Paint the Wind

by Cathy Cash Spellman

  After Jason had brought her home, Fancy lay on her bed without undressing and savored every word.

  Men were the answer to everything—showgirls with half her brains and beauty and none of her theatrical gifts were taken under the patronage of powerful men and suddenly became stars. Men had money, men had power, men controlled critics and newspapers, men owned theatres. It was their world and she had to make her way in it—she just wished she didn't find the thought so disturbing. If men were the gatekeepers to the future, she'd damn well be better off with the likes of Jason Madigan than the likes of Sidney Glick.

  The phantom of Chance had no business complicating this... he was merely a girlish folly of racing blood and romantic yearnings, not a man to make life bearable and full of possibilities. Fancy would have to banish Chance's memory and move on to someone with whom she could build a future. At the very least, it wouldn't hurt to have the friendship of a man like Jason Madigan.

  Fancy got up from the bed and walked to Aurora's room to kiss her sleeping child good night. Sometimes it was hard to know clearly what she did for herself and what for Aurora. The two of them seemed a matched set pitted against a hostile world—who could blame her for wanting help with the struggle?

  Fancy sighed a second time as she pulled off her shoes and stockings and wriggled her toes in freedom. She'd handled Jason just the right way for now; he'd be back.

  She pulled a nightgown over her head and buttoned it; then, feeling fettered by its confines, she yanked it off again and went to bed naked and restless.

  She dreamed of Chance McAllister.

  Great God, but that woman could make a man's knees weak, Jason thought as he made his way home. Those dark velvet eyes dancing promise in the face of an angel—or rather, a face that would put an angel to shame, for there was more imp than angel in Fancy Deverell, if he read her right. More spunk, in fact, than he'd ever encountered in any woman of quality. A most arresting combination. She might even have the makings of every man's fantasy—lady in the drawing room, whore in the bedroom. In fact, he thought with a degree of satisfaction that pleased him enormously, she had many of the makings of a potential consort.

  Tildy, the wife of his youthful poverty, had never lived to see him prosper. She'd dragged behind him dutifully from mining camp to mining camp, but her strength had not been as fierce as his own and she had perished in some nameless backwater, their spindly infant son along with her. After her, there had been many women, but never a potential partner.

  Until now.

  Chapter 50

  "The little princess' hair was black as ebony, her lips red as roses, her eyes were the color of two star sapphires..." Fancy always began the story the same way, for she knew Aurora identified with the princess of the story—and with good reason, for the child's extraordinary beauty was such that she seemed far too lovely for ordinary life. Whenever Fancy and Aurora walked together, people stared at them and whispered as they passed by; both knew it was because they were beautiful.

  Fancy took her daughter walking every day, rain or shine. The small house in which she'd taken rooms was near a little park, and a few blocks beyond that were the houses of the rich. Each morning, no matter how tired she was from the previous night's performance, Fancy would rise to breakfast with Aurora. There was no money for a governess and while Mrs. Donaher, who minded the child in Fancy's absence, was kind and loving, she had no knowledge of decorum; so, daily, Fancy taught her daughter the graces of her own lost childhood—graces Aurora would need when they were rich.

  "Porridge is always spooned away from you, darling... a well-bred little girl always curtsies respectfully when introduced to an older person..." A great many of the lessons were lost on the restless Aurora, who paid little heed to lessons of any sort, but she adored receiving her mother's attention and therefore made enough progress so that Fancy felt she'd done her part.

  Aurora loved their morning outings, when hand in hand, she and Fancy walked along the footpaths of the city to see the houses of the rich. Fancy would spin stories in her thrilling voice, and Aurora would see the splendid palaces of stone and marble, and dream that she lived there instead of in the dingy boardinghouse where everything was brown or gray for serviceability.

  Fancy would tell her daughter fairy tales of handsome kings and princes, who whisked their ladyloves off from their sculleries to the castle on the hill, and somehow the stories would all blend into one satisfying and amorphous cloud of hope and promise for the little girl. She already knew she was beautiful as a princess, and that her mother looked like a queen. Aurora had even watched Fancy on the stage, dressed in regal trappings and wearing a golden crown, and that memory, too, was somehow woven firmly into the tapestry of her imagination. Stories, truth; fantasy, reality; theatre, real life... there were no clear-cut delineations for Aurora. Only the certain knowledge that her mother was the center of a universe of beauty and that the shabby surroundings in which they currently dwelled were a mistake and temporary... for they both belonged somewhere else... just where she wasn't certain. But her mother knew, and she would set it right.

  "Do you see those funny stone creatures on the side of that house, Aurora? Do you remember what they're called?"

  "Gargoyles, Mommy. And they have them on castles too."

  "That's exactly right, my darling. And can you tell me how many footmen it would be proper to have serving a banquet at such a castle?" The little girl thought for a moment.

  "One footman for every two guests," she answered finally, in her baby voice.

  "And which fork would you use to eat the oysters at that banquet?"

  Aurora laughed, musically. "Oh, Mommy, that's a silly question. The oyster fork, of course!"

