“What’s a bash?” Cara asked, smiling at her sister’s excitement. She loved Mary Ann, who had all of the health and strength and energy she once had. Now, as she held her sister’s hand, she said, “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Why, I’m surprised you don’t know that! It means a real big party,” said Clinton Lanier. At five ten, Clinton was slightly shorter than Benjamin, but he, too, was trim and well built, with rich auburn hair and very light blue eyes. He had an aristocratic face, including a straight English nose and neat features. His sideburns were a little long, but he was clean-shaven. The oldest of the Lanier sons, Clinton had worked with his father since graduating from college and rarely complained, though he did not like the work. Now he grinned down and stroked Cara’s shoulder affectionately. “You and I are going to have to go to a bash ourselves one of these days.”
“Yes, I’d like that very much,” Cara said eagerly. “You find one and get Father’s permission, and we’ll go.” At the mention of their father, Cara saw Clinton tense as if he had been shocked by a jolt of electricity. She had noticed this reaction before. In fact, every one of Oliver Lanier’s children feared him except her. Now she said quickly, “Tell me what’s going on. I want to hear it all.”
Cara enjoyed the next forty-five minutes tremendously. Her cheeks grew flushed and her eyes sparkled as her brothers and sisters drew up chairs, or walked around, or stood over her and talked. Her room had become a sanctuary for them, and despite her father’s warnings that they excited her too much, she experienced a joy and a freedom that dispelled the gloom and darkness which had settled on her since she had awakened early at dawn.
Bess nudged Bobby out of the way, saying, “I know what I’m going to be when I grow up, Cara.”
“What are you going to be, now? Tell me about it.”
Bess’s eyes were bright, and she gestured excitedly with her hands. “I’m going to be a typewriter.”
“A typewriter?” Cara gasped.
“You don’t know that?” Bess cried. “Why, it’s a woman who works a typing machine.”
“And what kind of a machine is that?”
Clinton stepped in to explain. “You haven’t heard of Remington’s typewriter, Cara? It’s been around for about thirty years, but they’ve improved on them recently and have made them portable so that more and more businesses are starting to put them to use. It has metal keys on it, and as the keys are struck, it prints a letter in type on the paper held by a roller in front of it. I think it’s a great invention.”
“Do you have one at the office?” Mary Ann asked.
“No. Father says they’ll never last, but I think they will. There are a lot of young women now who operate them in offices all over the country. I told Father we ought to get a typewriter of our own, but you know him. He would really like to go back to the goose quill pen.” A sour expression touched Clinton’s fine blue eyes, and then he grew quiet.
Cara felt a touch of sympathy for her brother, knowing that he was probably thinking about his frustrations over working with his father at the office.
“Oh, I’ve got a present for you!” Bobby shouted. “Wait right here!” The six-year-old seemed to have only one pitch for speaking, which was yelling at the top of his lungs. His loud behavior was very irritating to most people, especially his father. Bobby dashed out of the room and soon was back with an object wrapped in brown paper. “Here, Cara. It’s for your birthday!”
“But my birthday was two months ago.”
“I know, but I only got it this week. I saved my money and Clinton bought it for me. I picked it out, though.”
“Oh, it’s so nice getting a late birthday present!” Cara exclaimed. “Come here and sit down by me, Bobby, while I see what it is.” Cara was surprised and pleased at her younger brother’s thoughtfulness. He was a rowdy young boy, but he loved her dearly and was always bringing her some sort of present. Now she opened it and said, “Oh, it’s . . . it’s beautiful!”
“It’s a teddy bear!” Bobby said. “It cost five dollars and twenty-five cents! I saved it up all by myself.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have spent so much of your money on me, Bobby.”
“But I wanted to. Look, see his eyes?”
It was indeed an endearing stuffed bear with beady eyes and fuzzy fur. Cara stroked it, exclaiming, “Why do you call it a teddy bear?”
