The Legend Of Love

by Nan Ryan

  For more than ten minutes Louisa Curtin spoke of her duties, stopping only when her young blond sons came bounding into the sitting room. At the intrusion, Elizabeth caught just a hint of a frown cross Louisa Curtin’s round face.

  What happened next caused Elizabeth to frown.

  Daniel nodded almost imperceptibly to his mother, then crossed to a square table where a chess set was laid out. But the warm, affectionate Benjamin ran straight to his mother and threw his short arms around her bare neck. Louisa Curtin turned her dark head away and forcefully shoved her son from her.

  “Benjamin!” she snapped irritably. “You’ll ruin Mommy’s gown.” She pushed on his narrow chest with a diamond-bedecked hand and wrinkled her small nose.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Benjamin, the expression of hurt in his big green eyes missed by his mother, but not by Elizabeth.

  While the dejected little boy moved toward his father, Louisa Curtin, patting her sleek, upswept dark hair, quickly regained her composure, turned to Elizabeth, and said, “I’m sure you want to freshen up before dinner, Miss Montbleau.”

  “That would be nice,” Elizabeth replied, stealing a glance at Benjamin and giving him a secret smile.

  The small, voluptuous woman rose and Elizabeth followed her up the grand staircase. Louisa paused before a closed door of gleaming mahogany. “Take as long as you like, Miss Montbleau.” She smiled and was gone.

  The soft bouquet of lilac soap scented the white airy bath, a room as large as most bedrooms. Beveled mirrors multiplied her image, dozens of clean white towels hung on gilt racks, and rich wool carpet, as luxurious as the beige Aubusson downstairs, covered the floor.

  Elizabeth washed her hands, patted her face with water, and saw reflected in the mirror a big long white tub on claw feet against the wall behind her.

  For a second she had an almost uncontrollable urge to strip off her worn woolen dress and underwear and climb naked into that shiny tub. How wonderful it would be if she could skip the meal with the Curtins and spend the entire dinner hour luxuriating in their bathtub, experimenting with the varied stoppered bottles of oils and trying all the different bars of scented soaps.

  A little wistfully, Elizabeth blotted her damp face with one of the fluffy towels, dried her hands, and left the big inviting bath. Lost in guilty thought, she descended the carved wooden staircase and at its base came face to face with a tall blond man.

  He stood squarely in her way, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked dashing in a finely tailored suit of dark brown wool. An impeccably dressed man, his shirt was snowy white linen, his perfectly tied foulard a rich tan silk. His blond hair gleamed brilliantly in the light cast by a crystal wall sconce and his lips were stretched into a wide grin over even white teeth.

  “You must be the boys’ teacher,” he said, thrusting both hands out to grip the polished banisters, trapping her where she stood. “I’m Dane Curtin. My nephews have told me all about you.” Against his brown waistcoat a gold Phi Beta Kappa key caught the gaslight as he said, “Think you can teach me anything?”

  “A great deal, Mr. Curtin.”

  Taken aback, but intrigued by her quick confident reply, Dane Curtin glanced about, leaned close, and said, “Oh, yes?” His smile broadened as his gaze dropped to her lips. “Tell me, what can you teach me?”

  “First, some manners, Mr. Curtin.”

  8

  “I’M RETIRING,” SAID WEST Quarternight, the reflection of the campfire’s flames flickering in the depths of his silver-gray eyes. “Giving it up.” He yawned and ran tanned fingers through his shaggy jet-black hair.

  Grady Downs hooted at West Quarternight’s ridiculous statement. Grady laughed and elbowed the gigantic Navajo Indian sitting cross-legged on the hard ground beside him.

  “Sonny,” he addressed West, “you ain’t about to quit.” Grady shook his white head from side to side and his sky-blue eyes twinkled.

  “I am, Grady.” The tone of West’s voice was flat. He rose to his feet with an easy, uncoiling motion and stretched his hands to the fire’s warmth. It was a cold night in the New Mexico high country. Chill mountain winds ruffled West’s dark hair and pressed his fringed buckskin shirt and trousers against his back and legs. “The way I figure it,” he said, “I’ve got enough to make it from now on, if I don’t do any high living.”

