She missed feeling that now.
She missed loving a man.
Before she got too sentimental, Leah turned away and went for the porch. Unbidden, she felt the sting of tears well in her eyes. It was ridiculous to be feeling lonely. She had her children. She had her career. She had a lot to keep her busy.
But there was no one to kiss good night, no one’s strong arms in which to sleep . . . or to wake up in the morning with her cheek on a chest, her hair fanned around them.
Wyatt’s voice intruded on her musings, near to her ear. “What’s the matter?”
With her knuckles, she brushed a stray tear from her eye and refused to let another slip. “W-Why, nothing.”
He followed her up the steps and stood at the railing with her. Very close. Too close for her to stay clearheaded. “Something upset you.”
She shook her head and took in a fortifying breath. “I was just thinking, that’s all.”
“Thinking about something that made you cry.”
“I was sad for Tug,” she hedged. “I was thinking it would have been nice if his father could have shown him that trick. Not that I don’t appreciate what you did. I just worry about Tug’s not having a man’s influence.”
Wyatt nodded and grew thoughtful as they both watched the sun lower behind the feathery tops of pines on the mountain. “Has it been real hard on you, losing your husband?”
“His illness was lengthy and watching him slip away was difficult. When he finally let go, I was filled with grief, yet guilty with relief he didn’t have to suffer anymore.”
“What happened?”
“He contracted malaria in the Spanish American War, though it wasn’t until he returned home that the symptoms began to show nearly a year later. He’d had intermittent bouts, but we never thought they were anything but the flu. After awhile, when he was getting sick once a month, the doctor thought it was a case of pneumonia, because Owen would respond to the treatment for chills; but two weeks later, his fever would come back. There were days of delirium, then he finally went into a coma and died a week later. Tug was only a baby when Owen died. He doesn’t remember.” Leah gazed pensively across the yard. “But Rosalure does. It devastated her to see her father so sick.”
Leaning forward, Wyatt put his elbows on the rail. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. Mostly for the children.”
“You should be for yourself, too. It isn’t easy for a woman to be alone.”
Leah didn’t want to appear weak and incapable of taking care of herself and her children. “It’s no harder than a man’s being alone.”
A slice of quiet passed between them in which Marshal Bean Scudder came up to the gate and fiddled with the latch to let himself in.
Leah straightened and stepped a respectable distance away from Wyatt. “Marshal,” she welcomed, though she didn’t find his visit particularly welcome at this moment.
Wyatt remained tight-lipped.
When Scudder was inside, he lumbered toward them on the chunky heels of his oiled-hide boots. “Boy,” he said to Wyatt. Leah didn’t regard Bean’s slight as friendly by any means. “Last place I’d expect to see you on a Wednesday night. The Chinaman fire you?”
“Leo’s closed tonight.”
“Is he now.”
“The cook is sick.”
Scudder huffed to a stop, snagged his hat off, and wiped his forehead with the cuff of his sleeve. “So you get a free night to spend here.” Then to Leah, his caterpillar brows rose. “Surprised to see you and Holloway out on the veranda. Any special reason?”
Leah didn’t like her privacy infringed upon. It was bad enough Geneva wanted to know about her personal life and her comings and goings. She wasn’t going to report any such thing to the marshal.
“No special reason,” she replied. Before Scudder could question her further, she plunged in with a question of her own. “What brings you out here this late in the day?”
Scudder smashed his hat back on his head, then absently twirled and smoothed the waxed end of his full mustache. The bush of facial hair was in its prime; the marshal had been grooming the wiry hairs as if they were a ewe he was getting ready to present at the fair. Bean Scudder entered the Whopper Mustache contest at the Aspenglow River Stampede and Eternity Grange No. 321 Exposition every year. And every year he won hands down.
Scudder hooked his fat thumbs into his suspenders and rocked back on his heels with his neck out like a turtle. “That old saddle tramp Earl Stretch drifted into town again tonight. I just arrested him for attempting to pick a pocket over at the Clipper Saloon. I’ll need you to come by the jail first thing tomorrow and update his mug shot. He’s got whiskers now.”
“I can be there.”
“Good.” Scudder’s marble-sized eyes narrowed in on Wyatt. “Mrs. Kirkland is a fine woman, boy. Wouldn’t want you causing any trouble over here for her.”
If Leah didn’t need to keep her job with the law office taking those mug shots, she would have shooed Bean Scudder off her stoop.
