Paint the Wind

by Cathy Cash Spellman

  Your grieving brother,

  Chance

  Chapter 72

  "It doesn't make the least sense to buy anything from Jacob Braintree," Fancy sniped at Chance across the breakfast table. "He's a scoundrel of the first water and he's never had a real claim in his life."

  Chance put down the morning paper with annoyance and took a studied sip of coffee before replying. How the hell she even knew about Jake was beyond him; she'd been impossible to live with since Fan's death.

  "Jacob Braintree is none of your affair, Fancy. I think that claim will pay off eventually, and it was a bargain, one way or the other."

  "You've bought four other claims in the last two months and none of them looks promising to me."

  "Five," Chance answered wearily. "And they're not any of your business either." He put his napkin on the table and stood up to leave. "You never used to be like this, Fancy. Picking at every bone. You've got to forgive me for Fan, sometime... you must know how much I loved her."

  "I used to have more to occupy my mind when my child was still alive," she said, made cruel by her pain and guilt. "I'm thinking of going back to work."

  Chance took a deep breath before replying. "You know I don't want you to do that, Fancy."

  Her head came up defiantly. "If what you do is none of my business, I can't see why what I do is any of yours."

  Chance left without another word and Fancy lingered over her coffee, feeling miserable and alone. Nothing in life was bearable since Fan's death. She missed the happiness and the laughter of their life before; missed the sense of being loved absolutely. For a moment she felt a pang of guilt about the way she was treating him, but her own grief was inextricably tangled in responsibility. Only blaming Chance prevented her from blaming herself... and she simply didn't have the strength to fight that battle now.

  Chance stood at the faro table beside Haw Tabor—the gambling club was a private one set up for the likes of the two of them. He knew he shouldn't be here this evening; but it was hard to be around Fancy since Fan. He sometimes thought all life was divided—before Fan, after Fan....

  Marriage had changed Fancy, changed them both, he thought with an ache of rebellion. He'd never expected it to be peaches and cream, but neither had he anticipated her fierce commitment to motherhood, her endless insecurities, or her unreasonableness about business. How could she expect him to be home every night of the week, when she'd been so damned distant since their daughter's death, her every glance full of accusation.

  Why the hell couldn't she just trust to his dreams and visions as she had before marriage, like everybody else in Leadville did? Weren't those dreams part of what she loved about him? It seemed to him a lifetime since he'd felt loved by Fancy.

  Chance glanced at his watch; he had to make a decision within the next few minutes. He'd made a halfhearted date to see Jennie before the night was out—there wouldn't be much time, of course, if he was to get back early enough to say he'd been with the boys at the club all evening. There was respite and replenishment with Jen; her kind of bolstering was just what he needed after the hard days he put in. Politics was tough, running an empire made demands never even imagined in the days of youthful dreams; always being on your guard was tiring, always being where you could be seen and talked about was more pain-in-the-ass than pleasure. And the day-to-day chores of business were not his long suit, yet he couldn't let the facade crack for an instant. He missed the good times with Fancy, when she was a sounding board and friend as well as a lover. Before Fan, there'd been a different Fancy. Before Fan, he'd been immortal and all dreams still had the potential to come true.

  Chance put his watch back in his pocket and picked up the cards. Maybe there'd be time for just a quick visit to Jen's before heading home.

  Chapter 73

  The enormous steamer trunk arrived from the East and Fancy struggled to pry open the lid, hoping the new clothes would cheer her. She'd ordered a king's ransom in Paris fashions for herself, Aurora, and Blackjack, because their social obligations demanded it and because her sagging spirits did, too. She knew it was time to come out of mourning and try to live again. Too much black in a house was bad for the children.

  She pulled out the mousseline de laine dress first and the pique cloak and cashmere hood in softest peach for Aurora. Even a nanny's uniform, with proper stitched and ribboned cap, was folded neatly beside the children's clothes.

  Reaching down into the lower portion of the giant box, she fished for her own acquisitions: an elaborate flower garniture for her hair and a chignon of curls. She'd sent a strand to the wigmaker for matching, and the resultant curls would enhance her own so that not even her cattiest neighbors would know the difference.

