“How long will it take you?”
It was hard to believe that he was as interested as he appeared. But he gave no hint of boredom. His gaze didn’t flit behind her, around the square, searching for something or someone of more interest; he remained fully focused on her as he stood unmoving, hipshot, arms loose at his side. The man was certainly not a fidgeter.
“The preliminary sketches? I’m not sure. I’ve not used this method before, and there’s no particular schedule to keep. Perhaps four or five months. The painting, though, anywhere from a year to six. It depends. I’ve always been on the quick side, but this one…”
“That long? I’d never have the patience.”
I’d never have the patience. She collected the words greedily. He’d been tossing questions her way, drawing her out, making her reveal herself, and he’d given her nothing in return. This was the first tidbit he’d revealed: he was not a patient man. And yet not impatient, she’d wager. He stood too still, too comfortable, without any of the simmering edginess of the truly impatient.
“You might be surprised,” she said. “Some things are worth a large investment of time.”
She thought that he was really going to smile this time. Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes, tugged at his severe mouth, suddenly making him look years younger. Now what, she wondered, had she done to draw that reaction?
“Very true,” he agreed. “Have you done one before? A panorama?”
“Oh, a few,” she said airily. If he could be casually dismissive about his exploits on the train, she could pretend that she worked with effortless ease, too. “I did a collage of Revolutionary War battlefields.” She frowned. “Not entirely successful, I’m afraid. It was my first, and I didn’t have the stomach to play up the blood the way the public likes. The voyage of the Pilgrims. That was quite popular. The length of the island of Manhattan—”
“I saw that one.”
Oh, wonderful, she thought. That would have to be the one he saw.
“In Kansas City. I remember it.”
“That’s nice,” she said quickly, hoping he’d move on.
“It was lovely. Your work is very precisely detailed. Almost photographic.”
“Not photographic enough,” she muttered.
“Excuse me?”
She considered prevarication. She doubted he was ever less than perfectly competent at anything he attempted. But what was the point? The truth was the truth. And it was not as if it had not been splashed over every newspaper in the Northeast. “I made mistakes.”
His brow furrowed in puzzlement. “It happens.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said. She believed in knowing your strengths and accepting your weaknesses. She’d had no choice. “You pegged it right off. That’s what I’m known for, my precision and accuracy. But in the New York canvas, I made mistakes.”
“What happened?”
She was glad he didn’t shrug it off as if it were unimportant. Her parents had, and Mrs. Bossidy. What were a few mistakes? they’d asked her. Artists take license all the time. But she’d never considered it that way. She was bringing places to people who’d never have a chance to see them otherwise. And because she knew so well what it was like to long to witness a place you had little chance of seeing in person, she took that responsibility very seriously. “I hadn’t been there since I was a child. Never been much of anywhere, when it comes right down to it, until now.”
“Anywhere?” He lifted one brow in surprise. “How could you paint?”
“From photographs, from descriptions. Sometimes I’d even send someone there to take detailed notes for me.” She smiled. “There are some advantages to not having to worry about the expenses, you know.”
“There are lots of advantages to it.”
“True.” Even now, her gut clenched at the memory. “It worked fairly well. But this time there were mistakes. A photograph I relied on had been printed backward, and I put St. Patrick’s Cathedral—just finished—on the wrong side of Fifth Avenue. Not to mention the color of the Brooklyn Bridge was several shades off. I suppose I might have made similar mistakes before.”
She scowled, hating the thought. For a month after she’d first learned of it, she’d considered pulling every panorama she’d ever done from tour, going out and comparing every inch of her painted landscapes to the actual ones and not releasing them again until she could ensure that they were absolutely accurate.
“People are not as familiar with those places, though. But this was New York, and the bridge and the cathedral are so new they are fresh in everyone’s mind. The work had been on exhibition less than a week before I heard of the problems.”
He listened patiently, his eyes level on hers. And suddenly she realized how she’d been blathering on with only the slightest encouragement from him. In all likelihood he was only being polite—whether it was a quality he held naturally, or because people were always polite to Hamiltons.
