He didn't stay long after that. He kissed Lily's cheek and squeezed Shea's arm by way of thanks. He went off to the law offices feeling more lighthearted than he had in months.
* * *
Fresh paint always smelled like new beginnings. Hopes and aspirations. Dreams dreamed and promises made.
Shea snipped off the thread she'd been using to hem what was going to be a pair of green twill drapes and looked with some amazement around her studio. When she'd rented these three dusty rooms she hadn't meant for this to be a new beginning. She'd imagined it as a way station, a place to spend the winter, a way to break her ties to the Gallimores. But the Gallimores didn't seem ready to let her go.
As Shea rose from the table beneath the skylight, Lily Gallimore looked up from where she was industriously stitching on her half of the drapes. "These are going to look wonderful," she enthused.
Shea paused to stroke the dark green twill. Everything was going to look wonderful when they were done. Mrs. Franklin had come up from the millinery shop this morning to have a look and had oohed and aahed over the improvements. Though Lily had turned the scarred half of her face away, she had allowed herself to be introduced. Lily was opening to the world one petal at a time, and Shea was continuously amazed by her courage.
"I'm just headed out to see how the painting's going," Shea told her and turned toward the entry hall.
Of course her gaze immediately fell on Rand, with his paint-speckled face and air of concentration. Her heart turned over every time she saw her child. She wanted to go to him, dab at him with a cloth dipped in turpentine, touch him, and make sure he was red. But doing that would have been unseemly, too intimate an act for a mere friend. It would have revealed far more than she was ready for anyone to know about her relationship to the boy, so Shea held back.
"So what do you think?" Cam asked, drawing her attention from his son to where he was balanced on the second-to-last step on the ladder. She turned and for a moment was content to just watch him paint. There was something soothing and hypnotic about his long, smooth brush strokes, something in the grace of his movements that pleased her.
"You missed a spot," she pointed out.
He arched an eloquent eyebrow in her direction.
"You planning to climb on up here and do your own painting, missy?"
"Rand and I painted yesterday," she reminded him. "But I do think it's fortunate you have the law to fall back on so you don't have to earn your keep painting walls."
"I don't know," Cam countered, tapping his brush against the rim of the paint bucket. "It seems to me Michelangelo got his start just like this."
"No," Shea corrected him. "What Michelangelo painted was ceilings."
"Who's Michelangelo?" Rand piped up.
Shea smiled down at where the boy was dabbing at the baseboard. "He's a man who painted and sculpted in Italy several hundred years ago."
"He painted ceilings in churches," Cam added.
"He's one of the world's most gifted artists," Lily said, coming up behind them. She flashed Shea a smile. "This may not be art, but I do like the color very well."
They'd picked a warm beige tone, softened with the slightest hint of rose. Shea had managed to find a scrap of figured rug at the mercantile in shades of rose and green, probably a remnant from the carpeting in one of the new brick mansions going up at the end of Fourteenth Street.
Shea nodded. "I like the color, too."
"Yes," Owen agreed, looking up from where he was cutting in around the doorjamb.
Just then, Shea heard running footsteps on the stairs and Ty Morran burst in the door.
"I came as soon as I could," he puffed. "Sweeping up at the Golden Spur on Saturday morning's a 'normous job! But I'm here now. You got painting you want me to help you with?"
He'd bathed since the last time Shea had seen him, and though the clothes he wore were faded and patched, at least they were clean. She ruffled his curly hair and ushered him toward the others. "I think you know everyone, except maybe the judge's son, Rand."
Ty sized Rand up, then extended his hand. "Glad t' know you."
Rand put down his paintbrush, scrubbed his palm against his pants, and took Ty's hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, too."
As they shook, Shea couldn't help noticing the differences between the two boys. Rand was tall and, even spattered with paint, had an undeniable poise and presence. Ty, thin and wiry, was excitable as a bantam rooster. Even now that his hair was clean, curls whipped up in all directions. His clothes seemed a size too big and were more than a little askew.
