"Hullo, Shea!" Lily cried waving gaily from the seat of Emmet's buggy.
Shea grinned when she saw that Lily was all decked out in her new hat and veil.
"Good afternoon," Emmet greeted her as he pulled the buggy over to the curb. "I'm taking Lily back to the studio before I start my calls. Would you like a ride?"
Shea thanked him but shook her head. "I've a stop to make on my way. But you're welcome to come with me, Lily, if you fancy a walk."
"Do you think I dare go with her?" Lily asked Emmet with what sounded like a giggle in her voice.
Shea turned and stared at her. Had Emmet served Lily wine with luncheon?
Emmet seemed rather flushed and ebullient himself. "I think you should dare whatever you like."
Lily hesitated, then said in that same giddy voice, "Then I think I will go with you, Shea."
Once Lily had climbed out of the gig, she paused. "I thank you so very much for everything, Emmet. I—I enjoyed our time together tremendously."
Emmet smiled at her, his eyes gone warm. "It was my very distinct pleasure to be with you, Lily."
The two women watched as Emmet drove off. "So," Shea observed, "you had a nice time with Emmet, did you?"
"Well, the venison was stringy and the potatoes were burned," Lily confided, and beneath the thick blue scrim Shea caught the flash of a smile. "But he does make a tasty gravy."
For the second time in as many minutes, Shea stared at Lily. "And luncheon was just the two of you?" she asked.
"His housekeeper was somewhere out back."
As Emmet's sop to propriety, Shea thought. "Well, tell me then, how did the good doctor like your hat?"
Lily laughed and tossed her head, the thick blue netting lifting in the wind. "He loved the hat. He said I looked wonderful in blue. He said it was his favorite color."
Shea suspected Emmet would have thought Lily looked wonderful in vermilion, verdigris—or puce.
"Well, then, I'm just going to stop at the mercantile, before we head back—"
Lily stopped in the middle of the walk. "The mercantile?"
"I told you I had a stop to make," Shea reminded her. "It is all right if we stop there, isn't it, Lily?"
Lily took a long wavery breath before she answered. "Oh, I suppose."
"Rand was telling me just yesterday," Shea hurried on, "that Thursday is Ty's birthday. I thought I'd get a bag of licorice twists. Do you think he'd like that?"
"Rand's very fond of those," Lily encouraged her.
Then, in spite of her best effort to hold back the question, Shea turned to Lily. "And when is Rand's birthday?"
Lily shook her head. "No one with the Children's Aid Society could tell us exactly," she said. "But since our mother was born on the thirtieth of March, we decided to mark Rand's birthday that day, too."
"In the spring," Shea said almost wistfully.
If Rand had been born in the spring, she might not have fallen ill. If she hadn't been turned out into the wintry streets, she might have her boy with her now. How different all of their lives might have been if her child had been born a few months later.
They had nearly reached the mercantile's tall front doors when a cold, howling wind roared out of the north. It slapped their skirts against their legs and swirled dust into their faces. Leaves and papers mounted skyward.
And so did Lily's veil.
She made a quick, desperate grab for the square of dense blue netting, but it lofted out of her reach. Shea chased it along, watching helplessly as it snagged for a moment on the hanging sign for "William Smedley—Dentist," then roiled and whirled past the second-floor windows of Charpiot's Hotel. Another gust took it higher, swooped it along the roof of the laundry, and swept it out of sight. As hard as the wind was blowing, Shea figured Lily's veil would be in Castle Rock by suppertime.
Shea was still breathing hard when she got back and found Lily huddled in the alley beside the store.
"I'm sorry," Shea offered clasping the other woman's shoulder. "I just couldn't catch your veil."
"Then what will I do?" Lily whispered, pressing her palms against her cheeks. "How will I get back to the studio?"
Shea drew a breath and pressed her lips together before she spoke. "I think we should walk."
"Walk?" Lily lifted her head with a jerk.
"Walk along just like everyone else," Shea confirmed, knowing exactly what she was asking. "Don't look to the right or left, and speak only if someone speaks to us."
"I can't do that!" Lily protested. "People will see."
