Painted by the Sun

by Elizabeth Grayson

  As the voices got louder and louder, Shea and Owen hurried to finish the last of the developing. They kept Ty busy drying and varnishing the tintypes, putting them into their folded-cardboard cases and delivering them to their customers.

  "I know Wes said it was all right for you to be here," Ty offered after his second trip to the dispensary, "but sometimes the men get to drinking and acting crazy. I think you should leave as soon as you can."

  When the last of the tintypes was processed and delivered, Ty helped them hitch up the horses, then climbed into the wagon. "I'll show you a way out that's quicker than the way they probably brought you here."

  The boy was as good as his word. Settled between Owen and Shea on the wagon seat, Ty guided them across the stream and down a narrow, jolting trail that wound through the dark denseness of a pine forest, then out to what was clearly a more traveled route through the mountains. Looking back the way they had come, Shea wondered how anyone ever found their way into that little valley.

  As they pulled onto the main road, Ty clambered over Shea's knees and jumped to the ground. In spite of his eagerness to get them out of the camp, he seemed reluctant to let them leave.

  His hesitation tugged at Shea. "Well, good-bye, Tyler Morran," she finally said, then leaned over the side of the wagon to shake his hand. "I thank you for your help today."

  "I thank you for the tintype of Pa and me." He patted the front of his shirt where Shea had seen him tuck the picture away, and she sensed she'd managed to give the boy something he'd treasure.

  "You're welcome, Ty. You earned it," was all she said.

  Owen clucked to the horses and rattled their reins. When she turned to look back as they made their first turn, Ty was still standing on the fringe of the road—a frail, small figure, as lost in his way as her own child.

  Chapter 3

  It took Shea and Owen two more days to wend their way out of the mountains, and Shea chafed with every mile they traveled. She could barely wait to reach Denver, could barely wait to get the boxes of photographic plates they'd exposed this summer on a train to New York. She was even more eager for the bank draft that would arrive once Anthony and Company accepted her views into their collection of western stereography. Only when she had that money safely deposited in a Denver bank would she be able to breathe, to replenish their supplies, or to consider their winter accommodations.

  Yet as impatient as she was to reach the city, Shea was not blind to the rugged grandeur of the land around her. Gilded stands of aspens spilled down the rocky mountain sides like living flame. Bristling pines stood velvety counterpoint to those slim, bright torches of gold. The mountain air crackled with the breath of fall, and when the morning mist laced thick along the bank of the stream they'd been following, Shea was awed anew by the pure, primal power of this wilderness. They paused often to record what they saw, adding to the store of negatives they'd send back east.

  They were making their final descent through the rocky foothills in the hopes of making Denver by suppertime, when they rounded a bend in the road and came upon a scene right out of some western melodrama.

  Three men on horseback were preparing to lynch a fourth.

  Owen hauled back on the horse's reins.

  Shea reached for the Winchester braced beside her on the wagon seat. As the wagon clattered to a stop, she sprang to her feet and leveled the rifle at all of them.

  "Stand where you are," she shouted, "or I'll be looking to put a hole in you!"

  Owen dove into the knee-well beside her, taking cover.

  All of the men turned to stare at her, gone so still they might have been posing for one of her photographs. Three were miners, by the worn, shabby look of them. One of them had flung a rope over the limb of a tree at the edge of the road. A noose dangled menacingly at the end of it. The other two held pistols on the man they meant to hang.

  The fourth, the man with his hands in the air, was bigger and better dressed. It took Shea a moment to recognize him—His Honor, Cameron Gallimore!

  Astonishment sizzled all the way to her toes.

  "You just go on your way, ma'am," one of the miners called to her. "This don't concern you."

  "Oh, but I'm afraid it does," she shouted back. Her voice might have wavered a little, but the Winchester didn't. "Now if you'd be so kind as to throw down your weapons..."

  Shea raised her rifle, prodding them.

  The miners hesitated.

  As they did, Judge Gallimore leapt from his horse toward the man with the rope. He grabbed him across the shoulders and bowled him out of the saddle. The two of them landed like a sack of shot down among the horses' hooves. The other miners' ponies whinnied and shied, danced frantically sideways.

