Portraits

by Stef Ann Holm

  At first, Geneva’s sniveling had moved her. Geneva had lost her son and needed to hold on to a part of him, and she’d done so through Tug. Only now that attachment was turning into a fixation. She was trying to turn Tug into the son she’d buried. Well, he wasn’t, and he never would be.

  “I’m sorry, Geneva, but I’ve already made other plans.’

  Tug burst into the room, his overalls stained at the knees from grass. “Whose fishing poles and stuff is that down stairs?”

  “Yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes, your daddy bought all that for you when you were born. I thought you may like to try it out with me and go fishing.”

  “Fishing?” Geneva squeaked, fumbling for the on-of switch to the vacuum. “You can’t go fishing. You don’t know how.”

  “I was hoping Tug could show me.”

  “Me?” Tug’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, you, Rosalure, and me. The three of us on a picnic.”

  “But what about your work?”

  “I don’t have to work today.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Well, gosh, I’ll go fishing with you.”

  “Owen, darling,” Geneva cooed softly, having shut the Turkish bath off. “Don’t you want to stay here with Nanna? We could go to the emporium and Nanna will buy you a new cowboy hat.”

  Leah’s heartbeat worked into a strong staccato. How dare Geneva undermine her authority and bribe her son with a hat to replace the one she’d withheld as punishment? The offer would be too tempting to a five-year-old; Leah was sure he’d choose the new hat. Then she’d have to make him come with her. The purpose would go out of the picnic if Tug was forced into going.

  “No thanks, Nanna,” Tug said, two dimples appearing in his cheeks. “I want to go fishing with my mom.”

  The eagerness in Tug’s eyes gave Leah unlimited joy. Keeping the animation on her son’s face would be worth every body-shivering minute of baiting a slimy, wiggling worm on a hook.

  * * *

  Sitting astride July, Wyatt skirted the scattered gray sage that grew around him. The day was hot but with clouds to pass under and give him a few minutes’ cooling respite from the heat.

  All he’d seen for the past hour was rolling hills and posts strung with barbed wire. Those offending wires weren’t shiny and new. They were rusted and weathered from many seasons of brutal elements. The tarnished coloring meant they’d been up for a while, not only caging things in but keeping things out.

  Back in the old days, ranchers hadn’t used too much barbwire. People trusted their neighbors not to mess with their cattle, though Wyatt knew all too well that rustlers had been around for as long as anyone had been openly ranging herds. He supposed once he purchased his ranch, whether the property was already built up or whether he’d have to start from the beginning and furnish the buildings and pasture himself, he’d have to use the wire, too.

  Just before noon, Wyatt had encountered a nice-sized spread that ran a hundred miles southwest of town. In talking with one of the hands out doing repair work on a drop gap, he found out that the cattle belonged to a man by the name of Half Pint Gilman. The brand identifying a group of Longhorns chewing their cuds in the shade of a juniper stand was a three-peaked mountain with a line running beneath the points. The emblem stood for the Rocky Mountain Cattle Company. Wyatt had been informed that Gilman’s spread was the richest in this part of Colorado, with an estimated herd size of some fifty-thousand head.

  Wyatt had ridden on, leaving the cowboy to his work, feeling envious and deflated. He nudged July in the direction of the Aspenglow River, having the need to cool off in one of the pools formed by the falls.

  He’d spent four hours this morning up to his elbows in bits of sandstone. With the pick and shovel, he’d pawed through the rock, the calluses on his hands rising to tough flesh. He’d never had the comfort of using gloves before, so he was used to going without. Besides, the damage was already done to his abused knuckles. And his body wasn’t much better off. His muscles had burned and ached from the speed with which he worked, and by the time the sun had made a near-high zenith in the sky, he was ready to quit.

  His frustration had mounted twofold. No money. No hopes. No nothing. Had he not hidden those apricot cans in that spot himself, he would have sworn he was digging in the wrong place. But he had. The cross was an unmistakable marker. There was no second guessing.

