A smile softened Hart's features, but Fancy couldn't see that from where she clung.
"Well, now, that's a real good question, babe. I guess I'd teach you not to be so damned headstrong, always wanting your own way, and I'd teach you that independence doesn't mean you have to be in charge of the world... and I'd teach you not to put yourself in danger so often." He stopped a moment, then spoke again.
"Beyond that, I guess I'd think you were pretty near perfect just as is."
Fancy didn't say a word after that, but she did hug Hart tight, all the way back up the Gulch.
Fancy stepped from the icy water and the chill air raised goose bumps all over her body. No one from Louisiana ever gets used to the cold, she thought as she tugged the chemise over her head and let it drop around her hips. God Almighty! but she felt strangled in that cabin. What pleasure it was to stretch out all the kinks of winter confinement. She reached her arms toward heaven, just to revel in the touch of the sun. She wanted to run, to sing, to spread her wings...
A twig snapped behind her, dissolving the reverie; Fancy whirled to meet the sound.
Chance stood near enough to touch; an appreciative smile played at the corners of his mouth and his eyes met hers with no hint of embarrassment.
"You've been spying on me!" she said, annoyed and titillated. "How long have you been watching me?" She grabbed for her flannel shirt.
"Don't fret, Fancy. I wasn't spying. I just happened by and you looked so beautiful, I couldn't help but stop." His voice was sincere, disarming. He reached his hand toward her face unexpectedly and touched the soft skin of her cheek with the backs of his fingers. A current radiated from those fingers to Fancy's depths.
"It's sad to cover up something so beautiful with a flannel shirt, sugar. A body like yours was meant for satin and lace." The hand lingered a moment, trailed gently to her throat, and then was gone.
"A man can't help wanting to touch you, Fancy," he said, then turned to go.
Fancy felt the goose bumps rise again; this time they weren't from the cold. She had seen the lust, unmistakable in his eyes.
Fancy watched Chance walk to the top of the rise and fought an urge to call him back. How long had it been since she'd noticed the power he had to make her think forbidden thoughts?
She tucked the hem of the flannel shirt into her pants, wondering just what to do about the knowledge that they wanted each other.
Chapter 24
Paintbrush and lupine had carpeted the world; summer grasses shimmered in the Colorado meadows, so many colors of green and gold, there was no point in counting.
"Silver huntin's tricky business, gal," Bandana told Fancy, scratching the scalp under his kerchief. "It's a lot different from gold, 'cause you cain't tell for sure if it's silver except with nitric acid or hydrochloric.
"Worse yet, you cain't mine silver by yourself. You need equipment, money, smelters and the like."
"So what do we do when we find it?"
Bandana smiled at her optimism; she hadn't said "if" but "when."
"First off, we keep our samples under our hat—cain't let nobody in on what we got. Jes' keep on sayin' we're poor as church mice, if anybody asks. Curse a lot, too. 'Goddamned stupid-ass mine's not worth the price of the powder to blow it to Kingdom Come!' That kind of thing. Shouldn't be too hard for a thespian like yourself."
"How far down do we have to dig?"
"Far as needs be. Sometimes a few hundred feet, sometimes a few thousand. Cain't say I ever got used to it down there, though. All cold and eerie. Nothin' but the light of a candle to see by, and the smell of dark and damp always in your nostrils." Bandana crinkled up his nose in distaste. "Always had a horror of bein' trapped where the sun don't shine. A grown man don't like to ever admit he's scared of nothin', Fancy, but to tell you God's truth, I'd hate to die in the dark."
Fancy leaned over to kiss his cheek and Bandana brightened.
"If you'll do that more often, I'll tell you all you want to know about minin'," he said affectionately. "Now, the first step to get-tin' rich off a mine is to find a real likely-lookin' spot to dig in," he continued, expansive again. "I think that's what we got here. It takes three men to run a site, efficient. One to dig, one to work the windlass that hauls up what you dug out, one to cut timber. That way you can get down three to five feet a day. Then, of course, you need a mule like old Bessie who knows the ropes."