"Yes." Shea couldn't bring herself to be less than honest. "They probably will see. But Ty has seen your scars, and so has Agnes Franklin. Neither of them has behaved with anything but acceptance, have they?"
Lily shook her head.
"I think you're ready to do this," Shea encouraged her.
"Oh, Shea, no."
"You bought a hat today, didn't you, Lily? A blue hat."
Lily lowered her hands as far as her chin. "Yes, I did."
"Did Emmet like your blue hat?"
Lily blushed all the way to the hat's curling brim. "He liked it very much."
"Do you suppose Emmet thought you needed to add a veil to your pretty new hat?" Shea pressed her.
"He said right out I didn't."
God bless you, Emmet, Shea thought.
"Well, then. Emmet thinks you're ready to do this, too. We won't be going far, Lily. Just down a block and over a bit. And I'll be with you every step."
Lily looked dubious. No, worse than dubious—she looked terrified.
"I saved your brother from a necktie party, now, didn't I?" Shea prodded her.
Lily gave a sniff of startled laughter. "Well, yes, you did."
Shea took her hand. "I won't let anyone bother you, Lily. I promise I won't."
Lily heaved a sigh of resignation. "Oh, all right."
Together they stepped from the alley into the street, walking steadily but taking care not to hurry.
They had gone less than a block when a cowboy tipped his hat at them.
Lily broke stride and ducked her head, but Shea tightened her grip and tugged her along.
Two ladies passed; both of them nodded. "Mrs. Waterston," they murmured. "Miss Gallimore."
Lily turned and stared. "They called me by name," she whispered. But neither of the women seemed to have taken undue note of her.
As they paused at the corner to wait for a wagon to rumble past, Mr. Kent, who owned a drugstore down the block, turned and spoke to them. "Beastly wind, eh?" he mumbled.
Lily stood as if she'd been turned to stone.
"I do believe it's going to snow," Kent tried again.
Shea felt Lily fidgeting beside her and hoped her innate good manners would force her to reply to him.
"Yes, it certainly feels like snow to me," Lily finally ventured.
The man smiled at her, saluted with the handle of his walking stick, and moved on up the street.
Shea knotted her fists in her skirts to keep from throwing her arms around Lily and congratulating her for her bravery.
They were nearly back to the studio when Cameron came striding down Sixteenth Street. He walked like a man with something on his mind, with his shoulders bowed and his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his duster.
"Cammie!" Lily called out to him.
His head came up sharply, and for a moment he quite obviously had no idea where he was or who had spoken to him. Then Lily waved, and he started toward them.
He was barely ten feet away when he stumbled to a stop and stood gaping like a netted carp.
"Don't you like Lily's new hat?" Shea prompted, nudging him in the direction she wanted him to go.
"Her—new—hat," Cam mumbled a little uncertainly. "Why, yes. Her new hat. It's the blue one you were telling me about, isn't it, Lil? It's very handsome. Very handsome indeed. I—I like it."
"It had a veil," Shea went on.
"Oh, yes, it did," Lily picked up the ex
planation. "But it blew away in this horrible wind."
"Blew away," Cam echoed still looking stunned.
Shea bit her lip to hide a smile.
"Shea and I are on the way back to the hat shop to get another," Lily told him.
Cam seemed to be slowly recovering his faculties and tugged thoughtfully at one corner of his mustache. "You know, Lil, I'm not sure I'd be in a rush to add a veil, if I were you. I like the hat quite well without one."
Shea slid him the slightest of smiles, then made a show of considering Lily's hat herself. "I must say," she said with a nod, "I quite agree with him."
Lily pursed her lips to respond, but just as she did the barber from up the street brushed past them. "Judge Gallimore, Miss Gallimore." He bobbed his head. "Mrs. Waterston."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Furst," Shea acknowledged him.
Lily let out her breath in a huff and turned to her brother. "Ever since I started coming to town, people who've never laid eyes on me before have been calling me by name as if they've known me all my life. Shea says it's because they appreciate the notes and gifts I've sent to them but I don't..."