“You don’t know about that either, Cara?” Clinton asked with surprise. “You’ve certainly been in this room too long. I thought everybody knew about teddy bears.”
“No. Tell me about them.”
“Well, President Roosevelt was down in Mississippi and he went bear hunting. His hosts gave him an easy shot at a cub, but he refused to take down the little beast. A fellow named Morris Michtom down in Brooklyn read the story, and he and his wife cut out a cloth bear and stuffed it, giving it moveable arms and legs, and those button eyes you see. They put it out in the window with a sign saying, ‘Teddy’s Bear.’ It sold and they made another one, and Morris wrote to Roosevelt, asking if he could use his name.” Clinton smiled and shrugged. “You know Teddy. He said it was okay. So Michtom started making bears, and a couple of years ago they got really popular. Well, there’s your teddy bear.”
“I love it, Bobby,” Cara said. “I’ll keep it right here on my bed with me.”
“Do you really like it?” Bobby asked.
“I’ll always keep it. Thank you very much.”
Bess, who was always jealous of any attention that Bobby got, said, “I’ve got something to show you, Cara.”
“I bet it won’t be as nice as the teddy bear!” Bobby yelled.
“It will too!” She came over beside Cara’s bed and said, “I’m going to show you a turkey trot.”
Cara could not imagine what such a thing might be. “What’s that, Bess?”
“It’s a new dance. Retta showed it to me. She goes out and learns all the newest dances, and then she teaches them to me. Here’s the way it goes. . . .”
Bess began to scuff her toes backward against the floor and said, “This is the chicken scratch—and this is the buzzard loop!” She held her arms extended and ran around the room making a noise as much like a turkey as she could. “And this is the turkey trot!” She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet and began craning her neck as gobblers sometimes do. She was so energetic and comical that they all began to laugh.
Cara had long known that Bess was able to mimic almost anything. At first she smiled, then laughed aloud at the antics of the youngster. The room filled with laughter, everyone teasing Bess, who relished being the center of attention.
“What is going on here?”
Instantly Bess stood still and her face went pale. Her eyes fell to the floor and her voice was barely audible as she answered her father. “I was just showing Cara the new dance step . . . the turkey trot, Papa.”
Oliver Lanier had opened the door and stepped inside. He was six feet tall and of a massive build with heavy arms and legs that bespoke the strength of a stevedore. His iron gray hair had a slight curl to it, but his beard was almost pure brown. He had stern, cold blue eyes set in a square face, muttonchop whiskers, and now he stared around the room, his eyes settling on each one of his children. They all seemed to wilt before him. “Do you have no consideration at all for your sister’s health? I’m disappointed and shocked by your behavior.”
“It’s all right, Father,” Cara said. “I enjoy having them.”
“You’re not the best judge of that, Cara. You’re not well, and you don’t need to have this kind of excitement.” Lanier’s eyes came to meet those of Clinton. “As an older son, I would expect you to have better judgment, Clinton.”
“I’m sorry, Father. I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t think! You never do! And you, Benjamin—if you conduct yourself at college as you do in your fool ways here at home, I doubt you will ever graduate.”
Benjamin’s eyes dropped, but he made no
reply.
Mary Ann took one step forward and said as defiantly as she could, “Father, Cara gets lonesome in here. We just come to cheer her up.”
“You, Mary Ann, would do better to consider ways to make life easier for your sister, not harder. I’ll speak to you later!” He glared at her fiercely, then added, “And what’s more, young lady, I think it would be entirely inappropriate for you to attend that party you mentioned.”
“But, Father—”
“That’s my final word!”
Mary Ann’s eyes filled with angry tears. She swallowed hard, then looked at Cara before running out of the room, leaving the silence behind her.
Oliver Lanier was not yet finished. He said, “Elizabeth, you and Robert leave at once. I’ll have something to say to you later. You need instructions on how to behave around an invalid.”