"What I need, Ty," Shea began, "is for you to run to the mercantile." She crossed the studio and took several things from the table. "I need thread just this shade—" She gave him a length of green from the wooden spool. "—and thirty curtain rings like this one. You can tell Mr. Sands to put everything on my account."
"Sure enough," he assured her and pocketed the things she'd given him.
"May I go, too, Pa?" Rand asked as Ty turned for the door. "You gave me my allowance this morning—"
"And it's burning a hole in your pocket," Cam observed.
"I put half of it by for Christmas," the boy wheedled.
"Oh, let him go," Lily said with a shake of her head. "He won't be happy until he's bought another of those tin soldiers he's been collecting."
"Since your aunt says it's all right," Cam agreed, picking up his brush again, "you can go. But do your best to stay out of trouble."
Not half an hour later, Rand came pounding up the stairs and burst inside. "Pa!" he shouted. "You've got to come help! It's Ty!"
"What is it?" Shea demanded, rushing toward Rand, who stood hovering in the doorway. "Is he hurt? Is it his father?"
"The sheriffs got him!" Rand reported, his eyes gone wide.
Shea stumbled back a step, colliding with the breadth of Cameron's chest. He curled his hands around her arms to steady her, and for a moment she let herself lean against him. She'd forgotten how good it felt to have someone there when you needed them.
"What does the sheriff want with him?" Cam asked.
"He says he's going to haul Ty off to jail!"
Cam shifted one hand to the small of Shea's back and urged her forward. "Well, let's just go see what's happened here," he offered quietly, "before we jump to any conclusions."
They didn't have far to go. Just as they started down the stairs to the street, the sheriff came around the corner of the building, dragging Ty by the scruff of his neck.
"Ty!" Shea cried and flew down the steps to the boy wriggling in the sheriff's grip.
"He yours, ma'am?" the sheriff asked her.
"No, he's not," she answered laying her hand on Ty's shoulder, claiming him in spite of the denial. "But he was on an errand for me just now, so you'd better tell me what's happened."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to arrest the boy for thievery."
"Thievery!" she echoed. Shea looked down at Ty's bowed head. He wasn't even denying the accusation. She squatted down beside him so she could look into his face. "Did you take something from the mercantile?" she asked him.
Ty shook his head.
"Did you pick someone's pocket?"
"No."
"What exactly did he do, Sheriff Cook?" Cam asked, reaching the bottom of the steps with Rand close at his heels.
"He stole those clothes off Mrs. Gordon's wash line," the sheriff reported.
Shea saw bright red shame creeping up Ty's jaw.
He'd taken those sad, ill-fitting clothes, Shea realized. Those patched and mended trousers. That faded shirt. If Ty was going to go to the trouble of stealing something to wear, why on earth didn't he steal something in better condition?
"Ty?" She curled her palm around his arm and drew him closer. "Did you take the clothes, Ty?"
The boy's flush deepened.
"Did you take them?"
He raised his eyes to hers. She could see that he was trying not to cry, but those pretty brown eyes were suspic
iously shiny.
"I took a suit of clothes for both Pa and me," he admitted, his gaze never leaving hers. "I picked the oldest and the holiest ones I could find 'cuz I figured nobody'd miss 'em."
Shea patted the boy, pleased that he'd told her the truth, though she was faintly appalled by his reasoning. He'd taken these clothes because they were someone else's castoffs, because he didn't think he deserved anything better. That filled her with outrage that had nothing to do with his dishonesty.
She looked up at the two tall men towering over them. "Well, what are we going to do about this?"
"I can't do much but put the boy in the hoosegow, if Mrs. Gordon presses charges," Sheriff Cook informed her.
Shea wasn't about to let Ty go to jail. She wondered briefly if she should ask where Ty's father was, so Sam Morran could assume responsibility for his son. The instant the thought crossed her mind, she rejected it. From what she'd seen and heard, Sam Morran wasn't capable of taking responsibility for himself, much less for Ty.
"Would it be possible for me to pay this Mrs. Gordon to replace the clothes?" she asked him.