  Grady Downs wouldn’t have it.

  “You ain’t quittin’. He ain’t quittin’, is he, Taos?” He looked for support to the big Indian, hoping to read affirmation in the blinking of his flat black eyes, the extent of the Navajo’s reaction. Addressing West again, the wiry white-haired man said indignantly, “Is this the thanks me and Taos get for taking you in and teaching you everything we know? You up and quit on us just like that?” He snapped his fingers. “Why, without us, you’d still be back there in them Kentucky hills starving, not having enough sense to …”

  Unruffled, West grinned, turned, and went to his stashed bedroll. He crouched down on his heels, unbuckled the fat bundle, spread his blanket on the ground, stretched out, and laid his head on his saddle, rolling his eyes heavenward.

  Grady Downs’s tirade continued. He was picking up steam, working himself up into an angered frenzy. He went on and on to the silent Navajo about the youth of today having no respect for their elders.

  “… and guess he’s plumb forgot, Taos, that if it wasn’t for me and you, he’d be nothing but a not-too-bright womanizing broke Kentuckian who couldn’t guide his own self out of these here mountains back down to Santa Fe. No sirree! Mr. Weston Dale Quarternight’s one ungrateful, selfish youngster if ever there was one. Never would have made one penny on his own. And you can mark my words, without the two of us around to tell him what to do, and when to do it, he’ll …”

  Smiling, West Quarternight folded a long arm beneath his head and looked up at the cold, starry sky. He couldn’t totally disagree with the feisty white-haired mountain man’s unkind assessment. If he hadn’t walked into that Kansas saloon one summer afternoon over three years ago, where would he be today?

  He thought back on that unhappy stage in his life. After the war he had left Shreveport, Louisiana, immediately and headed for his home in the Kentucky hills, only to find that everything that had made it his home was gone.

  He didn’t stay.

  He drifted over to St. Louis, got a job dealing faro in a saloon, and heard a player say the westward moving railroad was paying decent wages. He turned in his green eyeshade for a spade and worked twelve to fourteen hours a day in the Kansas sun, laying track. And hated every minute of it.

  On a day when the temperature on the scorching plains soared past the century mark and not one breath of air was stirring, he wiped his sweating brow on a forearm, looked out across the flat prairie, and decided he’d had enough.

  He handed the heavy spade to a smiling Chinese workman, picked up his shirt, drew his pay, and left. In Junction City he headed for the nearest saloon. He walked through the slatted doors of the Plainsman Saloon in the middle of the quiet afternoon. The Plainsman was near deserted, save for a table of sober-faced poker players in the corner and a small white-haired man standing alone at the long, polished bar. West stepped up to the bar and ordered an Old Crow whiskey.

  He felt the customer’s eyes and turned his head. Smiling at him was a trim little man with snowy white hair down to his shoulders, a full white beard and drooping white mustache, dancing blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks. His back ramrod straight, the immaculate stranger wore a western-type pullover shirt as white as his hair, trousers of dark twill, and high, shiny black boots. A holstered gun was buckled low on his hips and a large turquoise stone, framed in hammered silver, dangled from a leather thong around his neck.

  “Something on your mind, friend?” West asked, threw back his head, and downed his shot of whiskey.

  Without an invitation, the smiling man moved down the bar toward him. Stroking his flowing white beard, he said, “Sonny, you’re gonna look back on this day as o
ne of your luckiest.”

  West motioned the barkeep for another whiskey. “I assume you’re about to tell me why.”

  The white-haired man nodded happily. “I’m pretty good at sizing folks up and I’d say you ain’t got no family, no money, and no job. Am I right?”

  West shrugged. “And that makes me lucky?”

  “No, that makes me lucky.” The white-haired man put out his hand. “I’m Grady Downs, son. At dawn tomorrow, I’m guiding a small party of wealthy Easterners from here to the New Mexico Territory. Know how much I’ll charge ’em?” Without waiting for a reply he went on, “Two hundred fifty dollars apiece! Seven of ’em comes to seventeen hundred fifty dollars. Not bad for a couple of months’ work, is it?”

  Interested, West said, “Let’s get to the part where I’m lucky.”