  A damasse silk and satin toiletter, for full-dress occasions, was beneath the tissue.There were so many obligatory occasions now that the business of being rich kept them on the dinner circuit. Fancy held the dress out before her at the mirror, surprised at her own relief that it wasn't black; the basque and flowing train were of brocaded aqua satin with silver laid-in plaits.

  Nobody in Leadville or Denver will be able to hold a candle to this, she thought, surprised at her own excitement. She'd been numb so long, feeling lively was an unexpected pleasure. She'd decided to make amends with Chance, maybe that was what was making her feel hopeful. Her own loss had obscured the pain of his... she'd been crueler to him about Fan's death than she'd known she was capable of being. He'd loved that baby so, she could only imagine how Fan's suffering and death must live inside him, an anguished guilty secret. Fancy grimaced at remembrance of how she'd punished him with her coldness and disdain. And through it all he had been kind to her and oddly gentle, as if their daughter's death had taught him humility. Magda and Jewel had both berated her for her behavior, but the relentless chilling numbness, like a sleet storm of the heart, had kept her mean. Christ, if Chance was as lonely as she, she'd done a dreadful thing.

  Fancy laid all the finery out on the bed and decided to do something splendid for her husband, something kind, that would show how much she still loved him.

  He enjoyed clothes nearly as much as she did, but he didn't have the time to fuss over them, these days. She would take one of his suits for measurement, and send it back East to have a splendid new jacket and trousers made for him in the very latest style. It wasn't all she would do, but it was a beginning. Fancy entered Chance's dressing room, a place she seldom visited, for the valet handled the picking-up, pressing, and cleaning of her husband's wardrobe.

  Humming softly to herself, feeling better than she had in months, Fancy chose a jacket and patted it down to make sure nothing had been left in the pockets. There was no money there, but the rustle of paper revealed a scrap caught in the torn lining of the right-hand pocket. Fancy fished it out and glanced at it absently as she laid it on the dresser.

  Then she blinked hard, in a useless effort to erase what she'd seen... the handwriting was so obviously a woman's.

  Lunch on Thursday, Chance darling, it read. I can't wait to feel your strong arms around me. It was signed Jen.

  Fancy tried to make the topsy-turvy world turn right again; there'd been some terrible mistake, he was with her every night he wasn't working. But not every lunch... or every hour, some knowing part of her argued back, and maybe all those nights of business weren't what they'd seemed. She saw him suddenly in another woman's arms, naked, lustful, playing that alien body as he did her own, telling her stories... she felt an urgent desire to retch.

  She sat a long, long while staring out the window, emptied of all but heartache and remorse. Then she dressed, not in black, left the house, and headed for the Crown.

  "What am I going to do, Jewel?" Fancy asked when she'd finished crying. Jewel handed her another hanky and waited until Fancy had obediently blown her nose.

  "You'd be a fool to do anything. He is what he is, and you're far from blameless in this."

  "But this other woman..."

  Jewel snorted contemptuo
usly. "You find me a man who don't have more'n one and I'll eat Rufus' twelve-gauge for lunch."

  "But I never knew it would be like this..."

  "And why the hell not? Don't you know nothin' about men, kid? They love you to death when they're courtin' you, but once you're married they cool down faster'n snow on a stovepipe. And what the hell made you think you could treat him like a leper and not have him find somebody who wouldn't?"

  "Why didn't you tell me, Jewel?"

  "Because for the last few months nobody could tell you a damned thing without gettin' ankle-bit."

  Fancy shook her head miserably. "All I know is I still love Chance and all my hopes are tied up in him... and right now I'd like to cut his heart out."

  Jewel chuckled. "That's more like the Fancy I know. You got two kids and a lot of responsibilities now; why not just reel him back in. You still got your figure and your brain. How about using 'em both for a change."

  "But how can I face him, knowing what I know? How can I let him make love to me without hating him and always wondering..."