She dropped her gaze to the brush she still held in her lap. The yellow paint was drying on the sable, graphic evidence of just how long she’d been spilling her soul to the man. Was it some quality of his that drew it from her, his calm, patient encouragement, his well-timed comments? Or was she simply so unused to the attention of an attractive man that her mouth kept spilling out words in an attempt to keep him around?
More than attractive, she realized as she looked up again, no more able to resist studying him than she’d been able to forget a single word of the reviews about the New York panorama. She understood she had little to compare him with. The handsome men in her life tended to reside between the covers of art books. And yet she doubted that he’d have any less effect on her if she’d met every man on the eastern seaboard.
His face was not perfect. Far from it; there was a break in his right eyebrow where a half-inch scar bisected it. His nose had a definite bump and veered to the left. His hair was badly cut, longer on one side. And, of course, there was that fading bruise, the remnants of violence.
But absolute visual perfection was boring. One of the first things her painting instructor taught her was that the eye craved some tension. Beauty always showed to best advantage when contrasted with the ugly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Going on about that. I know that, as problems go, placing a building, even a church, on the wrong side of the street in a painting is hardly life-shattering.”
“You have pride in your work. I admire that.”
Warmth bloomed, as if the sun had just stoked up the fire.
“How about you? I—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mrs. Bossidy clipped across the square, her skirts snapping with each determined stride, her voice carrying clearly on the spring breeze. “Did I not tell you to stay beneath the umbrella? You are unused to so much sun so early in the year, and it is much stronger here.”
Laura jerked, then squared her shoulders. She had nothing to feel guilty about, she reminded herself. Not about getting perhaps a bit too much sun, which felt wonderful on her head, her shoulders. Nor about spending a few moments conversing with an interesting man, something Laura had no doubt Mrs. Bossidy would be addressing as soon as the “sun” issue was settled.
One wouldn’t have thought Mrs. Bossidy could cover so much ground so quickly without breaking into a run. As soon as she gained Laura’s side, arriving in a cloud of rosewater perfume and a rustle of stiff petticoats, she twisted the pole of the large umbrella out of the ground, moved it forward until its protective shadow covered Laura completely, and jammed it back into the pebbly earth. “You must promise to stay beneath it, dear, or I won’t have you out here at midday again.”
“It ruins the light,” Laura complained.
Mrs. Bossidy fisted her hands at her hips. “Fine, then. See how well you hold a paintbrush when you’ve blistered the back of your hands.” Her expression softened. “I’m not just protecting your pearly complexion, you know. You’ve spent so little time in the sun, Laura, it’s m
ore dangerous to you than most.”
But it seemed like everything wonderful was more dangerous to her than most. Parties, travel. Life. She’d been healthy for a long time, something that Mrs. Bossidy and her parents and everyone else she knew often failed properly to consider.
She opened her mouth to respond. And then saw the fine lines of worry that furrowed Mrs. Bossidy’s brow, the icing of silver that threaded her dark hair.
The days when her illness was the worst—the weeks, the months, she admitted to herself—were mostly a blur to her, a murky drift of memories, spikes of pain softened by the numbing medicines they gave her, all blending into a feverish fog. Those who’d sat by her bedside had likely experienced it far more sharply than she had. And so that memory lived in their minds more fully than it did in hers, and therefore affected their actions more strongly, no matter how much she tried to convince them that those days were long behind her.
“I’ll try and remember,” she promised.
“Now, then.” Mrs. Bossidy whirled to face a less immediate but more potent danger. “You are…” She bared her teeth, an approximation of a smile welcoming as a badger’s snarl.
“Leaving,” Sam said mildly, though inside he felt like doing anything but. Damn. Getting around the harridan-companion was going to be the trickiest part. He wondered if it was all men, or merely Sam, that she didn’t like in range of Laura.