Fancy glanced at Bessie, harnessed to the hoisting system they'd created. A large revolving drum caused the mule to travel round and round in a circle, winding the rope that pulled up the ore bucket onto the drum as she trudged.
"How much will it cost to work the mine once we get to needing equipment?" Bandana noticed she included herself in the we; he wondered if she really meant to stay.
"Enough so's a lot of men just find 'em and sell out to somebody with enough capital to make a go. Once we hit pay dirt big, we'll need to cut someone in on our action, Fance. That's when they separate the sheep from the goats. Many's the man's been bilked out of his dreams by the men with the bankers at their backs. 'Course, sometimes it goes the other way, too.
"I once knew a feller had a mine looked pretty good at a hundred and thirty-five feet. He told this investor he could buy the whole shootin' match for ten thousand dollars if he made up his mind before five o'clock that afternoon. Well, the banker held out 'til five-oh-six, but by then this feller had hit a ten-foot vein and the price was up considerable!"
Fancy laughed aloud and stretched her neck in the sun to get the kinks out. Bandana was such an education in useful things. Fancy was long past the point of thinking the knowledge you gained from books was as valuable as what you gained from life. She had been unsafe too long not to value survival skills above all else. Knowledge of things that could get you out of a tight corner... knowledge that could make you rich enough to hire men with book-learning to do your bidding.
Bandana saw the calculation that had transformed her expression and wondered. She could hide almost any emotion behind her actress mask, but with him she seldom chose to do so.
He picked up his shovel and squinted up into the sun to judge the time of day.
"One thing about mining that's a lot like other occupations, darlin'—if you don't work your ass off instead of standing around jawin', you don't get nothin' at all!"
Fancy smiled as she left him and started back up the hill. It was an old habit from the days of Atticus—learn from others' skills. Learn everything you could stuff into your brain, because you never could tell when it would be that one tiny piece of information that would make all the difference between living and dying.
"How long do I have to sit still?" Fancy asked Hart, trying to keep her lips from moving significantly. It was flattering to have your portrait sketched, but posing made your back cramp.
"Another two minutes should do it," Hart murmured absent-mindedly. He smudged in the black of her hair and looked with some satisfaction on the restlessness he'd captured in the sketch. You didn't find women like Fancy in uppity drawing rooms or schoolhouses or ordinary lives—-you found them out West where life was what you grabbed with your own two hands. He was in love with her already, although a young man seldom puts that name to what he feels in his loins.
"Do you think your brother likes me, Hart?"
The artist looked up from his work, crushed by the question. Chance was so often on her lips these days. Did Chan. - say this? Does Chance like that? How the hell had his brother won her heart right out from binder him?
"How could he not like you, Fancy?"
"I don't know, I just can't ever tell for sure what he's thinking."
Hart frowned a little. He had no intention of talking to her about his brother.
"Tell me more about Atticus," he countered. "About how you and he managed on the road. Were you lonely after Beau Rivage?"
Fancy rearranged the muscles of her face and back to a more comfortable discomfort and thought for a moment. It was always good to tal
k with Hart; when he asked a question it was because he cared about your answer.
"In the beginning I pretended my mama and papa weren't dead. They were just off on holiday somewhere and one day they'd come back to me. I made up elaborate fantasies about their grand travels on the Continent... then, after a while, I relied so on Atticus that I couldn't imagine any other way to be. But I felt... I don't know exactly, Hart. I guess I still feel..." Fancy made a frustrated gesture, not able to put a name to her need.
"Unsafe," Hart filled in the gap. "Vulnerable."
Fancy looked up sharply. It wouldn't do to have him know all her secrets.
"Yes. I guess I've always been on the run."
Hart's eyes were full of kindness for her.
"I think of you as a grasshopper, babe. Always poised and ready to leap away at the slightest hint of danger. Sometimes, just ready to leap to keep in practice."
