Paint the Wind

by Cathy Cash Spellman

  "I've also heard of your impending nuptials, my dear, and while I can't say I'm glad about it, I am most anxious to meet the young man who's won your heart. He must be someone special."

  "You always did do your homework, Jason. Can I really trust you not to interfere in my life now that it's finally getting settled?"

  She tried to read the look in Jason's eyes as he replied, but it was too complex.

  "You may trust me to have only your best interests at heart, Fancy."

  "What brings you here, Jason? Leadville is hardly the center of the business world."

  "The silver, of course. Wherever there's a mineral boom, there's plenty to interest me. I once told you there's as much money to be made around a boom as there is from the metal itself. Flumes, timber, smelters... I've been in this game too long to pass up an opportunity like Leadville."

  "If you're going to be in Leadville for a time, Jason, perhaps you'll come to the wedding," she said, trying to behave as if his visit hadn't thrown her off-balance.

  "Oh, I expect to be here off and on for quite some time, as it happens, Fancy. I'm even considering taking a house in the area, to make my stay more palatable... perhaps you recall that I do like my comforts. I daresay I'll meet this young man of yours in the course of business, but I think I'll forego the wedding invitation. My heart isn't quite that forgiving, I fear."

  "You wouldn't do anything to harm him?" she said, disturbed by his icy tone.

  Jason chuckled. "Now, now, Fancy. I'm sure your young man would be quite put out that you have so little confidence in his ability to take care of himself. As you well know, there's no room for sentiment in business and no man worth his salt would expect quarter from another because of a woman. I'm afraid your Mr. McAllister will simply have to do his best in his dealings with me as I will with him, and you must evaluate the two of us based on the outcome. That's no more than fair, now, is it?"

  Damn him! He's playing cat-and-mouse with me. Fancy's eyes narrowed. "You just go do your damnedest Jason, and play whatever machismo games you feel you must—but don't for one moment make the mistake of thinking that I'm a prize to be won by the highest bidder. I am not a poker chip to be played for in any man's game—yours or Chance's."

  She turned and walked away with that imperial hauteur he'd always admired. Jason watched Fancy's retreat, a slight smile on his lips. She always did have spunk and style... it would be interesting to see what this McAllister pup had to recommend him.

  Bandana made a face at his reflection in the looking glass. His usually tangled salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, a clean bandana occupied its expected place on his forehead, and a suit of somber color covered a starched white shirt. He twisted his head uneasily within the high stiff collar and tugged at the black string tie.

  "God damn! Looks like a layin'-out suit, don't it?"

  Hart laughed at his friend's discomfort; it was the first time all day he'd felt like laughing.

  "You're not likely to have a burying suit, Bandana. When you go, they'll just lay you out with Bessie and your pickax and put a claim stake over your old bones."

  "Never been part of an official weddin' before, givin' away the bride and all." He eyed Hart's formal finery, which looked absurd on his enormous muscular body. "How's it feel to be a best man?"

  Hart stared at this friend steadily for a silent moment before he answered in a voice that was hollow and resigned.

  "Damned lonely."

  Bandana nodded understanding.

  "Never been without my brother before, Bandana. Not really, that is. We never went our separate ways before." He lowered his eyes to the carpet as if inspecting his boots for some unsuspected dust. "Today, I guess I'm losing both of them."

  "You got guts, boy, to be takin' this so gentle."

  "Not guts, Bandana. Common sense and no choice at all. It's him she wants, and he wants her. I just hope I'm man enough to wish them well, and hope to God they'll be happy together."

  "Sure as pigs got wings!" said Bandana with a derisive snort. "You no more think that's gonna happen than I do. We both know your brother ain't the marryin' kind. To say nothin' of his bein' too big for his britches since he struck it rich. And Fance... well, when it comes to men, old Fance ain't got the sense God gave a chicken."

  The two somber men took one last look at themselves in the mirror. "Here we stand, in store-bought clothes, looking like we're on our way to a hangin', not a weddin'. We'd best turn up the corners of our mouths a mite, son. Got to make the bride happy today. She's a rarely fine girl, even if she did pick the wrong McAllister."