He had yet to discover what promised to be the most effective approach, though he’d been making excellent progress. He shouldn’t be so annoyed at the interruption; usually he took minor setbacks in stride. And if he’d enjoyed the time with her, was it such a terrible thing?
No, it wasn’t. It was only if he ever hoped for more than a pleasant but ultimately unimportant interlude that it became a terrible thing.
But her companion, who clearly had more of a guard’s disposition than her official ones, was glowering at him as if she were ready to attack at any moment. He had time to wait and watch; at the rate she was working, they wouldn’t be getting to the Silver Spur anytime soon.
He tipped his hat to Laura and sauntered off.
Laura watched her mysterious man walk away. He appeared in no hurry to get away, but she could detect no reluctance, either. He didn’t have the long canvas coat today, and his clothing fit him well: old, much-washed, comfortable. He seemed easy in his skin, nothing stiff or awkward in his movements.
She figured she had more appreciation of a male form than most inexperienced women. She had studied art, both paint and sculpture. Her mother had objected briefly but she’d refused Laura so many things that she hadn’t been able to deny her daughter this. And nothing she had studied, none of those famous works that depicted the perfection of man, had anything on this one. Except that they’d often worn far fewer clothes, a situation Laura couldn’t help but regret.
“Ahem.” Mrs. Bossidy placed herself squarely in front of Laura, blocking her view. Unashamedly, Laura lifted herself to tiptoes, craning her neck to see over her companion. Unfortunately, Mrs. Bossidy was taller, had no reluctance about raising to her own toes, and the view through the tufts of ostrich feathers on top of her hat was less than satisfying.
“Spoilsport.”
“Leaving aside the appropriateness of ogling a man in a town square, Laura, you could certainly pick a better candidate than that one.”
Laura gaped at her. “And who on earth would that be? I know my experience is limited, but my goodness…are you telling me he’s typical?”
Mrs. Bossidy struggled to maintain her sober nun’s face, but her eyes danced. “All right, so maybe there are few of them that are as, um, interesting to watch walk across a square,” she allowed, then frowned. “That does not make it appropriate. Nor advisable.”
“Professional interest,” Laura said. He’d finally disappeared around the corner of a building, and Laura dropped back to flat feet with a disappointed sigh.
“Umm-hmm. And since you almost never paint figures in your landscape, and when you do they’re small and distant and purely for scale, as you’ve often told me, does this signal a change in your career?”
“No,” Laura said. Though if she’d ever been tempted…
“He’s not for the likes of you,” Mrs. Bossidy said, not without sympathy. “You know that your father—”
“I know.” Oh, did she know. And even understood.
“What did he want?”
“I—” I don’t know, she almost said. What had he wanted? Surely not just to stand around on a pleasant afternoon and listen to Laura babble. Yet that was exactly what he’d done. “He was interested.” Mrs. Bossidy’s mouth soured. “In the work,” Laura clarified quickly.
“Hmm.” She crossed her arms, encased in black poplin edged with a wide white cuff, in front of her, as if confronting a disobedient pupil. “Who is he?”
Drat, Laura thought. “I don’t know.” But I certainly hope I get the chance to find out.
Chapter 4
Kearney was not a large city, as such things went. Thirty-four hundred and growing fast, the mayor had proudly told her, and sure to explode once the Kearney Canal was completed. He had gotten into the habit of stopping by to offer his assistance and, Laura surmised, to ensure that his town was painted in a flattering light.
But though it was not large, neither was it tiny. Yet Laura caught glimpses of her dark man with suspicious regularity.
He did not speak to her again even though, as Laura realized with wry amusement, she was making it easy for him to do so. She set up her easel on a daily basis in obvious and public places, so that anyone who made the slightest effort would have no difficulty finding her. Although he would have to fight through Mrs. Bossidy most of the time, for she stood guard with determination and a scowl that Laura doubted few men would be willing to brave. No more solo shopping trips for Mrs. Bossidy, at least for the time being.
