His back was to her, but she recognized the impressive breadth of his shoulders and the shape of his head from that afternoon in Breckenridge. This was Judge Cameron Gallimore, the man who'd confiscated her camera and thrown her in jail. The very thought of that confrontation turned her breathless.
Still, Judge Gallimore had been kind enough to bring her here when she was hurt, and he'd seen that she was cared for. Surely he couldn't be as single-minded and dictatorial as she remembered.
Unsettled by the very sight of him, Shea let her gaze drift around the room. Beyond the foot of the bed, a simple chest of drawers stood beside the desk. Tumbled piles of socks and handkerchiefs were scrambled across the top. Sleeve garters, belts, and elastic braces sprang out the half-open drawers. Neckties in several colors and designs hung haphazardly from the mirror above the chest and looped through the pressed-iron drawer-pulls.
A washstand with a cream-colored china bowl and graceful ewer stood in the corner near the room's side window. On pegs opposite it slumped pants and shirts and a dark woolen jacket. On a hook by itself was a well-worn gun belt with a pearl-handled pistol peeking out the top of the holster.
This was his room, then—His Honor, Judge Cameron Gallimore's room—as tumbled and unkempt as a child's. Uncomfortable with the idea that she was intruding here, Shea shifted a little on the bed.
Judge Gallimore must have heard the springs creak beneath her, because he turned in his chair and looked at her. Eyes of dark, rich blue shone bright from beneath shadowing brows.
"I'm glad to see you're awake, Mrs. Waterston," he said. "Is there anything I can get for you?"
Shea shrank back against the pillows, not sure what she should say to him.
With a single lithe movement, he rose and came toward her. "Would you like a drink? Lily brought fresh water in from the pump a little while ago."
Shea dared to nod.
He poured water from a delicate gold-rimmed pitcher and sat beside her on the bed. He slid an arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her gently. He'd done this more than once, she realized, and wondered who it was he'd tended so carefully.
She wished she had strength to sit up by herself, yet it was pleasant enough to nestle against him feeling his warmth and strength soak through the soft, well-washed fabric of her nightgown. She raised her hand, intending to guide the glass of water to her mouth, but her arm fell lax on the coverlet.
"Oh, damn," she whispered, shaken by her own frailty.
"You've been very ill, Mrs. Waterston," Gallimore offered, putting the glass to her lips. "The doctor says you're over the worst of it, but give yourself time. Soon you'll be feeling stronger."
Shea nodded and drank, the water cool and fresh in her mouth. It eased the dryness down her throat.
Up this close, Judge Gallimore's face was all planes and angles. His brow was broad, his cheekbones high and sharply cut. His chin was just square enough to hint at both obstinacy and strength. Something about the bow of his mouth just visible beneath the thick drape of his mustache gave the impression that there were fine, gentle things inside him.
Something about his concern made her feel unexpectedly protected, utterly safe. It was such a profound and completely unfamiliar feeling, that it took a full minute for her to realize what it was.
She was still grappling with that sense of safety when the door to the bedroom opened. "Pa," came the sound of a child's voice, "Aunt Lily said to come in and say good night to you."
Judge Gallimore turned, and beyond the bulk of his shoulder, Shea could see the boy who'd been beside her when she'd first awakened.
Liam. The name shot unbidden through her head, but now that she was more herself, she could see this wasn't the boy she'd been dreaming about.
"Come in, boy," Gallimore said. "I was just helping Mrs. Waterston to a drink. Mrs. Waterston, let me introduce you to my son Randall."
Shea did her best to nod, but she was too busy staring.
Cameron Gallimore's son was a handsome boy, tall and spare, with red-brown hair and eyes the color of weathered copper. His face had that same width at the cheekbones and breadth at the jaw his father's had, and she could see the boy would be every bit as imposing when he got older.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Waterston," Randall said. "Aunt Lily tells me you're feeling ever so much better."
He spoke as if he'd swallowed an etiquette book, and to Shea's eyes looked far more neat and proper than any child should. Even now at the end of the day his shirttail was still tucked into his trousers, and there wasn't so much as a spot of his dinner down the front.
