by Verna Clay
Ahead of schedule they rolled into Bingham laughing at one of Joe's stories. Prisca swiped tears from her eyes. "Every time he tells that calamity I can't stop laughing."
Jenny replied, "That is one of the funniest misadventures I've ever heard," and dabbed tears of mirth from her own eyes.
Jenny was sad to bid Prisca and Joe goodbye and made them promise to look her up if their travels took them to New York in the next year or back to Two Rivers after that.
After disembarking, the stagecoach driver loaded Jenny and her suitcase onto a buckboard bound for the train depot. At the depot she bought her ticket, sat on a bench, pulled a small book of poetry from her reticule, and prepared to wait two hours for her departure. After an hour, thirst and hunger led her inside. Finding a table in a small dining room, she ordered a glass of milk and a slice of apple pie. With her first bite she realized it was nowhere near as delicious as her sister-in-law's. Angel's baking skills had garnered her quite a reputation in Two Rivers and the surrounding areas. In fact, the Mayflower Hotel dining room was always booked on the weekends with folks wanting to enjoy the meals prepared by Jack and Bessie Jane Smythe and the desserts by Angel.
Settling back in her chair she passed the time by thinking about her family. Several months previous, she had received a letter from her stepmother that her father had been badly injured, but the letter had been sent when he was well on the road to recovery. Abby had apologized for waiting so long to inform her, but she had said that if she'd written sooner, she knew Jenny would have dropped everything to return home. Ma Abby had been right about that. The only thing more important to Jenny than her artwork was her family.
Abby's letter had also contained the news of Luke's marriage and a baby expected about the time of the family's annual trek to the graves of Jenny's birth mother and baby brother. Enclosed with Abby's letter had been a letter from Luke with a bank draft for enough money to buy her passage to Two Rivers during spring break.
Now that her visit was over, Jenny was excited to return to her studies, but sad to leave her family. Her father had completely recovered, and, except for the ragged line of a scar down his cheek and a slight limp, he was back to ranching and raising his family.
Jenny chuckled softly when she remembered walking into the barn during her visit and surprising her pa and ma lying in a mound of hay and kissing passionately. They had both jumped to their feet and Abby had turned swiftly around to rearrange her clothing while Jenny had merely laughed, and said, "Pa and Ma, if you only knew how many times I walked into the barn and saw the two of you kissing while I was growing up, you'd be right embarrassed."
About that time, Jenny's younger brothers, eight year old Rusty and ten year old James, had entered the barn and Rusty had said, "James, it's just Ma and Pa playing in the hay again."
Jenny stifled a loud laugh at her memories and finished her pie and milk. Returning to the depot landing her thoughts turned to her studies at Jake Ryder's Academy of Art in New York. She had one month to finish and prepare for a showing of two of her best paintings. Each summer, the academy selected twenty students to showcase their artwork at a popular downtown gallery. The event was attended by both critics and the public and had launched the careers of several students over the years. Just thinking about the showing tied Jenny's stomach up in knots. It was rumored that maybe the great painter and founder of the academy, Jake Ryder, himself, would attend this year. Of course, he hadn't been seen at the last two showings, so her expectation was low that he would appear at this one. Still, one could always hope. Jenny wanted desperately to meet the Painter of Emotions as he was known in the echelons of the art world. Often, since coming to New York, she had stood before his masterpieces that hung at the academy, and even visited the museum that housed some of his most famous works, and gazed in awe at the depictions of Wild West scenes. His mastery of capturing the spirit of whatever he painted mesmerized her. She could stand riveted for long periods viewing every detail of the sky, plains, grasses, mountains, forests, horses, cabins, teepees, cowboys, Native Americans, or whatever was depicted, and her heartbeat would quicken. She always left the presence of his art wanting to cry because he no longer painted. She had read in a Bingham newspaper a few years back that a carriage accident had led to the amputation of his right arm just below his shoulder. Although the article had been unclear as to the exact nature of what had happened, it had quoted Mr. Ryder as saying he could no longer paint because he was right-handed. With an understanding of the devastation he must be feeling because of her own passion for painting, Jenny had cried for him. When she had been accepted into his academy, her sorrow for Mr. Ryder had only intensified.