  From the floor of the wagon box, Owen tugged at the hem of Shea's skirt.

  "Not now, old dear," Shea whispered. She didn't dare take her eyes off the men thrashing in the dirt. Didn't dare turn from where the other miners were fighting to rein in their mounts.

  Shea could see that Judge Gallimore punched like a bare-knuckles champion. He'd reared back on his knees to slam his fist into the hangman's face, when one of the other horsemen wheeled.

  He fought his pony for control, then pointed his pistol at the judge's back.

  "Look out!" Shea yelled, but she knew Gallimore probably couldn't hear her.

  She sighted down the barrel of her Winchester and pulled the trigger. The rifle jumped hard against her chest. The stink of powder seared up her nose. Her eardrums pulsed with the report of the rifle.

  On the far side of the road the gunman reeled out of his saddle.

  She'd shot a man.

  A fierce, hot burn of remorse flared along Shea's nerves. She hesitated, shaken by what she'd done. Shaken by what she'd been forced to do.

  The last horseman turned his pistol on her.

  Shea heard Judge Gallimore shout. She saw him scramble away from the man he'd been fighting and lunge toward the one on horseback. But Gallimore was too far away.

  She struggled to ratchet another round into the chamber of her rifle so she could defend herself.

  Before she could, the man fired.

  Orange flared out the barrel of his gun. An instant later the impact of the bullet knocked her sideways. Numbness dropped through her. The rifle tumbled from her hands. Her knees gave way.

  She lost her coordination, lost her balance. She made an instinctive grab for the side of the wagon, felt the struts and canvas tear out of her grasp. She teetered at the edge of the wagonbox and felt herself fall.

  Pain blasted her world apart in a shower of sparks.

  * * *

  "She better not be dead, goddamn you!" Cameron roared and charged the man with the pistol.

  The gunman swung around in his saddle and tried to aim. Cam was on him before he could. He battered the pistol out of the gunman's hand. He hauled the man off his horse and threw him to the ground. Straddling him on his knees, Cam wrapped his hands around the gunman's throat.

  Pure, crimson rage burst through him. His lungs burned. His scalp tightened. Fury howled in his ears like a thousand banshees. His thumbs crushed down on the gunman's windpipe.

  The man thrashed beneath him. He fought for breath.

  Through a haze of red, Cam saw his hands squeezing and squeezing. He watched the gunman's chest spasm and his eyes roll and suddenly realized he was the cause of it. He loosed his hold and sat back, panting. The man gagged and gasped for breath beneath him.

  "She just better not be dead," Cam whispered and hitched himself to his feet.

  He recovered the miner's pistol a few yards away and wheeled in the direction of the photography wagon. As he broke into a trot, the man on the ground shifted, crab-crawling backward. Cam caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He turned, sighted on the gunman's thigh, and pulled the trigger.

  The man yowled in pain.

  "You stay where I put you, God damn it," he shouted. "I'm going to check on the lady you shot, and you better be
here when I get back."

  Cam turned toward where the woman lay at the edge of the trail like a bundle of wet wash.

  What in the name of God was this photographer woman doing here? he wondered as he pelted up the rise. Why in hell hadn't she stayed out of this? He'd have found a way to handle it.

  He came to his knees beside her, and only when he reached out to her did he see how his hand was shaking. He balled his fist, sucked down a ragged draught of air, and reached again. He eased her gently onto her back.

  She lay limp in his arms, blood flowing freely along her temple and jaw from a deep gash at her hairline. A scuffed-looking graze marred one pale cheek.

  Cam slid his hands over her, examining her with an impartial expertise he'd perfected during the war. Never blink, he found himself thinking. Never let them see how bad it is.

  But in this case the wound was far from serious. The bullet had passed through the fleshy curve of the woman's arm a little more than midway up the sleeve of her dark, close-fitting jacket. With a doctor's care and a little binding, she'd be right as rain inside of a week.

  Cam was just finishing his assessment of the woman's wound, when he became aware of a soft, low-pitched whimper from the wagon. Worried that someone else was hurt, he used his coat to pillow the woman's head and got to his feet.