"I'm pleased to meet you, too," Shea murmured, trying to summon up her company manners. "Were you with me when I first woke up?"
"Yes, ma'am," the boy agreed. "You called me by some name I'd never heard before."
"Liam," she said.
"Yes, that's it."
"It's the Irish form of William. You—you reminded me of—of someone."
"Who?" the boy wanted to know. "Someone in Ireland?"
"Rand," his father said shortly, warning him about his manners. Then he eased Shea back against the pillows and turned to his son. "Did you finally finish those arithmetic problems you were puzzling over?"
"Aunt Lily helped me," Rand answered. "But as soon as we solved the last of them, she said I had to go to bed."
From the way he lifted his eyebrows Shea could see he was angling for a reprieve.
"I'm afraid she's right," the judge agreed. "And I'm afraid I'm not going to have time to read with you tonight, either."
"Aunt Lily said you have a meeting in the morning."
"I'm afraid I do. Do you think The Three Musketeers will keep for one more day?"
"It'll be awfully hard to wait to find out what's going to happen," Rand offered hopefully.
Gallimore reached across and hugged his boy. "We'll read two chapters tomorrow. I promise."
Something about the unabashed affection in that simple gesture, and the way Rand wrapped his arms around his father's waist, made Shea's throat close up. For whatever else she might think of Cameron Gallimore, he clearly loved his son.
With a final pat Judge Gallimore sent Rand off to bed.
"He seems like a fine boy," Shea said when he was gone.
"He is," Gallimore confirmed, still staring after him. "Lily's done a wonderful job raising him."
All at once Shea had half a dozen questions she wanted to ask him: where Randall's mother was, and how Lily Gallimore had ended up taking care of her brother's child. But most of all Shea wanted to know how she'd gotten here, and what had possessed him to take her in. Before Shea could muster the courage to ask, the judge refilled Shea's water glass and set it beside the bed.
"Is there anything else you need?" he wanted to know. "Will it disturb you if I continue working?"
In truth, even this much conversation had tired Shea almost beyond her endurance. She shook her head. "I'll be fine," she said. "I'm going to sleep."
"Sleep will help you regain your strength faster than anything," he confirmed. He went toward his desk and the papers strewn across the top. "I'm glad you're feeling better, Mrs. Waterston," he added as he settled into his chair again.
"So am I," Shea agreed quietly.
He readjusted the books and papers, then dipped his pen. But as much as Shea thought she'd sleep, she lay watching him through her lashes until he blew out the lamp a good while later.
Chapter 5
By the end of the third day, Shea had had her fill of being ill. She'd sipped enough fever tea to float a ship, memorized the twists and turns of every sprig of ivy on those papered walls, and was thoroughly bored with her own company.
As the light beyond the window turned rosy, Shea strained to hear the voices of the people gathered in the kitchen. Lily had been singing all day and sounded pleased to have company for supper. Dr. Farley's slow drawl gave counterpoint to Lily's faintly breathy tones and Owen's reedy ones. Cam spoke with a quiet resonance, an
d when Rand told them about something that happened at school, everyone laughed.
Shea slumped low on her pillows and scowled. She hated being sick! She should be getting her photographic plates off to New York and finding winter accommodations, not lying here in bed. She'd navigated as far as a chair in the parlor this morning—with Lily's help—then slept for hours afterward.
In spite of her discontent, Shea must have dozed, because supper was well over when Lily came to look in on her.
"It's such a lovely evening," she began, rubbing her hands together as much with nervous energy as with happy anticipation, "we decided to have cake and coffee on the veranda. Are you feeling well enough to join us?"
"Oh, yes!" Shea answered eagerly, not caring about anything but being out of bed.
At Lily's summons, Cam came and carried Shea out to the front porch. Though her head was reeling by the time they got her tucked up in blankets and nestled on the wide porch swing, it was well worth the effort. From where she lay she could see a swath of mauve and crimson sky draped behind a ridge of jagged mountains off to the west. She could hear the rustling of the cottonwoods that sheltered the house and smell the soft musk of fall in the languid breeze.