  Hart smiled at Bandana's appraisal. "She's a rarely fine girl, all right. And Chance is a damned good man and he loves her and he'll do his best by her."

  "If he don't, boy, he's gonna answer to me for it. He may be young and strong, but I'm old and wily. I could give him a right lively time."

  "Maybe you ought to mention that to him, Bandana," Hart said wryly.

  "I might jes' do that. Might jes' make me feel one hell of a lot better. Might jes' go out and get drunker'n I ever been tonight after this here shindig's over and I might jes' take you along to do it."

  Bandana clapped Hart on the shoulder and they walked from the hotel room with as much spring in their step as they could muster.

  Chance ran his hands over Fancy's naked back with proprietary appreciation. She was finally his. He felt buoyed by the knowledge that everything in life was turning out just the way he wanted. Now he and Fancy could have fun together all the time.

  There was a radiance to her skin, he noted, feeling expansive as only one who has won a great prize can be. How she loved the exotic tales he spun for her in bed... how she loved to be loved. He smiled at remembrance of her exuberant joy. "Nice" women were supposed to be shy of their bodies, reticent about sharing them with their husbands. He'd heard other men speak of their wives' modesty in the marriage bed, with a queer mixture of annoyance and pride at their wives' reluctance.

  That was sure as hell not Fancy's way. Her lust matched his own, and then some. Chance chuckled softly as he saw her stir happily beneath his roving fingers. Oh, yes, indeed, there were good times ahead. Languidly, she moved beneath his touch and with a soft moan of pleasure turned her body up to meet his willing one.

  "Fancy," he breathed into her hair as he buried his face in the dark cascade that fell over her shoulder. "I love you... I love you more than I've ever loved anybody."

  There didn't seem much doubt from the enthusiasm of her response that she returned the emotion.

  Chapter 65

  Hart assessed the mining operation that had been his domain for so long, with an eye toward leaving it behind. The Fancy Penny had grown large and efficient under his aegis, he thought with satisfaction. The mine manager's office where he hung his hat was a wood-frame affair, fifteen by twenty feet big, which housed a rolltop desk with cubbies full of files, assay reports, payroll chits, and all the other paperwork required to run a mine. There was a fine potbellied wood stove, two straight-back chairs for visitors, and the walls were hung with maps and shaft charts. Though he wouldn't call it homey, he thought it a decent enough place to work, and a damned sight better than down below—but all that notwithstanding, he'd be thrilled to turn it over to Caz Castlemaine and walk away.

  He closed the office door behind him and squinted into the sun. To the left of where he stood was the dry room—a rickety wood structure with a stove, where the men changed their wet clothes and warmed up after each shift. It was also there so the foremen could keep an eye out for high-grading, the practice of tucking away the choicest nuggets into pants pockets. Hart smiled a little as his gaze lit on the dry room; the miner's lot was so grim that Caz and he both turned a blind eye toward high-grading more often than not. A pilfered nugget could mean the chance to get a doctor for a sick child or to put bread on a man's table. At three dollars for a ten-hour day, not too many men were able to keep their families' heads above water, since prices in Leadville
had skyrocketed.

  Caz was definitely the ablest successor to his job, Hart thought as he watched the man talking animatedly to another miner. It was a blessing the Aussie had accepted working for them when they'd struck it rich, with no rancor over their having hit bonanza while he had not. As far as Hart could see, Caz bore them only goodwill and loyalty. He was grateful Caz existed. It was long past time for him to go.

  Hart swung his gaze past the men and took in the bustling camp. Sounds rang from the toolshed where the blacksmith plied his ceaseless trade, sharpening steel drill bits, fixing sledgehammers, and making sure all equipment for the narrow-gauge track and ore cars was kept in trim.

  Everywhere Hart turned his gaze, the view was bleak. The hillsides had been stripped for timbering—what once had been lush and green was brown and scarred. Slag heaps, called tailing dumps, dribbled down the hillsides like nasty gashes in nature's plan. Even the stream that rumbled nearby had been sullied by processing the milled ore into slurry for the smelter.