Cam took Lily's hand. "I think Shea's right," he offered softly. "You've been doing kindnesses for folks ever since we came to Denver. How can they help considering you one of them?"
Shea saw warmth flood Lily's eyes. "Oh, Cammie, do you think that's how they feel?"
Cam clasped her hand even tighter. "I know it, Lil. Emmet and I both hear how much people think of you; you're the only one who's never known it."
The look that passed from Cam to his sister made Shea's throat burn. It was soft with reassurance, ardent with respect for Lily, who had come so far.
After a moment Lily took back her hand and swiped at her own eyes. "Well, then," she said with a sniffle. "I suppose that explains it."
She straightened slowly and cleared her throat. "Now, I suppose we should be getting back to the studio. You have a sitting this afternoon, don't you, Shea?"
Shea nodded, willing to let Lily set the limits in this new situation. "Indeed I do."
"Well, then, ma'am," Cam drawled, and with the most courtly of bows offered Lily his arm, "I'd be proud if you let me escort you."
With a flip of her skirts and a smile that was pure coquette, Lily slid her hand through her brother's elbow. "I'd be honored, sir."
It wasn't very far to the foot of the studio steps, but when they reached them, Cam gave his sister a final pat and watched her glide all the way to the top.
Shea followed Lily up the steps, and when she turned at the landing to glance back at him, Cam was standing just where they'd left him, an expression of pride on his face and the bright glaze of tears shining in his eyes.
* * *
Lily. Oh, dear God! Lily!
Cam stood and watched his sister all the way to the top of the stairs, stood with emotion wedged tight in his throat and the shimmer of heat in his eyes.
He couldn't remember when he'd ever been so proud of anyone as he was of his sister today. His chest ached with elation at the confidence he saw in her face, at the wonder of Lily's liberation after all this time. He didn't know how this miracle had come about, but he was grateful—to the wind for tearing her veil away, to the people who had treated her so kindly in the street. And especially to Shea, who'd stood by his sister all the way back from the mercantile.
He saw her pause at the top of the stairs and look down at him. Across the distance their gazes held, and he could see Shea understood every bit as well as he how brave Lily had been this afternoon, how far she'd come. Cam also knew just how much of a part Shea had taken in Lily's transformation, and how much he owed her for her kindness.
Not quite sure how to put that gratitude into words, Cam tipped his hat and bowed to her.
He saw a flush creep into her cheeks, saw a smile feather over her lips. He saw her eyes go liquid and soft. She dipped her head in acknowledgment and went inside.
Cam stood at the base of the steps staring after her. He couldn't fathom why this woman had shared so much of herself with him, or why she insisted Rand was her son. Though he didn't believe her claims, he'd been afraid of what she'd do, to whom she'd reveal her convictions next. But after seeing the care Shea had taken with Lily today, he knew she'd never hurt his sister, never hurt his boy.
With the realization, Cam let out his breath, resettled his hat, and turned west along Sixteenth Street. He'd been on his way to a rooming house down by the depot when he'd encountered his sister, and he still had pressing business there.
He needed to talk to the man who'd been conductor on the train from Cheyenne the night it was robbed some weeks ago. He wanted to show him the likeness on the wanted poster. He wanted to know if his suspicions about Wes Seaver being in Colorado were right.
And if they were—oh, God, if they were, Cam's world would start to crumble.
He found Jim Peters in the big front room of the boardinghouse's second floor, recuperating from the wounds he'd suffered in the attack on the train. He was sprawled on an unmade bed wearing his rumpled conductor's pants and a knitted undershirt when the landlady showed Cam into the room. A bandage still swaddled Peters's head, and his arm lay strapped across his chest. From what Cam had heard, it was a wonder Peters was breathing at all. Two passengers and the engineer hadn't been so lucky.
Cam slowly approached the trainman's bed. "Mr. Peters," he began, "I'm Judge Cameron Gallimore. I've come to talk to you about the robbery."
Peters looked off toward the window and sighed. "I told the sheriff and the territorial marshal everything I know. Then I told the Pinkertons and the men from the newspapers. I can't think what I can tell you, Judge, that I haven't told someone else already."