"Now boarding for Dallas!" yelled the steward.
Jenny mentally shook thoughts of Jake Ryder from her mind. She would probably never meet him, so it was best not to dwell on the sad events of his life.
Chapter Two: Artless Poetry
Jenny straightened one of her paintings hanging in the gallery. She considered it to be her finest. Her other painting, a field of sunflowers swaying in the wind, with a waterfall splashing off cliffs into a raging river, had been the product of her imagination.
The first painting—sunrise over her parents' cabin, with maple and oak trees hugging surrounding hills and mist clinging to the road leading to their cabin—made her homesick. She loved the picture and had poured her heart into every stroke.
Finally, she sighed and left the gallery, calling goodbyes to fellow students preparing their allotted spaces for the evening's event. She would return later to stand proudly beside her paintings hoping attendees would not only enjoy her depictions, but feel them in the depths of their souls.
Back at her tiny flat located in a respectable section of town, thanks to the generosity of her brother who had insisted on paying not only half of her two year tuition for the academy—her father insisting on paying the other half—but also her living expenses while in New York, she viewed the dresses hanging in her armoire with distaste. She wished she had considered what to wear for her special night before now. It was too late to shop for a pretty dress. Besides that, she had already spent her monthly living allowance on more art supplies.
Sighing heavily, she reached for her nicest dress, a simple cut calico shirtwaist with cuffed three-quarter length sleeves that was a little too big because excitement and nervousness had caused her to lose weight after coming to New York. Reaching to the shelf above the armoire, she pulled down her white bonnet, remembering with fondness her mother tying ribbons under her chin when she was a child and reinforcing the fact that a lady always covered her head when going outdoors. Jenny suddenly had a vision of Prisca in her fancy urban hat with feathers and bows. Maybe someday I'll wear a hat with feathers. The thought made her giggle.
* * *
Jake Ryder wanted to order his horseman to turn the carriage around and return to the seclusion of his mansion, but he had promised his partner, Jonas "Soaring Eagle" Winston that he would attend this year's gala showcasing the artwork of talented students attending their academy. Talented? Yes. Gifted? No. Jake knew there was a huge difference. At one time he had been talented, but circumstances had caused him to develop his gift.
In a moment of time, flashes of his many works passed before his eyes and the familiar depression clutched his heart, making him ill-tempered. I just want this night to be over.
Adjusting his perfectly tailored black suit jacket with tails and matching vest embroidered with golden thread, he made sure the sleeve on the side of his missing arm was secured to the pocket of the jacket. He hated when the sleeve flapped. He had fired more than one tailor for botching that part of his instructions.
His driver opened the door of his modern carriage and he hopped down holding the head of a cane carved into the likeness of a viper's head about to strike, with the length simulating that of an undulating serpent.
Immediately upon entering the gallery, he was greeted by Jonas. His friend said, "Ryder, I'm happy
to see you attending this year's event. I hope this portends frequent visits to the academy."
With a grin that held no amusement, he responded, "Don't count on it. I almost had my man turn the damn carriage around."
Unfazed by his harsh words, Jonas replied, "Well, at least pretend you're having fun and say nice things to the students. They do pay to attend our academy."
Ryder rolled his eyes. "I'll do my damnedest, but I can't promise niceties."
"That's all I ask," Jonas said softly, and patted Ryder on the shoulder of his good arm. "Before you leave, I'd like you to view Jenny Samson's work. Remember, I told you about her. I think she's extremely talented and I want to hear your impression of her paintings. She's easy to spot with her white bonnet."
"Sure. Sure."
At that moment, one of the art world's socialites, a beautiful woman who had been trying to get Ryder into her bed for years, entered the gallery.
"Ryder, I'm so happy to see you," she gushed. "I heard you were back from an extended stay in Europe. We really must get together."
