Paint the Hills Red

by Ron Schwab

  Then she remembered: Dan’s proposal. And she had said no to the man whose mere touch set her heart racing and made her knees weak. She had said no to the man whose voice chased away the fears of what she could not see, to the man whose nearness made her feel warm and serene. With Dan McClure she was bold, confident, unafraid of the future. Selfishly, she thought, Dan McClure could give her everything she wanted from life, and she loved him dearly. What she felt for Dan was the most unselfish emotion she had ever known. She wanted to give as well as take, be his lifeline as he was hers, supporting, sustaining and loving him through the years ahead.

  But an artist married to a blind woman? A woman who could not even view the ultimate expression of his soul? A man like Dan, sensitive and imaginative, had to speak through his paints and oils. How could she hear him in the ways that meant so much to both of them if she could not see his work? It would break her heart someday to be cut off from that vital part of Dan McClure.

  But did he understand? She wanted him to. It was important to her that he did. She had to explain. She got up and stood beside the bed for a moment, orienting herself before she moved to the door and made her way slowly to the kitchen. As she entered the kitchen, she could tell by the silence that the cowhands were gone. She could hear someone standing at the wood stove, stirring the bacon that crackled in the hot grease of the skillet. Biscuits were baking, too, and their aroma made her ravenous in spite of her melancholy.

  “Good morning, Meg,” came the cook’s voice.

  “Dan?”

  “Of course. I thought I should make myself useful. I helped Charlie with breakfast. Sit down. There’s just enough left for you.”

  “I am hungry,” she said and moved toward the table.

  Dan did not appear upset this morning. Perhaps he was relieved. It was possible that he had asked her to marry him out of some sense of obligation or pity, she thought.

  Dan set a plate in front of her as she sat down. He stepped away and returned momentarily. She heard two distinct sounds as he placed something else on the table. One was china; that could be the coffee cup. The other was a dull thud she did not recognize.

  “Coffee’s to your right,” Dan said. “Honey jar to the left. I thought you might like some with the biscuits.”

  He took a seat across the table from her, and as she ate silently, she knew he was watching her, studying her. She did not need eyes to tell her that.

  Finally, when she was nearly finished, he spoke. “I’m going to ride over to my place this morning. There are a few things I have to finish up before they start the foundation work tomorrow.”

  “You’re going ahead, then, the way you planned?”

  “Yes, of course. Why not?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” She hesitated. “Dan, I’d like to explain . . . about last night.”

  “No, don’t explain. Not now, anyway.”

  “But I want to. I’m afraid you don’t understand.”

  “Why don’t you ride along with me? We can talk on the way if you’d like.”

  “You want me to ride with you after last night?” Megan asked

  “You’re sure making a fuss over last night. Sure, I want you to ride with me. You’ve got to check out your property.”

  He kept talking in riddles. He was not making any sense at all. “What do you mean ‘my property?’” she asked.

  “One way or another, you’re going to own that house. The whole ranch, for that matter. It’s meant to be with the Bar G.”

  She heard him get up and walk to the window.

  “I’m going to build that damned house, Megan Grant, just the way we planned it, come hell or high water. And I didn’t hear anything you said last night, so you’d better be thinking about what your answer’s going to be the next time I ask the same question. If it’s yes, it’s our house, our ranch. If it’s no, it’s your house, your ranch. Because, before I leave, I’m going to deed it over to you and let you have it as a monument to your stubbornness.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of. What a stupid way to get revenge.”

  “Revenge? What do I have to get revenge for?”

  “Well . . . well, because I said no. Because I said I wouldn’t marry you.”

  “I didn’t hear you say that,” he said.

  “Damn you, Dan, you’re driving me crazy with this conversation. All right, if you didn’t hear me the first time, I’ll say it again so you can save the trouble and expense of building that fool house of yours.”

  “Ours,” he corrected and started to move for the door. “And, if you want to tell me anything else, you’ll have to say it on horseback. Do you want me to saddle your pinto?”