  Fancy thought her daughter brilliant. She recognized, of course, that the little girl was petulant and that it was impossible to teach her anything that didn't interest her, but Fancy assumed this was simply because there wasn't money for a real tutor. Later, when Aurora went to school, everything would work out well enough.

  She worried about Aurora's not having a father, but, as she didn't know precisely what to tell her about her father, she told her very little, except to say that Captain Deverell had been hand- some and brave, and had died before the child was born. Someday she would have to cope with Aurora's questions, but perhaps by then she would be safely married and Aurora would have a father of her own.

  Fancy loved her daughter, savored the precious moments they spent together; but the rest of life was hard and enervating. Even theatrical success did not guarantee an actress' salary being adequate to support a household that included a child and housekeeper. Salaries, even for stars, were not nearly as extravagant as she'd hoped.

  But she was being noticed by the right people, and success added new confidence in her own ability to wrest from Fate what she demanded. Besides, she always thought when overwhelmed by the problems of life, what was the point in worrying about things you couldn't change?

  "You look as if you're carrying the weight of the world on those lovely shoulders tonight, Fancy," Jason said as he sat down beside her at his dining club.

  Fancy smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid Aurora isn't feeling well again and my play will be closing soon and life always seems to cost more than I earn...." She shrugged her fashionably bare shoulders enough so that her bosom rose and fell enticingly within the black velvet bodice, and sighed.

  Jason relaxed visibly... these were simple logistical problems, easily solved. He'd been fearful that Fancy didn't find him attractive.

  "Perhaps I could say a few words to Daly or Wallock about your salary and your next assignment. They're the most influential producers at the moment, I believe."

  "Is it really as simple as all that?"

  "They're both members here, Fancy. We've done a bit of business together, from time to time. I'm certain they'd want to be helpful."

  "You have no idea how furious that makes me!"

  "That I should try to help?"

&nbs
p; "No! That I should kill myself to be the best actress in New York and struggle for years to get recognized and damned near starve to death in the process, and all you have to do is say two words to the right person over your goddamned port and cigars!"

  Jason laughed with no compassion whatsoever. "Don't be a fool, Fancy. Life is what it is. The world turns on power. Those who have it, have everything."

  The simple logic stopped Fancy's gathering soliloquy. She took a deep breath and started over.

  "I've had to fight for every scrap, Jason. You can't possibly understand how brutal life is for a woman who must make her own way."

  Madigan leaned back in his chair, hooking his thumbs into his pants pockets as he did so; it was a gesture full of confidence.

  "I expect that's only part of the truth, Fancy. My bet is that you love being in charge of your own destiny, but that your ambition is so monumental you just haven't yet been able to achieve all you want out of life—and that's what makes you angriest of all. You'd be damned good in business, Fancy. So few women understand the intrinsic power of business. It's an instinct. A gift. Like your ability to sing and dance." His voice was soft and insolent. In a way it was a relief that he wasn't just another besotted lothario.

  "You're right, of course, Jason. But success isn't as simple for a woman as it is for a man. We're expected to be stupid about money... and endlessly selfless, something I don't excel at. We're taught that the last thing on earth a man wants in a woman is a brain that registers more than home and babies and what to do about diaper rash and the croup."

  When Jason smiled this time, he wasn't taunting her, he was simply amused. "No man wants to compete with the woman in his life for business supremacy, Fancy." He reached into his breast pocket for his cigar case. "We get more than our share of rough-and-tumble from other men. What we crave from a woman is comfort and a certain healthy amount of adoration. We're selfish bastards for the most part.... We want what we want and we can afford to pay for it. On the other hand, unlike some of my colleagues, I rather like the idea of a woman with a brain and business acumen and a certain healthy ruthlessness. It might make a man's love life all the more interesting.

  "May I smoke?" he asked, and she saw he was enjoying himself enormously.

  Fancy reached for his cigar case instead of replying, and extracted an elegant Havana. She took the silver nipper from the vest pocket where she'd seen him store it earlier, rolled the cigar expertly near her ear, and, satisfied by the sound and feel, she clipped it deftly and lit the end. The fragrance of the perfectly aged leaves reminded her of other times. She handed the cigar back to Jason with a self-satisfied smile and he laughed appreciatively.

  "So you know about comfort, too, do you, young lady? Now, where in God's name did you learn to put on such a performance with a Havana? In another one of your theatrical productions?"

  Fancy lifted her seductive eyes to his. "Long ago, in another world... my mother did this for my father."

  "You are a most mysterious creature, Fancy. A man would never be bored with you." He made a mental note to set a Pinker-ton to the task of tracing the more elusive elements of her past.

  "I'm a mystery even to myself, Jason... I sometimes think no one understands me less well than I do." No man will ever understand you like I do, sugar, Chance had said, long ago. Fancy felt a tug of hurtful memory. What was wrong with her tonight that she was so vulnerable?

  Jason watched her mood shift.

  "Will you see me again?"

  "Of course I will—but I can't promise you more than that."

  "Fair enough. There's nothing more intriguing for a man than a challenge. If there isn't anyone else you've set your heart on, Fancy, my chances are as good as the next man's, I expect."