The big man scowled. "I don't rightly know that'd do much good. Not like keeping the boy in a cell for a night or two. Gotta catch a thief young and teach him stealing's wrong. There wouldn't be so damn much crime in this part of Colorado if folks would just beat a boy black and blue when he strays from the straight and narrow."
There had been several spectacular robberies around Denver in the last few months. Just last week, the stage had been stopped by five armed men and the strongbox opened. Still, Shea was appalled that the sheriff would advocate beating and sending a boy of Ty's tender years to jail.
"Well, then, Sheriff," Shea went on, "if what you want him to learn is responsibility, I'll give Mrs. Gordon a reasonable price for the clothes and see that Ty pays me back. He's working for me, anyway, so it won't be difficult to hold back a portion of his wages."
Before the sheriff could answer, Ty turned to her. "You'd do that for me, Shea? You'd pay good money to keep me out of the calaboose?"
"I'd do it once, Ty," she told him, holding his gaze with her own, "and you'll have to pay back every cent. But if you steal again—if you take so much as a stick of licorice candy—I won't lift a finger to help you."
"I won't steal anymore. Honest, I won't." There was conviction in his voice when he made the promise.
Cameron nodded his approval. "So what do you say, Dan? Will you let Mrs. Waterston handle this?"
"Aw, Cam!" The rangy sheriff snuffed and spat. "You know I don't hold with mollycoddling lawbreakers."
"He's just a kid, Dan," Cameron nudged him. "And Mrs. Waterston's willing to vouch for him."
Sheriff Cook blew out his breath. "All I can do is talk to Mrs. Gordon."
Cam patted the sheriff's shoulder. "Thanks, Dan. We'll be upstairs painting until the end of the day."
Only when things were settled did the sheriff turn his attention to other matters. "So, Mrs. Waterston, you're opening a photographic studio up in Mr. Allen's old quarters, are you?"
Shea came to her feet, resting her hands lightly on Tyler's narrow shoulders. "I expect to open in the middle of the week. Would you be thinking of having a portrait made?"
The sheriff gave her a sheepish smile. "I might just. I got me a daughter in Omaha who's been asking me for a picture."
"I'd be happy to do one for you, then," she invited him.
"You having a grand opening and all, Mrs. Waterston?" he wanted to know.
"I thought I might." It had been on Shea's mind all morning. Once the rug was down, the curtains hung, and the furniture in place, the studio was going to look marvelously elegant. "We invited a few people in when we opened in Nebraska City last winter. It was a good way to drum up business."
And Shea would need all the business she could get, since she'd just agreed to pay Ty's debt as well as her own.
"I should think that would be a wonderful way to showcase your photographs and let people see what you can do," Cam offered, thinking aloud. "I'll warrant you could sign people up for portrait appointments while they're here."
"I bet Aunt Lily would help with food and stuff," Rand put in.
"I've been thinking about putting a notice in the newspaper..." Shea murmured.
"And between us," Cam added, "Emmet and I know pretty much everyone worth knowing in Denver. We could start issuing invitations."
The idea of having an opening seemed to have taken on a life of its own. Shea felt a little stunned by how quickly it was taking shape. "Well, I suppose we could have everything ready by next Saturday night."
And how much she had to do between now and then!
"You will stop by later to let us know what Mrs. Gordon has to say about the clothes, won't you, Dan?" Cam suggested as the sheriff turned to go.
"I sure will." Sheriff Cook paused as he was turning to go. "And Cam?"
"Yes?"
The sheriff grinned. "I just wanted you to know, I think that pink stripe you're wearing looks damn fine down the middle of your mustache."
Chapter 9
Was everything ready? Shea pressed her hand against her midriff to calm the nervous flutters, and tried to think what more she had to do to get ready for the opening. The punch was made, the food laid out, and the rooms—
She looked around with a swell of pride. The rooms had been positively transformed. Here in the reception area, the rug and the fresh paint complemented each other perfectly. Three wooden armchairs sat shoulder to shoulder along the wall opposite the door. Samples of her portrait work hung in a double row above them. On the shawl-draped table that served as Shea's appointment desk lay a stereopticon and a selection of cards made from the photographs they'd taken during their travels.