  The landslides must have been worse than he’d originally estimated. There could be layers upon layers of rubble, and he was only breaking the surface. But he couldn’t give up, not when he knew what the money could buy him. He had dreams, and prison hadn’t squelched them. If anything, they’d become more precious. He had no choice but to continue to dig. His prior outlaw ways were too much of a temptation, even knowing he was too old to start that kind of life up again. He’d known the comfort money could buy. Living without the sixty thousand wouldn’t be living at all.

  The smell of grasses and water came to Wyatt in the still air. Thursdays were slow for Leo, and he’d told Wyatt he didn’t have to come in until two o’clock. From the angle of the sun, Wyatt had a couple of hours left to appreciate his surroundings.

  Rumbling falls, with pressure enough to crush a man, reached his ears. In the distance, high on the ridge where the flow began, there was some kind of building next to the water’s raging edge, absorbing all that power, though Wyatt didn’t know its function. He kept on riding by, staying safely away, taking note of the multitude of wires, lines, and pipes.

  Steering July to lower grounds, Wyatt knew which spot he was headed for. He’d found it yesterday: the gentle basins of clear water, sloped banks of moss, colorful wildflowers, and brambles of dewberries and elderberries. He appreciated the finer things in life, but nothing compared to nature’s beauty. It was free for the taking. And he was free to enjoy every detail.

  The shin-high grass had lost its spring green and was baked a brown like the edges of a pie crust. As he pulled into a lush thicket of aspens, he heard Leah Kirkland’s voice. Through a part in the twirling leaves, he saw her sitting on the bank across the lazy river with her skirts hiked up and her bare legs dangling in the water. Her discarded shoes and stockings lay on a pile with Tug’s and Rosalure’s. Her boy sat next to her, the two of them holding fishing poles and talking about who’d have the next nibble. Rosalure was nearby, a basket in her hand as she plucked flowers. She hummed to herself as she hopped on random rocks to cross the river. Wyatt was so moved by the scene, that he couldn’t tear himself away. He’d imagined himself in a picture such as this many times. It was the one real photograph that he wished he had of himself.

  “Hello.”

  Jerking his head, Wyatt saw Rosalure standing several feet away. “Hello,” he replied, damning himself for getting caught staring.

  “That’s a pretty horse. Can I pet him?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  The girl approached, a bouquet of colorful flowers in her grasp. July’s nostrils widened to sniff at them as Rosalure drew up alongside his head.

  “Pet him on the side of the neck,” Wyatt said. “That’s where he likes it best.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “July.”

  July’s lips flapped as he tried to eat Rosalure’s flowers. Laughing, she pulled them out of his reach. “These aren’t for you, silly.”

  “Rosalure?” Leah called. “Who are you talking to?”

  “Mr. Holloway’s horse.” Rosalure giggled when July sneezed.

  “Mr. Holloway?” Leah replied lightly.

  Wyatt couldn’t determine by her tone if she was displeased by his invasion of her privacy. “Yes, ma’am. It’s me.” He nudged July out of the aspens, Rosalure trailing along.

  Leah remained sitting at the water’s edge, though she’d modestly lowered her hem. He realized she’d abandoned her tie and her business-like mode of clothing for an oyster-colored skirt and simple blouse. No hat protected
her face from the sun, and a delicate blush of pale pink dusted her nose and cheeks. She shaded her eyes with one hand.

  “Would you care to join us for a root beer, Mr. Holloway? It’s awfully hot.”

  Surprise halted his immediate reply. She was making an offer of alcohol in front of her children—and including them. “I don’t drink, Mrs. Kirkland.”

  Puzzlement overtook her face, then a smile lit on her mouth. “Why, Mr. Holloway, how funny you are.”

  Was he? Once again, Wyatt felt out of place. Like an actor playing a part he didn’t know. Heat burned his neck.

  “There are extras.” Leah lowered her hand, the warmth of her smile echoing in her invitation.

  Tug’s pole jiggled in his fist as he proudly declared to Wyatt, “I got thirty-one bites.”

  Wyatt’s brows lifted in overstated amazement. “That’s a lot of fish. How many have you caught?”

  “None yet. But they’ve taken every worm clean off my hook.”