  "Honey, that's a question damn near every woman who ever lived has had to answer for herself... cain't nobody tell you what to do or what to feel. All I can tell you is this, Fancy, you've got a hell of a lot to lose now, and you better consider real careful whether or not you want to lose it."

  Jewel stood with her hands on the sink, staring out the back window and thinking about Fancy, after the girl had left. Poor kid, she'd been so happy for a minute or two... was there any feeling in this whole frigging world like that first mad flush of love? When he's perfect and you're perfect and the whole damned world is perfect... just for those few glorious moments before reality sets in. She sighed and shook her head—there were times when she was glad she and Ford couldn't be together all the time. Maybe it had spared them a hell of a lot of heartache.

  Chapter 74

  "The men want more money," Tabor said disgustedly. "Those damned fool miners are going to price themselves and us right out of business."

  John Henderson cleared his throat ponderously. "How much more?"

  "They're making three-fifty a day and want four. I say we knock them down to three and show them what this kind of union crap gets them."

  Chance stood, his shoulders resting against the library wall, and watched the portly, self-satisfied men with whom he had so long curried favor. If he didn't back them on this important issue, his political future could be on the line, but dammit, he'd worked those mines, and so had they. Didn't these fat cats remember the intolerable double shifts to make ends meet, the heat and the cold, the rock dust in your nostrils and lungs, the consumption and the desperation...

  "Three-fifty a day doesn't buy all that much in Leadville, since the boom," he said aloud, and all eyes turned toward him incredulously. "You can pay as much now for an egg as you used to for a night on the town."

  "What are you saying, McAllister?" Tabor frowned; the boy had a fine career ahead of him if he didn't get stupid.

  "I'm saying we can afford the raise they're asking for, and that they deserve it," Chance said, unflinching. "You've been down below, Haw, you know we're rich and they're desperate."

  Shocked, silent eyes met each other around the room, a number of throats were cleared. McAllister must have lost his marbles, was clear in every face.

  Tabor didn't even bother to dignify Chance's statement with acknowledgment.

  "I've formed a militia, gentlemen," he said, turning back to the group around the fire. "A light cavalry company that I think we can put to good use in this little brouhaha. If we march our soldiers up and down a few times in full regalia, I think those miners will get our point and reconsider their walkout."

  "Unless your light cavalry knows how to double-jack, muck, and set powder, they're not likely to do you much good after the men walk." Chance's voice was hard. Being ignored didn't sit well on his temper, and there was something unholy about these overstuffed men in their overstuffed chairs, deciding the fate of the likes of Caz.

  "Don't you worry about working the pits," Haw said harshly. "Them boys got to feed their families—they can't hurt anybody but their women and children by walking out on us. And if they do, the railroad can have a load of scabs in here in twenty-four hours."

  "I'm thinking of raising the wages at the Fancy Penny and the Last Chance," Chance said evenly. Jason Madigan watched with fascination; maybe McAllister would end the chess game earlier than he'd imagined. He himself had taken to spending a week or two in Leadville every few months; there was ample money to be made here and gossip suggested the McAllister household was none too stable.

  Elmore Trask leaned forward in his chair. "You do that, boy, and you can kiss your political ass good-bye." The use of the word boy wasn't lost on Chance, but neither was the sense of loathing he felt for the selfish bastards he'd chosen as political bedfellows. He wished Hart or Bandana were here to talk it all out, but in his heart he knew they'd agree with his stand.

  No one spoke after McAllister left the room; it didn't seem there was much left to be said.

  Chapter 75

  The train and stage ride across the country was arduous, but Hart's excitement at homecoming made up for the physical discomfort. His years at Yale had been the most fulfilling of his life; he had real talent, and now the knowledge to give it wings. He understood the human form with surgical precision; hadn't he stood at the autopsy table beside Mireau and learned anatomy from muscle and bone outward? Even without the degree that was still a few credits away, he was well equipped for the job he'd coveted. It was time to go home and share life again with those he loved. Chance's letters, always open and loving, had been guarded lately, shadlowed by something more than just his sorrow over the death of the little niece Hart had never known.