Bobby pulled himself up to his full height and said, “I brought Cara a teddy bear, Papa. It was a birthday present.”
“Where did you get the money?” he demanded.
“I saved it up by myself.”
Oliver studied his youngest son and shook his head. “You’ve got to learn the value of a dollar, Robert. Now, all of you leave.”
Cara sadly watched as her brothers and sisters left one by one. It disturbed her greatly to see how that familiar look of fear had come into the expressions of each when confronted with their father’s sternness. Benjamin gave Cara a parting shrug as he exited last, and after he’d quietly closed the door behind him, Cara turned and said, “I wish you hadn’t done that, Father. They were having such a good time.”
“You’re too tenderhearted for your own good, Cara.” Something softened in Oliver’s iron expression whenever he spoke with his oldest child. He came over and sat down on the bed beside Cara and put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “You’ve got to learn to take better care of yourself, Cara. Wild parties such as I just witnessed will not do you any good. If anything, they will bring on a setback.”
Cara had been over this before with her father, but no matter what she said, he never changed. A hopelessness settled on her as she shrugged her shoulders and silently leaned back against the pillows.
“Dr. McKenzie tells me there’s some improvement in your condition.”
“I suppose so. It’s hard to tell.” Looking out the window, she sighed, then said, “If only I could get outside and breathe some fresh air and get in the sunshine!”
“That will come, my dear Cara. You must be patient.”
Oliver’s business associates would have been surprised if they had seen the gentleness in his expression just now. Indeed, this was the only time such an emotion ever showed. He had doted on this oldest child of his, and her sickness had been a terrible disaster to him. He had had great plans for her—a proper marriage, children—but her lingering illness had pushed all those dreams aside. For the past ten years he had treated her as gently as his nature would allow.
“The doctor said you’re refusing to take the ale I’ve gotten for you.”
“I hate it, Father! It tastes so awful!”
“We all have to bear our difficulties, Cara,” Oliver said. His voice grew a trifle more definite, and he added, “I want you to take it before you go to bed. I’ll bring it in myself.”
“I’m sorry, Father. I just can’t drink it anymore. It makes me sick!”
Something about a challenge always stirred Oliver. He had grown up a poor young man and had risen to be a wealthy one. The struggle had been brutal, and he had fought his way to the top. Along the way he had acquired an indomitable habit of sternness. Now he rose and said, “I’ll go get the ale right now.” Before she could protest, he left the room. A few minutes later he returned carrying a tall glass of the thick brown ale. “Now, I want you to drink all of this, Cara.”
“I’m sorry, Father. I just can’t,” she insisted, shaking her head.
The struggle that went on for the next few minutes was hateful to Cara. She could not remember a time when she had ever defied her father like this, and her reluctance to obey without question stirred something within him. She saw the determined light in his eyes that his enemies often saw and knew that she would never have any peace until she obeyed him.
“Oh, all right! I’ll drink it. Just leave it on the table.”
“No, I would like to see you drink it now.”
Cara understood that he would never accept anything that went against his will. Without another word she took the glass and, her shoulders shaking slightly, drained it dry. Setting the glass down, she settled back on the pillows and lay there silently.
Leaning over his daughter, Oliver kissed her forehead and said with satisfaction, “There, that’s my good girl. It will make you better. I’m sure of it.”
“Father, can I go out for a walk later today?”
“Not today, my dear. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll talk with Dr. McKenzie about it. Now, you rest for the remainder of the day, and I’ll come back and read to you tonight.”
“Thank you, Father.”
As the door closed firmly behind her father, Cara lay there quietly, still enduring the awful taste of the ale. Her eyes went over to the painting, and for a moment she considered getting up and painting some more, but she was exhausted and could not force herself to do it. Finally getting out of bed, she moved over to the window, sat down in the plush chair, and stared out at the bright sunny day and the flowers and the blue skies with puffy white clouds dreamily scudding by. Outside everything seemed bright and cheery, but a dark shroud of sadness wrapped itself around Cara. Though she suffered no lack of anything, she felt more than ever like a prisoner in her own room, and without meaning to, she suddenly began to weep. Tears rolled down her face as she sat there. Finally, she rose and left the window, falling across her bed facedown. Charley leaped up on the bed next to her and began to nuzzle her ear, whining softly. She reached out and hugged him and cried, “Oh, Charley, what am I going to do? What am I going to do . . . ?”