Once everyone had finished their lemon cake, Lily turned to Rand. "Why don't you go get out your violin and play us that piece you've been practicing?"
The boy flushed and did his best to disappear behind the pot of geraniums at the head of the steps.
"I think your father would like to hear what you've been learning," she prodded him.
"Oh, Aunt Lily!"
Cam spoke up right on cue. "I certainly would like to hear you."
"My da used to play his fiddle in front of the fire in the evening when I was growing up," Shea offered, smiling at the boy.
"Your da?" he asked.
"That's what we call fathers in Ireland," Shea clarified. "He was really quite an accomplished fiddler. He'd play with some of the other men at parties or in the pub." The melodies drifted through her head, rousing reels, melancholy laments, and songs with words that fomented rebellion.
The judge inched forward in his chair. "Where in Ireland are you from, Mrs. Waterston?"
"From the west country," she answered. "My father was gamekeeper at an estate near Clifden."
"And what brought you to America?"
Though the question was innocuous enough, Shea sensed the lawyer in him and saw the way those bright, appraising eyes bore into her.
He made her want to pull the blankets up around her ears and refuse to answer. Or perhaps the reason she was reluctant to speak was that she had no intention at all of telling him the truth. What business was it of his that her father had lost his position because he'd agreed with men opposed to British rule? Nor was she about to explain the strife that had torn her country and her family apart. Some memories just didn't bear thinking about, and they most certainly weren't meant to be shared with the likes of Cameron Gallimore.
She lifted her chin. "I came to America for the opportunities, to be sure."
Then, to avoid more of the judge's scrutiny, she turned to Rand. "You will play for us, won't you, child? I do so miss the sound of fiddle music."
The boy scowled and grimaced and pushed to his feet.
"I'll accompany him on the piano," Lily offered, following Randall indoors.
With the windows open to catch the breeze, the strains of "My Old Kentucky Home" floated out to them. Rand played haltingly, yet Lily managed to fit her accompaniment around his squeaky passages and uneven rhythms.
As she listened, Shea couldn't help wondering if her son had inherited his grandfather's gift for music, or his uncle Sean's way with horses, or old Auntie Maura's second sight. She wondered if Liam looked like his da or her, and she couldn't help wishing that she'd be able to see a bit of the people she'd loved and lost in Liam's face when she finally found him.
Shea and the three men applauded as the duet wound to a close.
"Cammie," Lily called out, her voice gently teasing, "shall I bring you your guitar?"
Cameron scowled and grimaced, duplicating his son's expressions of reluctance. "Oh, I suppose," he conceded.
After he'd tuned the fine instrument to his satisfaction, Cam glided gracefully into "Barbara Allen," a tune Shea immediately recognized.
He played well, and his voice, warm and rich as peat smoke, wrapped around Shea, enveloping her in the story of lost love. Midway through the second verse, Emmet Farley shifted forward in his chair and slid a slim, silver mouth organ from the inside pocket of his jacket. The reedy tones and trills he breathed from that simple instrument added a melancholy counterpoint to the simple tune.
Swept up in the ballad, Shea drew breath and began to sing. Though her voice wobbled a little at the start, it gradually bloomed and gained momentum. As it twined in delicate harmony around the judge's lush baritone and merged with the plaintive whine of Emmet Farley's harmonica, Shea seemed to share some unexpected connection to these two men, to everyone here. It felt so good to be part of a family again, no matter how fleetingly.
Once they finished the last stanza where the rose and the briar "twined themselves into a lovers' knot," Lily applauded with delight. "That was wonderful!" she exclaimed.
Shea laughed breathlessly, feeling warmed and welcomed, more safe and contented than she had in a very long while.
"Why, Mrs. Waterston," Cameron offered, leaning toward her across the waist of his guitar. "I had no idea you sang so well."
Shea basked in the warmth of his teasing smile. "I dance a fair jig, too, though I'm afraid I must plead my infirmity this evening."