But Laura saw him often. Once, through the plate window of a restaurant as she ate her creamed toast, she glimpsed him striding down the street on a cool, windy day, hatless, his great canvas coat billowing behind him like smoke clouds. He appeared in church, slipping into the last row as the organ strains of the first hymn faded away, catching her eye as she turned at the door’s slam, with that quirk at the corner of his mouth that always made her wonder if he ever truly smiled. Riding by on a fiery red stallion as she worked in front of the courthouse, strolling in front of a saloon as she wheeled by in a rented carriage, arguing politics on the front porch with a storekeeper when she and Mrs. Bossidy arrived to purchase a new scarf.
Laura did not believe it could be coincidental. And the very unpredictability of his appearances kept her on edge, constantly anticipating the next time, the next place, never quite forgetting the possibility that he’d be around the next corner.
They should have left Kearney two days ago. Laura knew she was stalling. There was little else of interest to paint there, and she’d already done studies in more detail than the subjects required. At her present rate they would never finish the journey before the snows clogged the rails over the Sierras. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to give the order to hitch up to the train due to steam through.
“That’s enough.” Mrs. Bossidy froze in midstep. More restless of late, she’d suggested an evening stroll. The sun hovered over the horizon, a coral haze spreading wide, the broad flat surface of the river awash in pink and gold.
“What is it?” Laura asked, still caught by the colors. How would she mix that hue? Some carmine, certainly, and—
Mrs. Bossidy snagged her by the elbow, halting Laura’s forward motion. “Let’s go back to the car.”
“But it’s so lovely out.”
“Gnats.” She flapped a hand in front of her face. “Most annoying.”
Gnats? Laura hadn’t felt a one. “You go ahead. The color’s just so lovely. I wonder if perhaps I should have days roll by as the painting follows the rails to allow me to use different skies, dawn and dusk, stormy and
clear. Perhaps even all the seasons. It would be a shame not to—” She turned to survey the wide sweep of the river, calculating potential scenes, and Mrs. Bossidy practically threw herself in the way. “What is the matter…oh.”
He was far enough away that there should have been some doubt as to his identity. A dark spear of a figure standing alone on the bridge, the sunset behind him making it impossible to pick out any features—all she could truly see was a tall black outline in front of a brilliant wash of gold and red.
And yet she was certain. She knew the set and breadth of his shoulders, the way he stood with most of his weight on his left foot.
He lifted a hand, a salute that told her he’d been watching them, too. Was it mere politeness or did he recognize them from afar? It seemed impossible to her that he did not know her as easily as she did him. Impossible-seeming, but in reality perfectly likely—she understood her fancies were merely that. They were fun to indulge, had gotten her through many a lonely day, but were not to be relied upon. She was her mother’s daughter in that she enjoyed the rush of heady emotions, but enough of her father’s in that she would not be ruled by them.
She stretched high and waved back, by necessity a quick, broad motion because she knew Mrs. Bossidy would intervene. She did not disappoint, grabbing Laura’s wrist and yanking it down with such speed that Laura couldn’t help but smile.
“Mrs. Bossidy, you are ever predictable,” Laura said.
She frowned. “If you would show a bit more decorum and restraint, I wouldn’t have to be,” she said as she steered Laura away from the river and back toward town.
“And how, exactly, is merely responding to a greeting—across a space of at least two hundred yards, I might add—unrestrained? I’m quite certain that, if I put my mind to it, I could be far more unrestrained than that.”
Mrs. Bossidy scowled and marched steadily on, towing Laura in her wake like a miscreant child. As a matter of fact Mrs. Bossidy had dragged her home exactly the same way when Laura was twelve. It was the first time since she’d had the fever that she’d set foot outside the grounds of Sea Haven. She’d pleaded and begged for weeks to be allowed a bit of a trip, a walk down the rocky beach or a trip to the dry goods store. For a child who had once been very active being confined to her rooms but for a religiously monitored hour of fresh air in the garden once a day, and even that only recently granted, the confinement was torture.
A Wanted Man Page 5