CHAPTER TWO
The Hills of Home
Phil Winslow sat loosely in the wagon seat, relaxing and letting his eyes run over the landscape that stretched out before him. It was a familiar sight, for he had spent the first twenty-four years of his life roaming these hills and exploring the far reaches of the plains that surrounded them. Montana was all he had known until three years ago, when he had abruptly departed for Europe.
As he glanced around, he was impressed with the large expanse of the ranch he called home. After the crowded cities of London and Paris, the skies seemed bigger and bluer, and the open prairie seemed enormous. Now the pale sunshine streamed through the clouds and touched the trees that sloped gently down into the valley where he had been born. Far off, the sharp, pointed mountains pierced the skies, while cottony clouds floated across high above. He thought of the times he had spent in those mountains when the snow was almost waist-deep and he had nearly frozen to death.
Thinking back on his years in this wild land, a smile touched his broad lips. He reached up and fingered his dark brown hair that came down over his collar. The first thing Pa will say is, “Get a haircut, son!” He laughed and stroked his face, clean-shaven for the first time in three years. He looked down at his clothes—the same outfit he had donned to make the trip across the Atlantic—a pair of loose-fitting brown trousers, a worn shirt with large sleeves, and an emerald green silk neckerchief tied around his throat. It was not the typical garb for a man from Montana, and he wondered how his parents would react when they saw him. They’ll probably think I’m still trying to dress like some crazy artist, he thought.
On the wagon seat beside him, the driver began to hum a song. Phil turned to look at him. The tall, lanky man with huge, sunburned and callused hands holding the lines smiled back at Phil and sang the tune out loud—”Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nellie.” He had a clear tenor voice, and when he finished the song he turned his shrewd brown eyes back on Winslow, saying, “Guess you don’t mind a little serena
de?”
“No, sounds good to me. Wish I could sing that well.”
“You like that song?”
“Don’t think I know it.”
The driver, whose name was Nate Fuller, looked at the young man with surprise. He had picked him up walking along the dusty highways and had been struck by the young man’s silence. There was something foreign looking about him, and now he asked, “You ain’t from around here, are ya?”
“Used to be. I’ve been gone for a while.”
Fuller looked at Winslow’s unusual clothing and said, “I could see you wasn’t no regular hand round here. You been out of the country?”
“Yes,” Winslow nodded. He had been grateful for the ride and now realized he had not paid his “fare” by indulging the driver in the conversation he so obviously desired. “Been over the big water in England and in France for a while.”
Fuller grinned and dug his elbow into Phil’s ribs. “Hey, how ’bout that? Did you meet any of them French steppers? I hear they’re pretty fast.”
A smile creased Phil Winslow’s lips, and his eyes closed so that they were barely visible. “I guess I saw a few,” he said, “which I shouldn’t have.”
“Man’s gotta have his fun when he’s young,” Fuller protested. “Tell me about ’em.”
“Not much to tell. Most of them are pretty homely. Not nearly as good-looking as Montana girls.”
“You tell me that?” Fuller was surprised. “I don’t know where, but I got the idea that they was some pumpkins.”
“Most of them are hard as horseshoe nails. The ones I met, anyway.”
Fuller considered the young man’s comments for a time, slapped the lines on the backs of the matched bays, and then asked, “What was you doin’ over there, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
“Don’t mind at all,” Phil said cheerfully. He turned to cast his eyes around the horizon, then lifted his arm. “Right over that ridge is where I was born.”
The Shadow Portrait Page 2