The meaning behind her words and flirty stare were not lost on Ryder. The last thing he wanted to do was kindle a relationship with Adele Wainscot. She may be beautiful, but she was probably the shallowest woman he had ever had the displeasure of knowing.
He replied, "Good evening, Adele. I hope you enjoy this year's showing by our most talented artisans." Abruptly, he said, "If you will excuse me, I must perform my duties and introduce myself to the students since I have yet to meet them, having been out of the country." Ryder stepped away from Jonas and Adele, but not before observing her displeasure at being rebuffed and Jonas' amusement of his discomfiture.
Finding his way to a waiter balancing a tray of flutes filled with red wine, he grabbed one, sipped, and was immediately pounced on by more socialites, male and female. After half an hour of meaningless talk, he excused himself and started perusing the artwork lining the gallery and introducing himself to awestruck students. As he had known, the students were all talented, but not gifted. There was no spark in their art that called to his inner being.
He was impressed, however, by a boy, probably around twelve, who had sculpted a pack of wild horses. Under the right tutelage, the child could turn his talent into a gift. Ryder made a mental note to mention the boy to Jonas and ask that he be set up for lessons with Michael Santos, a premier sculptor who owed Ryder a favor. When he paused before the boy's work, whose name was posted on the stand supporting the sculpture, he said, "Nathaniel Marsh, when did you first discover you wanted to sculpt?"
The boy gulped and his Adam's apple bobbed. "You're Mr. Jake Ryder, ain't ya?"
"I am. Now answer my question."
"I was five and playin' in the mud makin' figures of my daddy's horse."
Ryder pondered the boy's response. "Did your daddy like your mud figures?"
"No sir, he tossed them on the ground after they dried and they broke all to pieces."
"So how is it that you continued to sculpt?"
"My mama told my pa that if he ever broke any of my figures again she wouldn't let him in her bed."
There wasn't much that shocked Ryder, but the boy's answer made him choke on his wine. After he'd regained his composure, he laughed a real laugh, something he hadn't done in a long time.
Nathaniel stuck out his hand. "I'm right pleased ta meet ya, Mr. Ryder."
"Son, I'd be pleased if you'd call me Ryder and forget the Mister, part." Ryder shook the boy's hand. Yes, he would call in that favor to make sure the kid got lessons from a true master.
After leaving Nathaniel, Ryder determined he'd stayed long enough. He wanted to escape the gallery because of the oppression he always felt around artists. He was about to retrace his steps to the entrance when he remembered Jonas' request that he view the paintings by Jenny Samson. Sighing, he walked further into the gallery.
Because the placement of the artists was determined by lot and not talent, he realized that Jenny had received the least desirable location. Stepping around a wall, he walked toward the back and saw the girl's profile before he saw her paintings. She was typical of a country bred girl with her unbecoming dress and unstylish bonnet. She was the kind of young woman he used to paint when he traveled the land. Despondency stabbed his heart knowing he could never again capture the western woman on canvas. Jenny Samson was the country girl personified.
He glanced from Jenny to her paintings and stopped in his tracks. The scenes she had created were so flawlessly executed and sweet as to make him angry. Life was not sweet or innocent or perfect or kind. Life was harsh and cruel.
Without thought, he said loud enough for her to hear, "Your paintings are artlessly poetic. Perhaps in time you will reveal yourself to have a gift, rather than talent."
Looking back at the girl who was now looking at him, his heart thumped. She was not lovely, nor pretty, but her eyes captured and held his soul within their sapphire depths. For a long time, they just stared at each other, and then a tiny tear grew larger before trickling down her cheek. Ryder fought an overwhelming urge to touch the drop with the tip of his finger and taste it.
The girl swiped the tear away. "I have longed to meet the great Jake Ryder. Now I wish I never had."
Ryder responded, "It appears you have yet to learn the first lesson in life, Miss Samson—No one is great." He turned and walked away.
Chapter Three: Giving Up
Jenny's mind wandered back to her encounter with the great Jake Ryder. No, not great—mean and hurtful. The awful tears threatened to spill over again. For the week since Mr. Ryder's cruel words, her wayward emotions had refused to come under control. Apparently, her despondency wasn't lost on her instructor, Mrs. Whipple, who said with concern in her voice, "Jenny, could you stay for a minute after class?"