"You'll demonstrate it for us another time, perhaps?" he suggested, those night blue eyes alight.
"Perhaps, Mr. Gallimore, I'll do exactly that."
"Could you teach me to dance a jig?" Rand piped up, drawing her attention from his father. "Men dance jigs, too, don't they?"
"And hornpipes and reels," Shea assured him, resisting the urge to reach over and muss his hair.
"Maybe she'll show you when she's feeling better," Cameron suggested.
"I will indeed," Shea promised.
Emmet returned the harmonica to his pocket, then pushed to his feet. "I'm afraid I'm needed back in town. Thank you, Lily, for another delicious dinner," he said and sketched a bow. "And thanks to everyone else for such fine entertainment."
Before he left he turned his professional regard on Shea. "Now, even if you're feeling better, missy," he told her sternly, "I don't want you doing too much."
"She won't," Lily answered for Shea, standing over her.
Shea bristled a little. She was used to seeing to herself, used to looking after others as well. Yet how lovely it was to have someone show her such charity and concern. How beguiling it was to be taken care of, to feel so safe.
And the Gallimores did make her feel safe: Lily with her bustle and concern, Rand with his open-handed friendship. And Cam, who stood like a bulwark for the rest, a calm, quiet man with depths that drew her in spite of herself.
Still, Shea knew better than to rely on strangers' kindnesses. Simon might have taken her in, might have been willing to marry her, but she'd paid a price. She didn't regret the years she'd given him. She'd loved Simon, and he'd taught her so much. But those years had also convinced her that the only person she could truly rely on was herself. To think otherwise was dangerous—and could break her heart.
So Shea looked up at where Dr. Farley was standing over her and gave him her own answer. "I promise to behave myself."
Cameron set his guitar aside. "Since you're bent on leaving, Emmet, why don't you let me give you a hand with your horse?"
Owen rose from the far end of the porch to follow.
"I'm coming, too," Rand chimed in.
"Oh, but I'm afraid you're not. You have school tomorrow," Lily reminded him, "and it's time for bed."
"Aw, Aunt Lily!"
"Maybe we can read another chapter of The Three Musketeers
tonight," Cameron suggested.
"I've been reading it to Mrs. Waterston in the afternoons," the boy put in. "We're two chapters ahead of where you left off."
"I'll catch up," Cameron assured him, following Owen and Dr. Farley down the path.
Shea liked reading with Rand, liked listening to him, liked sharing his excitement at the musketeers' adventures. She liked watching his face and imagining the kind of man he would become. The kind of man she'd always hoped her own lost boy would be, she thought, and couldn't help wishing Rand was hers.
Once Rand had dragged reluctantly into the house, Lily began loading their cups and plates onto a tray.
Shea turned to her, smiling. "This has been such a pleasant evening. I had no idea you were all so accomplished."
"Mama taught piano to Cam and me when we were little," Lily answered almost wistfully. "He learned to play the guitar during the war."
"Rand's doing well with his violin," Shea observed. "He's such a good boy, Lily. You and the judge must be so proud of him."
"We are," Lily confirmed, gathering up the tray.
Shea inclined her head. "And what happened to Mrs. Gallimore?"
"My mother?" Lily asked in surprise.
"Cameron's wife."
Lily turned so abruptly the cups and plates on the tray clattered together. "His wife?"
Shea hadn't meant to pry and felt a flush creep into her cheeks. "I only thought that if Cameron had a child, he must have been—"
"No! Oh, heavens, no! Cammie has never been married!" Lily proclaimed, then fled into the house.
* * *
By the time he got back to the porch, Cam could see that Shea Waterston was wilting like pansies in high summer. Her head drooped against the back of I swing, as if she were too weary to hold it up, and there were lines of exhaustion around her mouth.
"If you're ready," he suggested, "I can take you back to bed."
"But it's been such a pleasant evening," she murmured, sounding like a child who'd been allowed to sit with the grown-ups.
"There's always tomorrow," he said gently. Without waiting for her assent, he bent and slid his arms beneath her shoulders and knees, and lifted her against him.
Painted by the Sun Page 7