  Rosalure scampered across the river to join her mother. Plopping down next to a picnic basket, Rosalure opened the lid and took out a bottle that looked much like a cola. Using an opener, with a flick of her wrist, she popped the cap and took a drink.

  “Do you want one?” Rosalure asked.

  Wyatt needed no masterful persuasion. The yearning for innocent moments missed was too strong for him to say no. “Sure, Rosalure, I’ll try a root beer.”

  Swinging his leg high over July’s rump to clear the pack of accoutrements and water he’d tied on the back of his saddle, Wyatt dismounted and led his horse a few feet to a strong-looking branch. He tethered July, giving him enough length to graze. Then Wyatt turned toward Leah, suddenly aware that he presented one hell of a sight. Glancing downward, he saw that the toes of his boots were dusty, as well as his pants legs. He’d torn the sleeves out of his oldest shirt to keep cool while he was digging, only the lack of fabric hadn’t given his arms any protection from the sun. His tan had deepened to a dark honey color. He was cut up with thin scrapes and covered with a fair amount of dirt and grime.

  As he forded the river by stepping on the boulders that blossomed from the water, he was resigned to the fact that he wasn’t much to look at. He found the thought very discouraging when it was applied to Leah’s impression of him.

  * * *

  Leah thought there was something appealing about a man who wasn’t afraid of hard work. She couldn’t guess what Wyatt had been up to. His arms were powdered with fine dirt where the sleeves to his shirt were missing. The faint definition of strong veins on the insides of his arms stood out against his tan skin. He was more muscular than she could ever have guessed, the firm contours of his strength making her mouth go as dry as cotton.

  Suddenly, Leah needed a root beer herself. She reeled in her line and set her pole down. Standing, she let her skirts fall to her ankles. Her petticoats stuck to her wet calves as she strode to the basket. She opened two Hires and handed one to Mr. Holloway.

  “Thanks.” His voice was deep and sounded parched. His expression was one of wonder as he drank long, slow gulps.

  “I gather this is your first taste of root beer,” Leah said after sipping hers. “How is it?”

  Studying the label, he commented, “I like it. Not as much as Coca-Cola. But I like it.”

  “You should try a glass of root beer with a scoop of vanilla ice cream floating in it. You might change your opinion.”

  “Momma can I go over there?” Tug pointed downstream. “That spot’s better.”

  “Yes,” Leah replied. “Rosalure, you go with Tug to keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t fall in.” She wasn’t overly worried about Tug in the shallows. But the current in the middle of the Aspenglow was forceful enough that an advanced swimmer would be challenged. She’d taught both her children to hold their breath and float in the event of an emergency. She’d practiced with them in the bathtub every night for a month after Pinkie Sommercamp had nearly drowned last year by the falls.

  The children went off to a little inlet where beavers had been active. Tug climbed up on a fallen log and dug inside the creel slung over his shoulder for another worm. Rosalure’s eyes followed his hands and she scooted away.

  “Keep those stale old worms to yourself,” she shuddered.

  Leah smiled. “I don’t think it’s the fish taking the bait. The worms are falling off.”

  Mr. Holloway stood close enough for her to catch a hint of the salty sweat and leather smell clinging to his skin. She grew pleasantly flustered. “Do you have any special technique for putting a worm on a fishing hook?”

  His eyes were a very disarming shade of blue when he answered, “I stick the sharp point through it a couple of times, and cast.”

  Grimacing, Leah admitted, “Tug tried to show me that, but I had to look away. I’m not sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. We’re both new at this.”

  “I think it’s admirable that you’re trying with the boy. Most women wouldn’t go fishing with their sons.”

  “I have to be his father as well as his mother. It’s hard. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

  Biting her lip, Leah pondered asking Mr. Holloway to give her some insight into the world of little boys. She’d approached Leo once, but he thought Tug’s antics were amusing and was of no help. And she would never go to Geneva, because it would be one more thing Geneva could tell her she was being silly and ignorant about.

  After a long pause, Leah asked, “Would you care to sit down?”

  “I reckon I would.” He said the words tentatively, as if testing the idea.