  When he peered over the side, he found a small, bald-headed man wedged beneath the wagon seat. He was chalk white, shivering, and moaning softly.

  Recognition dropped through Cameron like a sinker into a pond. He knew what it was.

  "Mister," he said softly, almost crooning. "Mister?"

  The little man blinked, as if he was fighting his way back from someplace far away. He looked up at Cam.

  "She—she hurt?" he whispered.

  "She's going to be fine," Cam murmured. "The wound's not serious. She's going to be all right. Are you wounded, too?"

  The man swallowed and shook his head.

  "Then do you think you can find me something to use for bandages?"

  "Bandages?" the little man breathed. He wiggled out from beneath the seat. "Bandages," he repeated and disappeared into the back of the wagon.

  Cameron knelt again beside the lady photographer. What was her name? Waterman? Waterhouse?

  Damn it all, what was she doing here? And why had she tried to help him?

  Cam heard the wagon springs creak, and a moment later, the bald-headed fellow appeared out the back. He approached Cam cautiously, holding out a roll of gauzy cloth and a canteen.

  "Bandages?" he offered, holding them out stiff-armed, as if he didn't want to get too close.

  Cameron nodded and tore off a length of cloth. He moistened it with water from the canteen, and began to dab at the gash on the woman's head.

  "Will you tell me your name?" Cam asked as he worked.

  "Owen," the fellow whispered. "Owen Brandt."

  "And her name?"

  "Shea Waterston."

  "I'm Cameron Gallimore," he offered. "I think your friend is coming around, Mr. Brandt."

  Shea Waterston shifted and moaned. Her lashes lifted over ice green eyes that were unfocused and filled with confusion. Instinctively Cameron laid his palm against her brow, meaning to soothe her.

  She blinked at him and shifted away. "You're not going to take my camera, are you?"

  Cam smiled in spite of himself. At least her wits hadn't been addled by the bump on her head. "Your camera's safe from me," he assured her. "Do you remember what happened?"

  She blinked again and put her hand to her brow. "There were men trying to—to hang you. Is that right? And I shot someone..."

  "That you did, Mrs. Waterston. And took a bullet in the arm for your trouble. The wound doesn't look too serious, so I'm just going to bind it up to stop the bleeding." He unfurled another length of gauze and talked as he worked. "I've got a farmstead not ten miles ahead. We'll take you there and have the doctor come have a look at you. Is that all right?"

  Once he'd tied up her arm and fastened a bandage in place around her head, he eased her into a sitting position. "Do you think you can stand, Mrs. Waterston?"

  "I—I don't know. I'm feeling a little lightheaded..."

  With a murmur of sympathy, Cam slid one arm around her back and worked the other beneath her knees. He lifted her gently, taking care not to jostle her wounded arm. "You're going to be just fine, Mrs. Waterston," he assured her.

  Cradled against his chest, she nodded.

  "Owen," he said, turning toward where Owen had retreated at the back of the wagon, "is there someplace Mrs. Waterston can lie down in there?"

  Owen climbed up into the back and hastily spread their bedrolls atop a collection of wooden boxes. Cameron followed him inside and eased Mrs. Waterston down on the makeshift bed.

  "You're going to be fine," he said again, though he didn't like how lax and waxen she suddenly seemed. "It'll just take me a minute to collect my horse and what's left of the men who jumped me, then we'll head for the farm."

  The woman nodded again and closed her eyes.

  He turned and found Owen Brandt standing at his elbow. "Be all right?" the little man pressed him.

  Never let them see how bad it is, the echo of other times rang through his head. A shiver prickled the length of Cam's back.

  "She'll be just fine, Mr. Brandt," he said with an assurance he didn't quite feel. "You count on that."

  * * *

  Cam couldn't ever remember being so glad to get back to the farm. As he eased the team and photography wagon up the drive, he recognized Emmet Farley's buggy pulled up at the gate—and let out his breath.

  For once, when they had need of a doctor, they had one close at hand.