  “No,” she snapped. Then, as she heard him open the door, “Oh, go ahead,” she called after him. “You can saddle my horse, but I have to go wash up and change into some riding clothes.”

  “Take your time,” he said, “I’ll bring the horses by the house.”

  30

  MEGAN STEPPED OUT onto the porch. Her mood was brightened by the change to boots and riding britches. She felt more herself in the doeskin shirt Sol had given her than in the cumbersome dresses and petticoats she had been wearing too much of lately. The morning breeze that drifted off the Pine Ridge caressed her face and refreshed her. Her mind was clear now even though the dull aching in her head persisted. She moved to the edge of the porch and waited till she heard the two horses approach. One was light-footed and quick of gait; the other’s steps sounded heavier and slower, a larger animal with a longer stride.

  “You’re riding Atlas, aren’t you?” Megan asked as Dan rode up to the front of the porch.

  “Yes, I’m kind of partial to the ornery devil.”

  “A man your size needs a big horse,” she said, stepping cautiously off the porch.

  Suddenly, several quick, knifelike pains sliced through her temples, and she flinched against the white glare that exploded momentarily in her head. She stumbled but regained her balance as her hands found the neck of the pinto Dan had edged in front of her.

  “Meg? What is it? Are you all right?”

  She barely heard Dan’s voice through the ringing in her ears. “I’m fine,” she lied. “I just tripped when I came off the steps.” The pain subsided now, and the fog in her head ebbed away. Her hands grasped the saddle horn, and she worked her foot into the stirrup before she lifted herself on an uncertain, trembling leg into the saddle.

  “Meg, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Dan said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” A ghost. It could have been, she thought; it was white. The overpowering sense of whiteness, for just a few moments, had displaced the endless blackness she had known since the night she lost her sight.

  It was Megan who broke the silence this time as their horses moved off the slope and out onto the meadow on Dan’s side of the ridge that separated his place from the Bar G. Slowing the pinto to a walk, she said, “You said I could explain about last night.”

  “And I also told you I didn't hear what you said.”

  “And you say I’m stubborn,” she countered.

  “I’m not stubborn; I’m persistent.”

  “I don’t see the difference.”

  “It might be perspective,” he conceded. “But Meg, I would have accepted your answer if I believed you meant it. I care for you too much to press you into something you don’t want. Let me approach it differently . . . I asked you if you would marry me. You said no. Do you care for me, Meg?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “You’re cornering me.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Do you?” She did not answer. “Megan, do you love me?”

  “Yes.” Then she added quickly, “But that doesn’t mean I’ll marry you.”

  “Oh, yes it does. That’s why I haven’t walked away. Because you are going to be my wife, Megan Grant. And I’m going to be your husband, and we’re going to l
ive in our house. Now explain that away . . . and don’t throw me some horse dung about your blindness being a burden. Martyrdom doesn’t become you.”

  “I’m not trying to be a martyr, Dan. It has to do with your paintings.”

  “My paintings?”

  “I couldn’t marry you, spend a lifetime with you, without being able to see your work. It would kill me not being able to share that part of you. I’d never know you the way I want to know you if I couldn’t see your paintings. Day by day, month by month, it would tear me to pieces.”

  “But I’ll tell you about my paintings,” he said. “I’ll describe them to you. I’ll explain what I was thinking when I did them. You can ask me questions. I won’t deny you any part of me, I promise. You’re making too much of your blindness. I need you, Meg, more than you need me, I’m afraid. I don’t know if I can paint without you. There truly is something called artistic inspiration; it’s a thing you can’t put your finger on, but it’s there.”

  “Dan, you were painting before you met me. You’ll paint again no matter what happens.”

  “All right, maybe I was exaggerating somewhat; perhaps I would paint. But with you I can be the kind of artist that I can’t be without you, because I need the kind of emotions you bring out in me to paint what I want to paint. If a writer wants to write about love, he has to know love and feel love. So does an artist who wants to paint love.”

