotions of the day would catch up with her. When she peeked up she saw Mr. Whiley busy cutting his meat, but Yiska remained still until her father was done and had tucked his napkin into his vest.
“Do you think we’ll see more of Cornelius Crawford?” Mr. Whiley asked with a chortle.
“I believe I’ll have to. I’ve an appointment to keep with him,” Papa answered.
“John, you don’t mean you’ll actually follow through with it?”
“I’m a man of my word, Trask. It was part of the bargain.” Papa leaned back in his chair and looked at Yiska. “As a matter of fact, I hope you’ll allow me to take your photograph as a small token of my appreciation.”
“Photograph? That’s what you were laughing about.”
Eliana said, “Yes, poor Mr. Crawford called it a daguerreotype. They haven’t been used in ages!”
“You’re a photographer.” Yiska eyed Papa curiously.
“Yes, and Eliana is my able assistant. We have a temporary studio rented on Alpine Street while we’re in town.”
“Been here long, sir?”
“Not long enough. We were stuck up at our residence in Lake City all winter and had to wait until the thaw to come down for supplies. It’s been good work here since the San Juan Secession of ’73 opened up the mining again. And now it’s safe for folks to settle here with no real threat of Indians.”
Eliana almost spilled her appleade. The table grew quiet.
Yiska shifted in his chair. Had Papa offended him? “Well…you never know what kind of trouble they’ll cause. Probably twice as much trouble as I would.” He cracked a smile and glanced Eliana’s way.
The men all laughed, and the awkward moment faded away. But Eliana remained quiet. How often must Mr. Wilcox deflect comments like that? Did they hurt his feelings? Could someone like him ever fit in with her circle of friends?
Mr. Whiley stood and patted his belly. “I’ve got a card game to go finish. John, want to play a hand?”
“You know I’m not a gambling man, Whiley. Besides, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day. Don’t you agree, Sunshine?”
“Indeed, Papa.” Eliana sighed. “You are all heroes, and again I thank you.”
“I think you are forgetting someone, dear.”
“Am I?” What was Papa going to say now?
“Yes, Miss Van Horn. You saved my life,” Mr. Wilcox said.
Eliana felt her cheeks warm. Papa put his hand on Mr. Wilcox’s shoulder and shook his hand. “Yiska, be sure to come over to my studio someday before you head back out. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“Miss Van Horn, a pleasure as always.” Mr. Whiley cocked his head and grinned.
“Likewise,” said Mr. Wilcox with a nod.
As she watched him leave, she sincerely hoped he would come by for the photograph. If he didn’t, she might never see him again. And that would be a tragedy.
Eliana settled into her bed that night in the Van Horns’ apartment above the photography shop. After reading a passage from her Bible, she placed it back on the nightstand, distracted by thoughts from earlier in the day. For a fleeting moment she had thought, had wished, Mr. Wilcox would kiss her when he helped her off the wagon. What was she thinking? It had been broad daylight, in the middle of town. She barely knew the man, yet her heart sensed a familiarity, a longing. Her attraction to him surprised her. His strong face and dark eyes held warmth and interest, the contours around his mouth revealed character, and his thick, shoulder-length brown hair and russet skin tone told of his heritage. All of it reminded her that they were worlds apart, he an Indian, and she…
Eliana turned the wick of the oil lamp back and snuggled the counterpane under her chin. She tossed about, trying to get comfortable. Although she was exhausted, she still couldn’t sleep. What began as a simple morning of running errands with her father turned into…And then it hit her. She could have died or been seriously injured today. The tears began to flow as she pressed her face into her pillow.
“Thank You, Lord, for protecting me and saving my life,” she whispered. “Thank You for sending Mr. Wilcox to be there at the right time. Please bless him.” More tears flowed. What if he had died, too, this day? Eliana was certain she would join her mother in heaven. But Mr. Wilcox—what did he believe about the afterlife? More importantly, would he inherit eternal life with Christ Jesus? She would never know unless she saw him again. Lord, please allow me to see Mr. Wilcox again, to share Your love with him. And if it is Your will…No, that she dare not ask.
Yiska moaned as he stood from the bunk in a back room at Whiley’s Outfitters and stretched. He hadn’t wanted to complain in front of the Van Horns, especially Eliana. They already felt bad enough. Fact was, his captors had roughed him up pretty good. Bruised ribs, black and blue shins, and he ached all over like he’d been trampled by a herd of stampeding buffalo.
After the jail incident three days ago—or had it been four—he’d gone to check on his borrowed horse to discover the old mare had been taken over to the livery. There he found his saddle, blanket, and the rest of his stuff heaped in a pile in the corner of a stall. His saddlebag had been ransacked, but the thief hadn’t taken everything. Must have been scared off. Now he’d have to replace some supplies and clothing—all of which he could get from Whiley’s store. But his small blanket had disappeared—along with the journal he had wrapped inside. That could never be replaced. His sole companion on the trail other than his faithful horse, it was filled with pages describing the Colorado territory’s wondrous landscapes. Yiska wrote what he saw and in his own way mined the beauty of the San Juans without destroying any bit of it. He hoped someday to share the riches he wrote about—the snow-capped mountains, brilliant vistas, valleys teeming with wildlife—with those who might never get to enjoy them firsthand. To him it was worth more than gold. And now it was gone.
Yiska had searched around town, hoping his journal might turn up somewhere. It wouldn’t have value to anyone but himself. Maybe he’d find that someone had tossed it away. So he looked around behind an old building near the Silver Eagle, and Grover and one of his buddies attacked him. One held him and the other whacked him in the ribs. The pain pierced his side, and Yiska felt like he would pass out. If a rib or two weren’t broken before, they surely were now.
But a surge of adrenaline came from nowhere, and he pushed back with what strength he had and kicked Grover into a pile of rubbish. Yiska turned and knocked his other assailant senseless. He managed to make it back to Mr. Whiley, who had tended his bruises. Now he finally felt like getting up.
He walked over to the washbowl and splashed water on his face. After he shaved, he grabbed the fresh shirt, trousers, and new socks that Whiley had left him. His rib cage was wrapped tightly, but he managed to get himself dressed. Getting his tall moccasin boots on might be another story. As he walked near the door to them, he heard familiar voices.
John Van Horn’s voice came from the next room. “I noticed your new sign out there says WHILEY ‘AND SONS’ OUTFITTERS,” he said. “I didn’t know you had sons, Trask.”
“I don’t. But a man can dream.” The men laughed.
Yiska never thought he’d see the day that Trask Whiley would settle down. He’d been more than an employer to him—more like an older brother—but Yiska couldn’t picture him as a family man. More than likely Mr. Whiley figured marriage could be a good business venture, and sons would help him carry on his name.
Out in the hallway, Whiley cleared his throat. “John, I’d like to have a word with you about your daughter.”