  Grady Downs chuckled. “I’m coming to that. I’m gonna pay you two hundred dollars for coming along, riding shotgun for me.”

  West looked him squarely in the eye. He’d never been west of Kansas and he was restless, eager to get away, to try something different. He had heard about the Apache and Navajo and Comanche and Ute Indians that roamed the mountains and deserts of the West, terrorizing travelers along the Santa Fe Trail.

  “You’ll pay me five hundred dollars,” he said, and Grady Downs laughed and slapped him on the back.

  Together, they escorted the Easterners westward without incident. The trip was pleasant enough, despite the fact that Grady Downs was the world’s greatest talker. He started talking the minute he opened his eyes in the morning, was still talking at night when West fell asleep.

  His squinted eyes constantly sweeping the changing terrain for signs of trouble, West only half listened to the tales of Grady’s many hair-raising adventures. But slowly, and almost without realizing it, West revealed a great deal about himself to the little white-haired mountain man.

  They had hardly reached the New Mexico Territory before a gigantic Indian appeared from out of nowhere. He came riding a big paint pony directly toward them. West’s hand automatically slapped the butt of his holstered Colt, but Grady Downs laughed and said, “Sonny, don’t shoot old Taos. He’s my best friend and you’ll be calling on him to save your life more than once if you stay in the Territory.”

  Grady had been right about that.

  Taos stood six foot six in his moccasins, weighed an even three hundred pounds and every ounce of it was bone and sinew. His chest was awesomely massive. Muscles of steel bulged and bunched in his long arms and powerful thighs. He was keenly intelligent, but silent. He never spoke a word.

  Grady had found the young Taos twenty years before, badly wounded and left for dead with his father, mother, brothers, and sisters all lying dead around him in the foothills above Taos, New Mexico. He judged the boy to be twelve or fourteen at the time. He had nursed the Navajo back to health and given him the name Taos.

  The boy grew into a giant of a man who was as protective of Grady as if Grady had been his own father. In no time, Taos became just as protective of West. When West proposed that the three of them set up a land-and-mineral exploration company and start contracting to guide prospective purchasers, geologists, and expeditions throughout the New Mexico Territory, the silent Taos persuaded Grady the idea was a good one.

  With people pouring into the West, business had flourished. Their reputation as the most knowledgeable guides west of the Rockies quickly spread to the big cities in the East and they were booked for months in advance.

  In those rare periods when they were idle, Taos and Grady disappeared into the mountains, where they lived out in the open, the New Mexico sky their only roof, the alpine meadows their bed. West had gone up with them a time or two, but much preferred to engage a room in Santa Fe’s La Fonda Hotel, or the old Exchange in Las Vegas, New Mexico.

  Or to ride down to the vast Baca Rancho in the southern part of the Territory. Señora Baca, the blond, beautiful widow of the late Don Javier Narcisco Baca, was always glad to see him and had her own special way of making him feel welcome.

  West sighed now as he studied the star-studded black sky. Grady, Taos, the Baca widow, hell, the whole Territory had been good to him. Yet that old restlessness was plaguing him again. That feeling that he wanted to be somewhere else, doing something else. He was tired of his life and its sameness. He felt the terrible hand of his great pursuer, boredom.

  Well, it was September. He would stay on through the winter, honor the contracts already signed, then quit. Leave the business with Grady and Taos. Ride on down south and visit the friendly Doña Hope for a few days and from there … who knew. Maybe he’d go to old Mexico or out to California to see if any gold was left.

  “… and if Sonny actually thinks he can just up and quit us, he’s got another think a-coming. We got contracts to honor, Taos. We gave our word. Hell, he knows that …” Grady Downs’s voice became a low, lulling hum, and West’s eyelids grew heavy. He drew a long, slow breath, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

  Benjamin and Daniel Curtin were sent upstairs as soon as the early dinner had ended. The adults remained at the dining table, enjoying their strong English coffee and fluffy French pastries.

  Dane Curtin, seated directly across from Elizabeth, swirled brandy around in a crystal snifter and openly stared at her, the hint of a smile on his full lips. She paid him no attention. He was quite handsome, but she detected in him some of the characteristics she disliked in his nephew, Daniel.