  He pulled the wagon to a stop and glanced toward where Shea Waterston lay in the back. She'd been drifting in and out of consciousness most of the way, but the last few miles she'd fallen silent. Cam set the brake, jumped down from where he'd been sitting with Owen on the wagon seat, and went around back.

  When he'd finished tending Mrs. Waterston up in the hills, he'd found his would-be hangman had taken away the body of the man Shea had shot. Only the miner he'd threatened and wounded himself had remained, and the fellow sat trussed up and bandaged on the floor beside Shea Waterston's makeshift bed.

  "She don't look so good to me," his prisoner offered as Cam let down the tailgate and climbed inside.

  Cam didn't think Mrs. Waterston "looked so good," either. Yet neither the bandage on her head nor the one around her arm showed signs of additional bleeding. He felt for the pulse at the side of her throat. It was weak and tripping erratically; her skin seemed chill beneath his fingertips.

  An answering chill wormed its way to the pit of Cam's belly as he eased one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her knees. The moment he lifted her clear of the bed he knew what was wrong. Blood pooled in the hollow beneath her. It darkened the blankets and had seeped into the feather tick. It shimmered damp down the side of the wooden boxes and on the floor.

  "Jesus God!" Cam whispered. The Waterston woman was bleeding to death, and he hadn't realized it.

  Clutching her against him, he scrambled out the back of the wagon. "Emmet!" he bellowed. "God damn it, Emmet, get out here!"

  Cam caught a glimpse of his sister Lily's profile as she peered out the kitchen door to see who'd come into the yard, just before Emmet Farley brushed past her. Sandy-haired, long-legged, and tall, he crossed the porch in two long strides.

  By the time Farley reached him, Cam had kicked his way through the picket gate.

  "What's wrong?" the doctor demanded.

  "This woman's been shot and is bleeding to death!"

  Emmet held open the door, and Cam carried Shea into the kitchen. Lily had already swept the plates and teapot they'd been using into the sink and was wiping down the scrubbed pine table with a cloth that smelled of vinegar.

  Emmet bent over the woman the moment Cameron put her down. "How did this happen?"

  "I ran into some
trouble coming out of the mountains," Cam answered, suddenly mindful that his sister was listening and shading his words accordingly. "Mrs. Waterston rode in at the wrong moment and got shot when she tried to help me."

  Lily clasped his arm, her soft, gray eyes widening with concern. "And are you all right, Cammie?"

  Cameron realized how he must look, battered and scuffed and bloodstained. "I'm fine," he assured his sister. "This wasn't anything I couldn't have handled by myself."

  "Well, we'll have to take very good care of this lady after all she did to keep you safe," Lily murmured.

  Cam turned back to where Emmet had grabbed up Lily's paring knife and was slicing open the Waterston woman's dark, tight-fitting jacket. As the fabric gave way Cam saw that the muslin bodice beneath it was soaked with blood.

  "Oh, Shea! Oh n-o-o-o!"

  At the sound of the keening, Cam turned and saw that Owen Brandt had followed them into the house. He stood wavering just inside the kitchen door, his mouth hanging lax and his face as white as the winter moon.

  Cursing under his breath, Cameron hustled Brandt out onto the porch. He thrust the little man down on the weathered bench and handed him a bucket.

  "Blood!" Brandt moaned, then shivered and gasped and lost his breakfast.

  Cam laid one hand on Owen's shoulder and felt how he was quivering. "The sight of blood upsets lots of folks," he soothed, squeezing gently.

  "Only since the war," the little man all but sobbed. He shuddered, panted, and was sick again.

  The war had scarred everyone who fought in it. That's how war was. Cam stared down at Brandt's sweat-damp shirt and heaving shoulders. He understood; he knew how this went.

  "Just breathe deep, old man," Cam advised him.

  He heard the hitch and rasp of Brandt's indrawn breath, the reedy gust of his sigh as he fought his way back from wherever it was he'd been. "Shea?" he somehow managed to croak.

  "She couldn't be in better hands."

  Cam spent a good long while on the porch with Owen Brandt, standing there, watching over him, steadying him when he needed it. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Cam felt a good deal steadier himself.