"And what if I do need to keep moving? That's the only way to get somewhere, isn't it?"
Hart frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe a person needs to stand still long enough to figure out what's the best thing to hop toward."
"Well, I know exactly what I'm hopping toward, Hart. Believe you me."
"And that is?"
"Money. Security. A house so big no one can ever harm me in it. Clothes so pretty no one will ever look down on me again. And when I die there'll be a great stone angel over me with wings so wide you can see them a half mile down the road. Not some stupid pile of rocks on a nowhere mountain, without even a cross to mark my passing." She meant to sound defiant, but tears tightened the words.
Hart didn't take his eyes from the page.
"You've no need to worry about Atticus not having a marker," he said quietly. "And why not?"
"Because I made a cross for him, Fancy. Carved his name on it, too, and put it on his grave."
She was so startled, she lost her pose and turned to face him. "Why in heaven's name did you do a thing like that, Hart? You didn't even know him."
"No. But I know you. I thought it would ease your mind."
Fancy covered her uncertainty by making an elaborate effort to regain her pose. She watched Hart furtively as she did so, for the thought had struck her that he was the most reliable person other than Atticus that she'd ever encountered. How very like him to do an act of kindness and never crow about it.
"Thank you, Hart. That means more to me than I can say."
The artist looked at her over the top of his pad and smiled.
"That's what friends are for, Fancy."
"I never had a friend, but Atticus." Her voice wasn't wistful, just matter-of-fact, but something in the admission touched Hart. He almost said, "You've got Chance and me now," but changed his mind.
"I guess Chance and I were real lucky, Fancy. We always had each other. Life can be pretty hard on you if you don't have a friend to talk things out with."
Fancy wondered if the great empty space she sometimes felt inside might have to do with friends, but she pushed the unwelcome thought away. Money was what she needed; the money to be safe and protected. If you had enough money, you could buy everything you needed for happiness. For all she knew, maybe you could even buy friendship.
"No more for today, Hart," she said, suddenly standing up. "I want to walk up over yonder to the lookout and admire how pretty the world is before we go to work." Hart closed the tablet and got to his feet, amused by her sudden mood shift.
"I can't imagine why you'd want to draw pictures of a girl in clothes like these anyway," she called to him over her shoulder. He knew she longed for pretty things to wear instead of Bandana's old plaid shirt.
Hart watched Fancy's movements ahead of him on the steep climb. The spot she liked best wasn't far off, but the trail to get there was treacherously steep and thick with underbrush. She moved as easily as a jackrabbit. If only she were that surefooted in life, he thought, as he lengthened his stride to catch up with hers.
The world spread out before them at the top of the rise as unspoiled as on the day God made it; mountains stained dark green below the timberline, and above, patches of snow so dazzling white, it hurt their eyes to look on it.
"God does great work when He's got a mind to, doesn't He?" Hart said, and Fancy looked up at him, her expression thoughtful.
"I've never known just what to think about God, to tell you the truth, Hart. Ever since my mama and papa died, it's seemed to me He doesn't pay the slightest bit of attention to us mortals and our prayers."
Hart started to answer, but thought better of it; maybe Fancy had good reason to be doubtful.
She hugged her chest against the nippy air, the cloth of her shirt pulled tight across her breasts. Hart made a mental note to sketch her just that way.
"What do you feel when you draw someone's picture, Hart?" she asked as if she'd heard his thought. "Do you ever feel like you're putting down a little of their soul on paper?" He loved her habit of blurting out to him whatever crossed her mind. Flirtatiousness she saved for Chance, with him she was merely honest.
"Sometimes I feel I can do that."
"My mama once told me darkies don't have souls at all, but I didn't believe her because of Atticus. He had one, sure enough."
Hart regarded the girl beside him with intense interest. Fancy's hair was pulled back with a snippet of rawhide and hung long from the nape of her slender neck, but the wind had loosened willful strands that whipped across her cheeks. He quelled the urge to reach out and touch.