  Dane corrected his brother Edmund on several inconsequential professional points, complained that the roast beef was not tender, and with scarcely concealed malice teased his sister-in-law about setting a record by spending an evening at home. Louisa Curtin shot him an angry look. Pleased, he grinned and winked at Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth assumed that any minute he would be the one excusing himself to go out for the evening, and as far as she was concerned, the sooner the better.

  Shortly, Louisa Curtin set her fragile china coffee cup in its matching saucer, patted her red lips with a white linen napkin, and said, “Miss Montbleau, Edmund and I need to discuss Benjamin’s learning problems with you.”

  Elizabeth nodded, giving the woman her undivided attention. “Yes, of course. I’m so pleased that you’ve—”

  “Ah … I’m afraid you will have to excuse me though.” Louisa pushed back her chair and rose. “I’m late for the opera already.” She smiled sweetly at Elizabeth, nodded to the two men who had risen as soon as she stood up. “Edmund will be happy to handle everything, Miss Montbleau. He’s always so good with the boys.” She rushed from the dining room, her long gunmetal taffeta skirts rustling with her steps, the magnificent Star of the West diamond flashing on her bare bosom.

  Elizabeth barely managed to hide her dismay. When the two men sat back down, she smiled at Edmund and continued speaking as though Louisa Curtin were still at the table.

  Edmund revealed his deep parental concern as he talked of his son’s learning problems. They spoke at length of Benjamin, and in the end Elizabeth agreed to tutor Benjamin twice a week at the Curtin mansion. When the schedule had been decided and Elizabeth’s fee agreed on, she told the Curtin brothers that she had enjoyed the evening, and that she needed to get home to her father.

  To her surprise and displeasure, Dane Curtin insisted on driving her home. An open one-horse gig was brought around to the mansion’s front gate and Dane took her arm and led her out into the chill night. When he climbed up beside her and unwrapped the reins from around the brake, he smiled and said, “Better scoot closer, it’s mighty cold this evening.”

  Staying where she was, Elizabeth replied, “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

  “Then since you are, would you like to take a ride down the river or along—”

  “No, Mr. Curtin. I must get home. My father is not well.”

  “Then home it is.” The well-sprung gig rolled along the grooved Belgian blocks of the busy street. “Which is where?”

  “Four blocks
off Broadway on Twenty-fourth Street.”

  “Twenty-fourth Street?” His classic features took on a frown as he turned to her. “But, Miss Montbleau, Twenty-fourth Street is where our … the … ah … that’s—”

  “Yes. Where the stables are,” she said, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. “Father and I live in a small apartment behind the stables.” She looked squarely at him, daring him to say more.

  He didn’t. The urbane, sophisticated man found it rather charming that the beautiful young teacher was not ashamed to admit she lived and cared for a sickly father in a shanty behind the city’s smelly stables.

  Never in his life had he known a woman who worked. It was a bit of a novelty, like her flaming red hair. It might be a lark to escort her around town, take her to the theater, to some of his crowd’s many parties. He could imagine the mouths of his hostesses dropping open when he presented his red-haired teacher to the snobby guests.

  They turned onto Twenty-fourth Street. The high-stepping horse pranced down the dark street fronted by nothing but stables. In the middle of the fourth block a narrow lane on the left leading between the stables was barely visible in the dim light.

  “You may stop here, Mr. Curtin,” Elizabeth told him. Nodding, he pulled up on the horse and Elizabeth turned, smiled, and said, “Thank you for driving me home. Good night.”

  She made a move to get out of the gig. He caught her arm, pulled her back. “Do you really suppose I’d let you walk alone through the darkness?”

  “I’ve done so many times, Mr. Curtin.”

  “Well, you won’t this night,” he said, bounded down, and hurried around to help her from the gig.

  The pair went into and down the darkened lane. Dane Curtin held Elizabeth’s arm while she led the way. At a corner they turned into a narrow alleyway—more of a cobblestone path—and moved quickly toward a lighted window several yards away.

  Pausing before the wooden front door of her modest apartments, Elizabeth offered him her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Curtin, I appreciate your—”