  Leah settled onto the blanket, Mr. Holloway beside her with a respectful distance between them. For a while, they watched Tug sling his line out, then reel it in short minutes later, declaring his bait had been snatched once again. His little arm would chug to wind up his bobbin; no doubt in the hurry, that’s when the bait actually fell off. Then he’d squish a fresh worm on his hook and repeat the process. Leah suspected he got more enjoyment out of whipping the line into the river and reeling in than he actually did the art of fishing itself. Even Leah recognized that to catch a fish, one needed patience and to leave the bait in the water long enough for the trout to swim by it. Tug’s method gave those fish a lot of free food, but he was having a good time, and that’s all that mattered.

  Leah allowed her subconscious thoughts to surface. “Tell me, Mr. Holloway, when you were a boy, did you carry a pocketknife?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  Shifting his legs so that he sat Indian style, he shrugged. “So I could whittle myself a slingshot.”

  “Hmm.” Tug had done that. “Go on.”

  “And carve my initials in trees. Or anything else wood. Boardwalks. Porch railings.”

  Tug had done that, too.

  “Why did you feel it necessary to carve your initials in the porch railing?”

  “To show that I was there.”

  Leah grew pensive. “And did you like snakes?”

  “Sure.” Wyatt rested the bottle’s bottom on his knee. “Your boy likes snakes?”

  “He found a red-and-brown snake in the lot next to our house and put it in a jar. He wanted to keep it in his bedroom, but I forbid him. It could have gotten out. I’m sure it was poisonous.”

  “I doubt it. It probably was a grass snake. I used to catch those myself.”

  “But why?”

  “Mostly to look at.”

  “But why?” she repeated. “They’re ugly.”

  Wyatt’s laughter was rich and warm. “Not to a boy they’re not.”

  Sighing heavily, she stared at Tug. “I just don’t know. I’ve tried, but I don’t understand how Tug thinks.”

  “Because you’re not a man who’s been a boy. And you don’t have a husband to show you the way.” Mr. Holloway lifted the Hires to take another drink. Leah’s gaze fell on his mouth, the way his upper lip sort of sucked into the bottle opening as he pulled the foaming drink into his
mouth. A tingling began to fizzle beneath her breasts, much like the fizzle in the bottle.

  Mr. Holloway set his empty bottle next to the basket. He hesitated, measuring her for a moment. “Have you given any thought to remarrying?”

  His question caught her by surprise. “I would if I found someone who interested me,” she replied, toying with a blade of grass.

  Leah raised her eyes to find him watching her with curious intensity. His gaze probed to her very soul. And in that moment, something special flared into existence between them. Something fragile, yet tangible. The very air around her seemed electrified. She’d never felt anything like it before, and she needed a moment to reorient herself to their surroundings.

  They sat in silence for a time, each of them perhaps trying to make sense out of what had just happened.

  “Would you mind if I showed the boy how to bait his hook?” Mr. Holloway asked after a spell.

  “I’d like that.”

  He went to Tug, and Leah stayed on the blanket. She watched as he took her son under his wing and guided him, offering his advice and sharing stories of when he’d been a boy and had gone fishing. About chasing water skippers and skimming stones.

  The afternoon wore on with Mr. Holloway sitting on the log next to her children. Rosalure showed him her flower collection, and he asked her to name each variety. She delighted in telling him, pointing out the differences in petals and leaves.

  Leah settled back on her elbows, taking in the scene as if she were considering the best angle with which to capture it on film. No tone or texture went unresolved in Wyatt’s eyes. His reactions to things filled up the space from corner to corner. He appreciated simplicity. What she took for granted, he was in awe of. Rosalure’s daisies, buttercups, and meek-eyed violets charmed him. He gazed at the sky as if it were more than a vast, empty space of blue. And when he lifted his ears to the coos of doves in the trees, he listened with the same passion as she did her opera.

  If he were to stay in Eternity, she would regret the timing of her trip to Italy and miss the opportunity to get to know him better. She wanted to photograph him once. To develop on paper his seductive, yet deceptively uncomplicated manner. To capture his mystery and make him true to life.