  He was overpowering her with his words, and she was hard pressed to think of a comeback. She wanted to believe what he said, but she didn’t trust her judgment right now.

  “You sound like a character in a romantic novel,” she said.

  “I suppose I do,” he admitted. “I am a romantic.”

  “We all are in some ways,” she said.

  “Yes, but I’m too much of one. I spend too much time lost in dreams. That’s another reason I need you. Remember? You said you would market my work and look after the business side of my work. You can’t do that very well if you’re living at the Bar G. Megan, we planned the house together. Don’t tell me you never saw yourself in it.”

  She did not reply for she could not deny it without lying, and she would not lie again to him. Never.

  “Meg,” he said, “I want to put Sol’s portrait on one wall of the parlor. I want to put yours on the opposite wall.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes, I want to paint yours next. Don’t you think Sol would like that? The two of you looking across the room at each other?”

  “Yes. Yes, I think he would.”

  “But Sol’s painting has to hang in your house, Meg, and your painting has to hang in mine, so it looks like you’ll have to marry me. It’s an awful dilemma.”

  “I wish I could see Sol’s portrait,” she said wistfully.

  “Maybe you will someday. Don’t give up hope. But in the meantime, let me be your eyes.”

  She opened her mouth to speak and the whiteness, bright and glaring, flashed across her eyes and struck her dumb. Then it wasn’t white anymore; it was gold and orange and red. Flaming crimson. Colors. Not blackness. Not whiteness. Distinctive, vivid colors. The sun?

  “Meg, you’ve got that look again. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I feel strange . . . a little dizzy.”

  “We’ll be home in a few minutes. I’ll get you under some shade. Maybe it’s the heat; the sun’s terribly bright this morning.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “I mean, it’s very hot.”

  As they rode up the wagon trail that led to the charred remains of Dan’s ranch building, Megan was awestruck at the kaleidoscope of colors that was unfolding before her. Greens and blues and browns and fuzzy blotches of colors. But colors, just the same. Was it possible? She dared not raise her hopes. She could not tell Dan. Not yet. It might break the spell and wash away this beautiful dream.

  As the horses trotted into the ranch yard, Dan edged the stallion in front of the pinto and led them to a screen of ponderosa. Megan knew they were ponderosa because she caught the fresh scent of pine and felt the cooling shade of their boughs. But what struck her most was the dark curtain of green that spread before her. They dismounted there, and Dan tethered the horses to a low tree limb nearby.

  “How are you feeling now?” he asked.

  “Better. I’m still a little dizzy, though.”

  He took her arm and led her to the base of the towering tree. She knew because she could make out the blurry outline of its trunk.

  “Why don’t you sit here for a spell?” he said. “I forgot to fill my canteen before I left, but I’ll get some fresh water from the well.”

  Megan’s eyes tracked the gray image of Dan McClure as he stepped over to the stallion and retrieved the canteen that was hitched to his saddle and then headed across the ranch yard. He was the Dan McClure she remembered: tall, strong, purposeful in the long strides of his walk.

  Dan filled his canteen with cold well water at the pump. He straightened up and looked back at Megan who sat Indian style in the shade some fifty yards away. She was acting strangely, he thought, casting her head about like a young doe about to venture out onto a meadow. Her attention seemed to focus on one thing and then would suddenly dart to another. At least she appeared alert now; earlier she had seemed groggy and confused and several times had flinched noticeably as though suffering some sort of pain. Something was bothering her, but she had been evasive and had denied him any clue as to what was ailing her.

  He flung the canteen over his shoulder and took a few steps in Megan’s direction, but stopped when he saw the two riders galloping up the road toward the ranch yard. He recognized Liz Dunkirk’s golden flowing mane on one of the riders. The tall, black-garbed man was Stiles Keaton.

  Dan moved to meet the approaching riders. It would be interesting to see what this pair had to say.