  Hart let his eyes rest on the mine entrance that marked the tunnel they'd wrested from the rock with their own hands. It seemed forbidding now, a portal to a cold, damp world of impenetrable darkness. Hart knew the interior honeycomb like the veins on his own hand, for the charts were his to guard and understand and make decisions about. Oh, Lord, I never wanted any of this, he thought with annoyance. He was annoyed a lot of the time now, it seemed—ever since the wedding, all life had darkened.

  He didn't like the idea of hanging around and begrudging Chance and Fancy their happiness. They seemed so suited to each -other, and so much in love. Yet, Hart found himself getting angry at his brother over little things that had never bothered him before. It was time to move on... a fresh start and an old ambition would heal the parts of him that needed healing. He would put the past behind and begin again at Yale.

  The excitement Hart had felt dissipated on the long stage and train ride east. He tried to buoy his spirits with common sense— Chance and Fancy had made their choices, at Yale he, too, could begin a new life. But common sense was cold comfort and the fact that he'd been fool enough to let it happen rankled.

  The train chugged endlessly through open prairie and the wide golden vistas brought back childhood memories. His father's words whispered back to him, over the familiar landscape. Don't you ever let anyone tell you being an artist ain't a manly calling, son, his father had said. Integrity is manly. Truth is manly. You keep that in mind and you'll do just fine. Hart remembered the words now, and they sustained him.

  He unpacked his bags in New Haven and settled into the rooms that would be his for the next few years. He could see the Gothic-spired buildings from his boardinghouse window; the campus was lusher and gentler than any landscape he'd yet seen.

  Hart shrugged his six-foot-six-inch body into the proper tweeds he'd bought for the occasion, but they made him feel imprisoned, and he set off for his first class feeling like a country bumpkin awkwardly attired for the city.

  The large, airy studio had a raised platform in the center, much like the makeshift stage Jewel had set up for Fancy in the Crown. Hart looked uncomfortably at the other students who were seated on high stools before their easels—he was out of place as a bull in an ox yoke.

  Soft faces unweathered by hardship, bodies bred to citified self-indulgence met his inquiring glance. Each student was seated comfortably behind an easel, busily working with charcoal or crayon, his hands unroughened by day labor. Hart looked at his great callused hands, and shifted uncomfortably on a stool absurdly small for his size.

  Every easel pad was covered by sketches of female nudes. Most of the naked female bodies Hart had ever seen had been in whorehouses, and even then they were generally partially clad in some frilly red or black fol-de-rol. The door opened at the rear of the hall and a small, irritable-looking man in a blue smock entered, along with a young girl in a loose, flowing garment. The man led the model to the posing platform; she pulled the robe off over her head, to reveal a body naked as a brook trout and just as unselfconscious.

  The professor positioned the girl in a reclining pose on a floor mat, with no more thought than if he were arranging a bowl of apples. "You may commence your work," he announced, in some foreign accent Hart thought might be French.

  Quick, deft strokes to right and left of Hart began to sketch in the basic form of the reclining nude. He felt clumsy and inept, so he simply stared at the girl's body, wondering how in the world to begin. Her skin was softly tawny and, at the moment, covered by goose bumps from the chill of the floor. Hart examined the full curve of her breasts; the dark nipples were puckered from the cold, the soft heaviness caused the one nearest the floor to drop slightly downward; he thought he'd like to sketch just that portion of her anatomy, it seemed so oddly eloquent.

  "You are not here to indulge your lustful fantasies, Mr. McAllister," the biting voice of the professor snapped, from somewhere over Hart's right shoulder. "Do you plan to ogle the young lady, or do you intend to draw her?"

  Hart felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  "No, sir. I intend to try to draw the young lady." He saw several well-bred mouths around the room twitch with amusement.

  "And what do you wait for, may I ask? A personal invitation, perhaps? Or is it that such immense hands, which appear to be those of a common laborer, are incapable of holding charcoal, other than to shovel it into a furnace?"