  He watched the prairie click by outside the train window; the wheatfields stretched beyond the horizon into memory. He saw again his father's massive shape against the vast expanse and heard the much loved voice, in a distant echo. "By the time you're grown, son, this land on which we stand will all be history. I've seen the East, Hart—cities cover the earth where trees once grew. [Cobblestones and dirt and poverty have all grown together into [something unnatural.

  "Here and farther west, the earth is still as God meant it to be . trees and rocks and streams as clean and pure as on the morning of Creation. The Indians understand the balance... [they live with the land, not off it. They give back when they take, I and say 'thank you' to Grandmother Stream or Grandfather Rock if they borrow from their bounty." The deep, comforting baritone [and the soft chuckle lived in Hart and always would. What had it [cost that strong, good man to sanction his son's thirst for art, [when he must have longed for a farmer to follow in his footsteps, to love the land he'd watered with his life's blood and sweat.

  "It used to be I worried about you, son," Charles McAllister I had said. "That you'd get caught up in dreaming and leave the [land we've fought so hard for here. But I was wrong. I think maybe God means for you to paint what He created, so it won't be I forgot. All this beauty will soon be changed by what men like to call civilization... the Indians will be pushed back and destroyed, and with them the last true Keepers of the Land will vanish from the face of this earth. Maybe you can be the one who bears witness to the greatness of what the Good Lord gave us, and that's a mighty calling, son."

  A mighty calling... The words were still as powerful as on the day they'd first been spoken. How is it that certain moments stay intact inside your soul forever, while others blur and fade like the tattered fabric of a dream?

  Pallas had tried to persuade him to join her in Paris, to continue his studies there, but Hart was lonely for the West and needed to see Chance and Fancy one more time before going away, perhaps for years.

  He alighted from the Denver stage and made his way toward the three people he loved most in all the world. Bandana was the first to greet his return.

  "By God, you look like some city feller, wouldn't know a
cactus if he sat on one," McBain said, eyeing Hart's store-bought clothes! with amusement, and the man in them with affection. "Fancy sent me word you was headin' in, so I come to town to see if the East has corrupted you."

  "How'd she know where to find you?"

  "Oh, she's got her ways, Fance has. Her and me got us a claim up yonder. It's a perfect partnership—I own it and work it, she comes to visit once in a while. Not much dust, but a powerful lot of fine scenery to feast yer eyes on."

  Hart laughed. Bandana acted as if he'd left only yesterday, not years before.

  "How are they, Bandana? My brother and Fancy?" McBain squinted his eyes and tilted his head up toward Hart before replying.

  "There's more'n one answer to that question, young feller. You want the one fer the newspapers, or the one fer family?"

  "What do you think?"

  McBain nodded. "Near as I kin figger it, the death of that little fairy child of theirs hit 'em real hard and they ain't got over it yet. Fancy and Chance spend enough money between 'em to keep a small country in beans and bacon. Maybe not so small. Got a! dandy house about the size of a hotel. The kids are sproutin', as! kids will do, without a whole lot of discipline, but more love than! you could shake a stick at. Of course, they got governesses and servants up the wazoo, so I suppose they manage.

  "Them two, who used to .be regular folks, are now the toast of Colorado, according to the newspapers in which I wrap my fish on occasion, but nothin' is ever glittery as it looks, far as I kin tell. Seems to me you don't get rich and famous in this world without workin' yer fingers to the bone, and you don't get to know every important Tom and Dick without spendin' damn near all yer wakin' hours entertainin' or bein' entertained. And you sure as hell don't get to the statehouse—which, by the way, is where they say yer brother's headed—without compromisin' a goodly portion of yer convictions to the will of the power brokers and the party. And that, in a nutshell, is how they are." He hesitated, looking at Hart, his eyes squinty from the sun, then continued. "To say nothing of the fact that Chance has taken to sharing his favors with the fallen angels of Leadville. And Fancy ain't done nothin' I can see to prevent it." He stopped for breath, then spoke again. "Besides all that, there's big trouble at the mine... and old Bessie seen fit to up and die on me."