  As they pulled up in front of him, Dan noted the two were grim-faced, and he saw something akin to fear in Liz Dunkirk’s eyes that made him wary. The sheriff’s eyes betrayed nothing but smoldering contempt.

  “We’ve been watching for you, McClure,” Keaton said. “I think it’s time we talked again.”

  “I’ve said all I have to say,” Dan replied. “But it looks like I was right. You and Liz were there when the Tylers were raided. And I suppose the others, too? I’m curious, Keaton. Who killed Ben Grant and Sol Pyle? Was it you, or do you just kill women?” Dan’s hand inched toward his revolver.

  Keaton’s own six-gun spun into his hand, seemingly from nowhere and was leveled at Dan’s chest before he even touched the butt of his own gun. The lean man was as quick as he looked. Lightning quick.

  “Unbuckle your gun belt, McClure, and let it drop, or you’re a dead man.”

  Keaton had the drop on him. It would be suicide not to obey. But the odds were not good either way. He unfastened his belt buckle and the gun belt, and the holstered pistol thudded into the dust at his feet. He could not believe it. Keaton wasn’t taking any chances. He intended to kill him in cold blood; he would have to kill Megan, too. All Dan could do was to buy time and hope that someone came along. Or that something happened to give him a chance.

  “You didn’t answer my questions about the killings,” Dan said.

  “You’re not in a position to ask questions, but I guess I can grant a dying man his last wish,” Keaton said. “I did in Sol Pyle myself. Our hired guns took care of the others.”

  “And you and Liz have been behind the raids?”

  “More or less.”

  “Where does Clay Sutherly fit in?”

  “He doesn’t fit in at all. He’s next . . . after you and your bitch. After he’s out of the way, Miss Dunkirk will petition the court for her appointment as her father’s guardian.”

  “And you’ll more or less take Sutherly’s place, I presume?”

  “More or less. Likely more.”

  Dan looked up at Elizabeth Dunkirk. “Why, Liz? Why the lies? Why the charade? The killings? None of i
t makes sense.”

  Her face was pale as death; her eyes wild and frantic like a cornered jack rabbit.

  “The killings weren’t my idea. I only wanted Sutherly dead. I thought he would be blamed for the raids and then my father would get rid of him . . . or someone else would kill him.”

  “Like me?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you were hiring gunfighters, why didn’t you just hire someone to kill Sutherly?”

  “Because we needed the land to expand the ranch, too. I thought we could make it all work together.”

  “Kill two or three birds with one stone, so to speak. Is that it?” Dan asked.

  “I didn’t want it to come to this, Dan.” She glanced nervously at Keaton. “I still don’t. I begged him not to come here. I don’t want you dead, Dan.”

  “Then call off the dog.”

  “I . . . I can’t.”

  “You mean you won’t.”

  “She means she can’t,” Keaton said. “She’s in too deep. She’s my property now; she’ll be my woman as soon as we get control of the ranch.”

  “You’re a fool, Liz,” Dan said. “You’d have been better off to throw your lot in with Sutherly than to take up with this piece of human garbage. A murderer who hides behind a tin star.”

  The hammer of Keaton’s pistol clicked back. “You’ve said your piece, mister.”

  “No, Stiles, no!” Elizabeth Dunkirk screamed, yanking on the reins of her horse and driving it into Keaton’s. The sheriff’s horse lurched forward crashing its shoulder against Dan and catapulting him backwards onto the crusty earth. Keaton’s gun whipped out and the barrel slammed into Liz Dunkirk’s forehead. Her body slumped forward and her hands released the reins of her horse before she slid out of the saddle and dropped to the ground amidst the dancing hooves of the horses. Dan, dazed and breathless from the blow that had knocked him down, rose to his knees and dived for his gun belt. But Keaton wheeled his horse, and Dan looked up at the menacing barrel of the pistol again as his hand groped just inches short of his own gun.