With the green twill curtains tied back, Shea could see into the studio proper, where a green velvet chair, a chest-high Grecian column, and several potted ferns stood beneath the skylight ready for posing. Just as the studio in New York had been Simon's domain, this washers. That felt good, empowering, and even after all this time, oddly liberating.
As she waited for their guests to begin to arrive, Owen wandered out of the alcove behind the darkroom wearing a freshly laundered shirt, a string tie, and his best vest. Though his eyes were bright, he was worrying the buttons down the front as if they were a rosary.
"Pretty, Sparrow," he said quietly when he looked up from the pewter studs.
"Thank you, old dear," she murmured and caught a glimpse of herself in the faintly spotted looking glass they'd found in Emmet's attic. Lily had recut one of her mother's old gowns for Shea, and the turquoise faille hugged the high, full curves of Shea's breasts, nipped tight at her waist, then draped gracefully into a bustle at the back of the skirt.
Shea fingered the locket that lay framed in the gown's gently V'ed neckline—the locket where she kept the frayed, yellowing newspaper clipping about the orphan trains—and considered the boy she'd found here in Denver. She smiled, thinking of how Rand burst into the studio every day after school, thinking about how bright and eager he was and how much she treasured the hours she spent with him. Thinking what a miracle it was she'd found her son after all this time.
Clutching the locket tightly in her palm, Shea ached with the decision she knew she'd have to make. She ached with the knowledge that when she did she would destroy either the Gallimores' world or every dream she'd ever had.
But then, as her thoughts drifted toward things that could only make her sad, Emmet and Ty arrived in a flurry of masculine energy to divert her.
"Boy, do you look nice!" Ty exclaimed as he burst in the door.
"So do you," she answered, smoothing down his curls.
The doctor looked her up and down, then gave a decisive nod of agreement. "Everything seems to be ready," he said. "Cam and Rand not back yet?"
Shea shook her head. "They came by earlier to take Lily back to the farm."
"It's a shame we couldn't convince her to stay,"
Emmet mused.
Shea patted his sleeve. "I did try to convince her."
Emmet inclined his head. "I know; so did I. I guess now that she's begun to emerge from her cocoon, I'm hoping for too much from her."
"She'll come around," Shea offered in encouragement, but before she could say more the first of their guests arrived, and Emmet began making introductions.
In the next half hour, he must have introduced her to half the town. There was Mr. Ruther, the telegraph operator; Mrs. Wyman, the cook at the Windsor Hotel; Mr. and Mrs. Sands from the dry goods store. Mrs. Fenwick brought her lovely twin daughters, Virginia and Violet, and immediately made an appointment to have the girls' portraits made.
Several ranchers in town on business asked for Shea's cards to pass on to their wives. Reverend Maplethorp wanted her to photograph the First Baptist Church's choir on the church steps before their Christmas concert. Mr. Ryerson asked her to take a picture of his house, one of the recently completed villas on Fourteenth Street, and Mr. Hense set up a time to have a family portrait made to send to his sister in Pittsburgh.
A goodly number of cowboys wandered in off the street, drawn by the sound of the fiddle music. Denver's three most eligible bachelors, the Sutherland brothers, stopped by on the way to a private party. The mayor, three city councilmen, and four of the county commissioners arrived to welcome Shea into the business community and shake their constituents' hands. Reporters from all three of Denver's newspapers came by, and the one from the Rocky Mountain News assured Shea that the opening would be mentioned in Monday's early edition.
The crush in those three rooms became so thick that it was nearly impossible to pass from one to the other or hear above the babble of conversation. Only Cam and Rand were missing.
Where were they? Shea wondered, watching the door and fidgeting, shaking hands and fidgeting, writing appointments in her appointment book and fidgeting.
In the midst of all that, Ty managed to weave his way through the crowd to bring Shea a glass of punch. "Mrs. Franklin thought you needed this," he told her.
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