While Jenny waited after class for Mrs. Whipple to finish speaking with the youngest student in the school, Nathaniel Marsh, she heard again that accusing voice in her head. If Jake Ryder hates your paintings, you might as well give up and go home. You might as well marry Tate Brandon and have twelve kids. You might as well…"
"Jenny?" Her teacher tapped her shoulder.
"Oh, sorry, ma'am. I guess I was daydreaming."
Mrs. Whipple scrutinized Jenny's face and then asked kindly, "Jenny is everything all right? You haven't been yourself for several days. Did something happen to upset you?"
Jenny glanced sideways and tried with all her might to keep a tear from leaking; to no avail. Mrs. Whipple saw it. "Honey, tell me what's wrong."
The genuine concern of her teacher was Jenny's undoing and she started spilling all the hurt she had been trying to cover up.
* * *
Ryder walked into the drawing room of his country estate on the outskirts of New York and said, "Jonas, it's eight o'clock on Saturday for god's sake. What has you up and pounding on my door so early?" He motioned for his friend to sit, but the look on Jonas' face alerted him to the fact that this was not a social call. "What's up?" he repeated hesitantly.
""What's up is that I'd like to punch you in the mouth."
"And the reason for that is…?" Ryder walked to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantle. Although he had an idea as to the reason, he waited to hear it.
"How could you be so callous? Do you realize Jenny Samson is one of the most talented artists we've ever had the pleasure of training and now she's considering leaving the academy. And do you know why?" Jonas answered his own question. "Hell yes, you know why! Because you let your mouth override your intelligence. She told Hattie Whipple that if Jake Ryder sees no potential in her paintings, there's no reason for her to continue her lessons. Have you any inkling of how much you've hurt that girl?"
"I never said she had no potential."
"Well, what the hell did you say?"
With a guilty look, he responded, "I simply said her paintings were artlessly poetic."
Jonas looked like he was about to explode. "Pray tell, what does that mean?
"
"It means she might as well write syrupy poetry, that's how disgustingly sweet her paintings are. They carry no emotion other than…sweet," he finished lamely.
Jonas' eyes widened. "That is absolutely the biggest crock of shit I have ever heard."
Ryder turned angry eyes on him. "How can I expect you to understand? You're not an artist. You could never know–"
"Spare me your explanation. You need to make things right with Jenny. The world will lose a great artist if she up and quits because of your callousness." With a final glare, Jonas stormed out of the room and slammed the door.
Ryder watched him go but didn't make a move to follow. After the door slammed, he hung his head. When his friend had arrived he had instinctively known the visit was because of Jenny Samson. Hell, her hurt expression and words had been haunting his dreams since he'd stupidly opened his mouth.
After crashing his fist on the mantle, he returned to his room, called his valet to help him dress for an outing, and then asked his butler to have his driver prepare his carriage and bring it around. He needed to visit the school to find out Miss Samson's address and then eat crow.
By eleven, Ryder's driver had pulled to the front of Jenny Samson's building. He was relieved that she lived in a decent section of town. For some of the students, after paying their tuition, there wasn't much money left for appropriate housing. Although the school assisted as much as possible, there was only so much they could do. They barely made a profit as it was. When Ryder had suggested closing the school after his accident, Jonas had refused to listen. Instead, he had reminded Ryder that their academy was the only one of its caliber with at least a reasonable tuition and scholarships for the poorest students. After that, Ryder had dropped the subject and fallen into an abyss of self-pity and depression. Thereafter, he'd traveled to Europe to socialize among the elite and listen to accolades over his paintings hanging in the estates of rich and titled gentry. After two years of that nonsense, he'd returned to New York and holed up in his mansion. At one point, he'd tried to paint with his left hand, but given up, throwing the paints across the room and stomping on the canvas. Now, at the age of thirty-four, his life was an endless ocean of self-defeat and melancholia.