"What made you think of such a question, Fancy?"
"I was thinking about how much I want from this life, Hart, and wondering what I'm going to have to do to get it. If there are souls, then there's probably a heaven and a hell out there somewhere, too, don't you suppose?"
"I can't imagine you doing anything that could land you in hellfire, Fancy. Besides, don't you recall what it says in the Good Book? 'God hath no wrath for the innocent.'"
"Well, I can imagine it. I can imagine doing 'most anything to get what I want and that doesn't seem very innocent to me. You know, Hart, sometimes I think there's a good Fancy and a bad one, both inside me, waiting to see which one will get the upper hand."
"There's good and bad in all of us, babe." He wondered what it was she feared so in herself—ambition, ruthlessness? or maybe just her own vulnerability.
Fancy tilted her head up so he could see the intensity of her expression. "When you paint that portrait of me you're always talking about, Hart McAllister, you promise me you'll show both the good and the bad parts, because that's who I am, you hear?"
Hart was careful not to smile. "Tell you what, I'll do more than that. I'll paint two portraits of you—two Fancies, the good and the bad. Will that do?"
When Fancy nodded her assent, Hart was startled to see tears glistening in her eyes. She turned abruptly and started back down the trail.
"Wait up, Fancy!" Hart called out. "It's too damned steep to run here—you'll hurt yourself." Damnation, he thought as he started after her, nearly losing his own footing; trying to track the way her mind worked could be a full-time job for a man.
Fancy swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. She hadn't meant to cry, but the thought of all she longed for and all that might be necessary in order to get it had overwhelmed her. Starting from a cramped little cabin on this godforsaken mountaintop, a thousand miles from nowhere, how could she ever get where she needed to go?
Fancy's foot ensnared itself in a trailing root and she felt herself lurch forward. She grabbed wildly at the air for balance, but Hart's arms caught her as she tumbled. He lifted her nearly off the ground and clasped her hard against his body. She was soft as a rabbit, all curves and cushions—almost without knowing he intended to, he sought her mouth with his own. Fancy lingered in the comfort of the kiss for a moment then pulled away from his lips, yet she clung around his neck and pressed her body into his with a startling ferocity.
"Oh, God, Hart," she whispered in a strange, childlike v
oice. "You make me feel so safe."
"Those are not exactly the words a man longs to hear from a woman, Fancy."
"Please, don't misunderstand, .Hart. I so much need you to understand." But before he could respond, she was off again.
He stood for a moment watching her, and somewhere inside himself he knew that safe was something Fancy had never been, and maybe that was the one thing he could give her that Chance never would.
Chance lay stretched out on the summer grass, arms folded behind his head, long legs bent at the knee, relaxed and happy. He smiled at Fancy, who sat cross-legged beside him in the small patch of meadow.
"You look like a little girl, perched there like that, sugar. Like the prettiest little girl ever born." There wasn't much room for respite in their arduous life, but when the opportunity came to relax, Chance took hold of it with both hands.
Fancy rewarded him with one of her most dazzling smiles, her full lips dimpled at the corners, her cheeks rosy from exertion and the sun. Everything about Chance made her heart beat wilder. In some ways it annoyed her that she had to struggle to control herself when he was near, and to control the situation. He had the damnedest way of mocking her when she was uppity and throwing her off guard with his charm when she least expected it. It irked her that Chance, not she, always seemed to be in charge of things when they were together. Hart, she could buffalo with ease, but Chance was always one step ahead of her.
"Tell me about when you were small, sugar—about life on the old plantation," he prompted with a lazy grin. The content of her answer wasn't in the least important to him, but the sound of her voice was earthy and pleasing.
"Why should I tell you stories?"
"So I can get it all straight in my mind for later, of course. When I whisk you off your feet with my newfound riches and shower you with everything a girl could desire." He had a disconcerting way of looking straight into her eyes when he spoke, mesmerizing her with his absolute attention.
"You're teasing me, Chance McAllister."
Paint the Wind Page 18