Cam knew all about the robbery, how the outlaws had flagged down the train and killed the engineer. He knew how they'd gone through the baggage car and the coaches, taking what they wanted and shooting anyone who resisted.
"I didn't come to hear your story, Mr. Peters," Cam said. "What I have is a hunch and a picture to show you."
Peters seemed relieved and pushed up against his pillows. "All right."
Cam took the poster out of his pocket. He'd folded back the edges so only the drawing showed. "Does this look like any of the men who were on that train?"
Peters took the picture and stared at it. "The men were masked," he allowed.
"This man would have been tall and slim," Cam prodded him.
"Would his hair have been blond, kind of a tow color?"
Cam's throat went dry. "It might have been."
"And it was long on his collar maybe," Peters said, squinting. "I remember seeing his eyes above that bandanna and knowing I was going to die. They were black and cold as witch's tears."
Cam remembered Seaver's eyes—black, black eyes with heavy lids, eyes fierce with bravado and utter ruthlessness.
He knew what Seaver's being involved in the holdup meant, and shivered in spite of himself. "And you're sure this man was with the outlaws who boarded the train."
"The more I think on it, the more certain I am," Peters reckoned. "He had some sort of fancy weapon, too, a pistol with a pearly grip. And from the way he talked, he might have been their leader."
Cam nodded, gone cold to his bones.
"Who is he, Judge Gallimore?"
"A man wanted for robbery and murder in Nebraska," Cam murmured, and it was a moment before he realized Peters was passing the picture back.
"So if you're right about who this bastard is," Peters went on, "are you going to arrest him? Ham Wilson, the engineer on the train, was a friend of mine, and I'd like to see his killers hang."
"I'm trying to see there's justice done," Cameron answered.
"Well, do your best," Peters said as Cam turned to go. "Ham's murder deserves to be avenged."
"I'll do what I can," Cam promised.
He found his own way down the stairs and out of the boardinghouse. He crossed the tracks and stood staring down at the river.
Wes Seaver was here in Colorado. This confirmed Cam's own worst fears. He figured he could go ahead and approach the victims of some of the other robberies. He could see if they recognized Seaver, too, but he didn't really need that confirmation. He should take what he'd discovered to Dan Cook, tell him all of it, and let the chips fall where they may.
The few blood-soaked months he'd spent riding with Anderson's hellions at the end of the war had always been a slow-burning fuse hissing toward detonation. If they caught Seaver here in his district, if Cam was forced to preside over the trial, or even if he recused himself, everything was bound to come out. His good, loyal Union neighbors would hear how he'd ridden with the rebel raiders, burning houses and barns, pistol-whipping grandfathers for defending their livestock, and carrying off the slaves if there were any left.
When they heard that, he'd be ruined. He'd lose his friends, his reputation, his respectability. He'd lose the very thing that was his reason for living—the love of his family. Especially Lily's.
His extraordinary Lily.
He jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the wind. He couldn't hope to escape retribution if Seaver was here, but maybe if he held his peace, he could eke out a few more days or weeks of normalcy. He could insure a few more quiet mornings doing chores with Rand, a few more companionable evenings with his sister and his son, a few more nights of going to bed knowing that the people he loved were safe and happy.
He could buy that time—but at what cost? How many crimes would Seaver commit, how many more men would he kill before Cam did his duty? Each moment he waited would eat at him like maggots at a corpse.
Cam closed his eyes and prayed for the strength to do what he knew was right, go to Dan Cook and tell him the truth. He prayed for the courage to face his son—and especially his sister—with what he'd done.
He prayed for the fortitude to accept the loss of everything that mattered to him, because that's what exposing Seaver meant. Once he set all this in motion, there would be no going back.
After a good long while, he straightened, feeling as if the weight of his family's future could crush him to his knees. In spite of knowing the cost, he turned and crossed the tracks. Through a grim, sleety curtain of snow, Judge Cameron Gallimore went back to the sheriff's office to tell Dan Cook what he'd discovered—and turn the sweetness of his life to dross.
Painted by the Sun Page 24