He had to feel the wind in his hair and the roll of a horse beneath him.
By the time he’d reached the livery and saddled his gelding, he was breathing heavily and his lungs felt as if bands of iron tightened around them. The past seemed to suck him back into that dark place where flashes of battle crowded into his brain, pushing everything aside. Try as he might to stay rooted in the present, the coppery taste of fear tainted his tongue. His ears seemed to ring with cannon fire, and the stench of gunpowder and blood lingered in his nostrils. Then, just as quickly, the sensations shifted into something worse. Far worse.
Death.
Disease.
Untold suffering.
Swinging onto the back of his mount, he spurred it into a gallop as soon as the animal had cleared the threshold. Then he was riding, riding, up toward the mine where the intermittent lanterns illuminated the road.
Once he’d passed the opening, he was forced into slowing his horse, even though he wanted to keep flying through the darkness so that he could chase away the ghosts of his past and the sensation of being trapped. He doubled back in the other direction, taking a rarely used road that was little more than a set of wagon ruts etched into the grass.
It wasn’t until he found himself at the top of the slopes and looking down into the canyon that he brought his mount to a stop. Dragging the cool, damp air into his lungs, he closed his eyes, trying to push away the memories that seemed determined to wash over him and transport him to another time. He felt another mount beneath him, quivering as Gideon led it toward the noise and violence of the battlefield. He remembered the way it had reared back, unseating him, beginning a cascade of ill-timed events that would see him captured, then transported south.
To Andersonville.
His body and spirit railed against the images that flashed behind his eyes like malicious lightning bugs.
So much death.
Such despair.
As if his very soul depended on it, Gideon took deep breaths in an attempt to re-anchor himself in the present.
He would not give in to the past.
Not tonight.
Gradually, the sensations of misery and filth began to fade beneath the heady scent of pine and wet grass.
And something more. A faint hint of...
Gardenias and lemons.
An image of Lydia sprang into his head, pushing away the remembered ugliness of war. In his mind’s eye, he saw her in a montage of poses: militantly regarding him with her hands on her hips, challenging him with an imperious stare and smiling up at him in the darkness.
That thought lingered, becoming more real as he remembered the way that the moonlight had slipped over the curve of her cheek and sparkled in her eyes. Crystal-blue eyes the color of the Aspen River first thing in the morning.
The woman was full of surprises, he’d give her that. Until today, most of their encounters had proven to be a battle of wits. She’d seemed to delight in slipping away from the Pinkerton guards, and Gideon found secret pleasure in hauling her back into line.
But tonight...she’d been more open. More...
Real.
A man would have his hands full with a woman like that. If he didn’t keep her in line...
No. That kind of thinking is exactly what Lydia would expect of him. He could already hear her railing at him that the fairer sex wasn’t meant to be controlled. They were meant to be...
Loved.
But Lydia had made it clear that she didn’t want to be loved. At least not by a man. She intended to live her life as a champion for women’s suffrage.
Which was too bad. Because a woman like that could be a formidable force. Exasperating, yes, but she would also be fiercely loyal and devoted. No doubt, she would love a man with the same passion as she fought for women’s equality.
Gideon shook his head to rid it of such thoughts. Why was he even thinking of such a thing? Lydia Tomlinson was law unto herself. In a matter of days, she would resume her journey to California, and Gideon’s life and routine could return to normal.
It was better that way.
Much better.
As he shifted in the saddle, his horse nickered slightly. And somehow, the noise sounded like the animal was laughing at him.
Gideon’s gaze scanned the darkness of the pass one last time, taking in the glint of moonlight on the river below. And something more. A spark of light?
He leaned forward in the saddle, ruing the fact that he didn’t have his field glasses with him. For long moments, he scoured the area below him until he was sure that the glow had been a figment of his imagination.
He’d decided to return to town when he saw it again. A tiny flicker down by the riverbanks.
A fire?
For nearly a quarter hour, he watched, and in that time, the light neither grew larger or smaller—which meant it was being tended. Occasionally, Gideon would lose sight of it altogether—as if someone or something blocked it from view. Then it would reappear.
The sight wasn’t completely unexpected. The miners weren’t the only ones to make Aspen Valley their home. There were trappers and hunters who lived or crossed through the area. Farther north, beyond the next mountain range, there were farmers and ranchers trying to eke out a living in the fertile lowlands. If the pass had opened enough for Aspen Valley to contact the outside world, it only stood to reason that the outer world could come to them. For all Gideon knew, it could be the Pinkerton offices or the railway company trying to make contact.
But something about the idea of a stranger only a few miles away, with the Bachelor Bottoms warehouses full of silver ore and the Dovecote bursting with single women, caused the hairs at his nape to prickle. All thought of sleep skittered away. He would return to his quarters, retrieve his field glasses and leave word with his men that he’d be gone until morning. It shouldn’t take much longer than that to investigate what he’d seen and make up his mind whether added security measures were needed.
Gideon hurried into the Meeting House with only seconds to spare—which meant that the only seats available were toward the front. He could feel the heavy weight of dozens of eyes settling upon him as he dragged his hat from his head and did his best to finger-comb his hair into place.
He probably looked a sorry sight. He hadn’t slept at all the night before, and his clothes were spattered with mud. His hand rasped against the stubble at his jaw and his stomach gnawed with hunger. After a fruitless morning where he’d been able to discover little more than the still-warm ashes of the fire he’d seen the night before, he’d needed the steadying influence of the morning Devotional to begin his day.
Leaning back in his pew, he allowed the prelude music to soak into his tired muscles. Around him, sunlight streamed through the windows of the Meeting House, forming bands of warmth that highlighted the crowded pews. Since the hours at the mine had been extended, there were only two shifts, rather than the usual three, which meant that more of the miners attended the early services. The benches were filled to capacity with men who’d finished their work. Their weary, dusty faces butted up against those miners who were clean and eager to get to their posts.
Gideon had always thought that the Devotionals were a symbolic leveler. Here, there were no rich men, no poor men, no handsome dandies or ugly mutts. They were simply children of their Heavenly Father seeking the influence of the Spirit.
His eyes skipped from row