  Fancy tossed her head to free it from unwanted remembrance. It didn't make the least sense that no one had ever touched her heart the way the brothers had; a true friend and a lost love. Hart and Chance were history, Jason and she were now. She tilted her glass toward the man who had so much to offer and wondered if a touch more champagne would make him seem any more romantic.

  Chapter 51

  Bandana had led the McAllisters to a new spot on the side of Mount Massive that he said his "nose" assured him had real promise. It wasn't that the boys' hopes had dwindled, but after more than six years of digging, they knew for sure there was no such thing as easy riches. Gold or silver, Bandana always said magnanimously... we'll be willing to take whichever one finds us first.

  When they hit the vein of silver, they decided to stake the claim as "The Fancy Penny," for old times' sake.

  "Got to write up a sign on a pine board," Bandana told his partners expansively. "Got to do it proper, so no sidewinder who comes along after us can git away with tellin' the law we never staked out right."

  He took a stubby lead pencil and scratched the following on the wood:

  The Fancy Penny Notice is hereby given, that we, the undersigned citizens of the United States, having complied with Chapter 36, Title 32, Revised Statutes of the United States, and the local regulations of this here district claim by right of discovery fifteen hundred feet in length and six hundred feet in width, along the mineral-bearing vein to be known henceforward as The Fancy Penny beginning at center of discovery shaft and running seven hundred feet in a northerly direction.

  "Always say northerly and southerly and such. It gives you a chance to swing your stakes around every which way between here and the North Pole! Ain't no way to tell exactly what northerly means, and so long as no other claim gets in the way you got what you might call latitude. Let's see, now, where were we? Oh, yes..."

  Eight hundred feet in a southerly direction and seven hundred feet easterly and westerly. Located this 22nd day of May, 1877.

  Locators: Otis Bandana McBain

  Charles Yancy McAllister Matthew Hart McAllister

  "Otis?" the McAllisters chorused in unison, but Bandana threw them a look that said he'd ditched his given name with malice aforethought.

  So nearly seven years after they'd ridden into California Gulch with Bandana McBain as their mentor, Hart and Chance McAllister struck it rich. The year was 1877, and they weren't the only lucky ones.

  A frenzy of activity agitated California Gulch as big-paying mines began to be registered faster than the assay office could process what they found.

  George Fryer brought in the New Discovery and Haw Tabor the Matchless and Chrysolite. Broken Nose Scotty struck pay dirt on Breece Hill, while Chaffee and Moffat's Little Pittsburgh in Evan's Gulch, John McCombe's Crescent and Evening Star on Carbonate Hill, and a dozen more were all major silver strikes brought in within a single year.

  A sort of madness set in as the population spread along California Gulch like prairie grass. Jewel's bet had paid off in spades; once again she had a boomtown by the short hairs.

  A bonanza of new buildings sprouted—saloons, gambling dens, parlor houses on the one hand, and the ritzy Saddle Rock Cafe on the other, where the newly rich could dine in style. The sawmill had men standing in line to grab the wood as it came off the buzz saw, stores opened up between dusk of one day and dawn the next. Even a church was raised, although what need there was of that, few miners could fathom, though rumor had it that mailorder brides could be brought in more readily if a community had a church.

  A newspaper office opened its doors when John Arkins left his job at the Denver Tribune and started the Chronicle in a clapboard shanty with nothing in it but the printing press he'd spent his life savings to buy.

  In fact, the town of Oro grew so rapidly it needed a new name. Leadville was chosen because carbonate of lead was making Oro into a treasure city, rich as Xanadu.

  "Dumb name for a city in the clouds," Chance said when he heard the choice.

  "Don't matter what they call it," Bandana answered. "Bonanza is what she is while she's makin' men rich, and Borosca when she's all played out."

  Some men made money because they were smart, others because they we
re so lucky they couldn't lose even through stupidity... like Haw Tabor, who bought a worthless mine that had been conspicuously seeded with nuggets to fool a tenderfoot. Haw hadn't dug five feet farther in the "worthless" shaft when he uncovered one of the biggest producers of all time, the Chrysolite.

  In the space of a single year, three stage lines were bringing in twelve coaches a day. Two thousand men were engaged in freighting in the food and fur, diamonds and drilling equipment, wine and women, that were to change Oro from a mining camp into a city.

  Chance became an emissary to this growing pandemonium of commerce; he took to the business of making friendships as if he'd been born to glad-handing. Before long there wasn't a banker or businessman, railroad tycoon or local merchant, with whom he wasn't on a first-name basis. The money from the Fancy Penny gave him the wherewithal to hobnob, his own personal powers of persuasion gave him the chance to make those acquaintanceships pay off.

  You couldn't say the money changed Chance, exactly—he was flamboyant and headstrong with or without it. What it did do was open up possibilities for him that would never have existed otherwise.

  Chance had soaked up a fair amount of knowledge of the law while working in Denver. His trick memory made learning easy, so he'd been able to pick up the jargon of anything he set his mind to, as if he'd been born knowing it. The fact that he cut such a handsome figure tended to make folks forget that he didn't know it all. He looked and acted like a man destined for great things, and most people tend to be swayed by a man's opinion of himself.