  Hart suppressed an urge to pick the cranky little man up by the scruff of the neck; he picked up the charcoal instead and began to sketch in the outline of the nude. It was apparent that his lines were not like those of the other students; their pads were filled with delicate swirling strokes, accented by lights and darks that gave them dimension—Hart's were bold, dark, different. The professor looked scornfully at the pad. "As I suspected! Your work is as primitive as you are." A ripple of uncomfortable mirth swept the room.

  Hart's eyebrows came together in a frown; letting a bully think you're cowed was always dangerous.

  "Well, now, Professor, if there wasn't room for improvement, I wouldn't need you to teach me, would I?"

  Mireau met Hart's eyes for the first time. "We have not yet ascertained that a fanner is capable of learning what I have to teach," he said disdainfully.

  "I was born a farmer, Professor. But more recently I've been a miner. Been a ditchdigger, too, and an engraver. Cowhand... you name it. Point is, I came to Yale to learn to be an artist. I was sort of under the impression that's why people went to art school."

  Laughter disrupted the class again, this time it was aimed at Mireau; the man's venom had stung each of them in some way before.

  The professor stood his ground. "And with whom, might I inquire, have you studied? Who has taught you such an undisciplined and stubborn line?"

  Hart held his temper carefully in check; a man his size learns early on to keep a tight rein. "My mama, God rest her, taught me what little I know... and a fine man, name of Hercules

  Monroe, taught me engraving. I wouldn't take kindly to anyone speaking ill of either one."

  An easel stool was pushed aside and Hart heard an educated southern voice speak out from behind him.

  "If you'll forgive me, sir, for interrupting, I think perhaps I might be able to be of assistance to Mr. McAllister in disciplining his line. After all, Professor, he has not yet had the distinct privilege of studyin' under your skilled tutelage as we have, sir." The self-possessed southerner turned to Hart. "I'd be delighted to act as your tutor for a bit, if you'd be so inclined, Mr. McAllister."

  Without waiting for either Hart or Mireau to respond, the man extended his hand. "Rutledge Canfield at your service, sir," he said with a conviction that left no one in doubt about his good intentions. Hart, too, stood for the first time, towering ludicrously over the diminutive professor. He put out his hand gratefully to Canfield, pleased to feel the strength in the man's handshake. The southerner was fair-haired and handsome, three or four inches sh
orter than Hart, but by no means a small man. He moved with the studied athletic grace of a fencer or polo player, and had about him the easy aura of privilege. His features were regular and aristocratic.

  Canfield laughed good-humoredly at the obvious disparity between Hart's size and that of every other man in the room.

  "If I may be so bold as to say so, sir, I think it would behoove us all to withhold judgment about this gentleman's work, in deference to the fact that it appears he might be able to lick us all in a fair fight." This time the amused laughter was distinctly benevolent. It was easy to see by the response of both students and professor to Canfield's intervention that he held an honored place in the class.

  Hart grinned in relief, warmed by the gesture of friendship. "I sincerely doubt that would be the case," he said. "But I do appreciate the generosity of your offer, Mr. Canfield. I can see by looking at everybody else's work how much I need it."

  "Graciously said, sir," Canfield answered. "Perhaps we should work out the details of our tutorial after class so the professor can continue giving us all the benefit of his pithy observations." The sudden twitch at the corner of Canfield's eye that might have been a wink made Hart grin.

  The professor turned with a disgruntled harumphing sound to the next student, and Canfield nodded at Hart as if to say "Every- thing's all right now." He returned to his own easel and continued work, as if nothing unusual had happened.

  "Seems as though you about saved my hide in there, Mr. Can-field," Hart said when they'd left the classroom behind. The man laughed amicably.

  "Not at all, Mr. McAllister. Not at all. It appears to me that you could well handle considerably more than the evil-tempered little Mireau. And my friends call me Rut, much to the embarrassment of my sister, I might add."

  "Seems like you've got the professor buffaloed."

  "The simple fact is, the man's a genius. If there's one ounce of talent inside you he'll beat it out. He's a sadistic little brute. I suspect it comes from his diminutive size, but his bedside manner has a tendency to paralyze newcomers, who have no way of knowing what a brilliant little bully he is."