“I don’t cause trouble,” Wyatt remarked, adjusting the angle of his hat so that the brim rode up, as if he meant business. He thrust out one hip in the process and stood with a hand in his pocket.
“Not in my town, you don’t.” Then Scudder lay his fingers to the brim of his hat. “See you in the morning, Mrs. Kirkland.”
Leah said nothing as he walked down the path and continued on to the boardwalk.
Wyatt readjusted his hat against the setting sun. “I should be getting on myself. Thanks for everything, Leah.”
“Must you?” Leah didn’t want him to leave. She wished he could come back inside and they could talk for a while.
“Yeah, I’ve got an early morning to put in.” Wyatt’s hand slid over the railing and he went down the steps. Leah stayed behind, afraid that if she went with him she’d slip her hand in his and steer him back toward the house.
“Hey, Tug, you keep on practicing.”
“I will, Wyatt.”
Wyatt went to Rosalure, who sat in the swing. He gave her a big push that made her laugh.
Knowing that Wyatt liked it when she used Italian, Leah called, “Buona sera, il signor Holloway.”
His mouth curved into a smile, then he turned and walked to the gate.
As Tug kept up his roping, and Rosalure sat in the swing on the live oak singing softly, Leah stayed on the porch and watched Wyatt walk down Main Street until he disappeared from view. When he was gone, the homey picture in her yard lost its life. Suddenly, nothing had dimension anymore . . . everything seemed gray and flat.
14
There is no high road to happiness or misfortune.
—Chinese proverb
Leah came down the stairs from her studio to answer the persistent ring of the bell. When she opened the door, she was met by a uniformed Mr. Quigley. The strap of his mailbag cut across his shoulder, and the government-issued cap on his head had a letter sticking out from the band.
“Good morning, Mrs. Kirkland,” he said solicitously.
“Good morning, Mr. Quigley.”
His hand grasped several letters addressed to her, and Leah held back a frown. “You could have dropped those in the mail slot. No need to hand deliver them.”
“Oh, on the contrary.” He removed his hat by the bill, slipped the letter out from the band, then tucked the hat under his arm. “Seeing as this came all the way from Italy, I couldn’t treat it like ordinary U.S. mail.”
Leah’s breath quickened as she caught a glimpse of an envelope with many inked cancelations and a bold, slanted script. Putting her hand to her throat, she reached for and grasped the letter. She could hear her heart beating as she scanned the postmark.
Lombardy, Italiana.
“Oh, my,” she whispered, feeling as if it were Christmas and she were about to get the best present of her life. She began to close the door, paying no heed to the prying gaze of Mr. Quigley.
A size nine wide-width storm shoe belong
ing to one Mr. Fremont Quigley wedged in the path of the door before she could fully close the panel. “Who do you know all the way in Italy?” he queried with the assertion of a man who wouldn’t be satisfied until he got an answer.
Leah would never in a million years tell the postmaster why she’d written to Italy. She’d known this day would come when he’d be nosy enough to ask, so she’d been ready with an answer for over a month. “I have a pen pal.”
“Pen pal?”
“Yes. It’s all the rage. Writing to Europe, that is.” Trying discreetly to nudge his foot away from the bottom of the door with the tip of her shoe, she succeeded in easing his Goodyear tread back a few inches, because he hadn’t been paying attention. She spoke in the narrowing crack of the door as she closed it. “Well, thank you so much for the mail. Good day, Mr. Quigley.”
Leah shut the door with an oomph and pressed her back to the heavy wood. Looking down at the paper in her hand, she was almost afraid to open the seal. She had waited so long for this. With quivering fingers, she broke open the flap and began to read the words penned in Italian.
La Signora Kirkland—
Mi dispiace di informi è stato rubato il mille denar con Il Signor Giuseppe Ciccolella . . .
Leah had to be mistranslating. She thought that the letter had said . . . No, it couldn’t have. She walked to the stairs and sat on the last tread to reread the message calmly.
Mrs. Kirkland—
I am sorry to inform you, your one thousand dollars has been stolen from you by Mr. Giuseppe Ciccolella.
I regret to say, Mr. Ciccolella has been arrested for embezzling funds from the Veneto Academy for Image Artists. Every effort is being made to recoup students’ funds, but at this time, the academy will not be operating.
Yours—
Ezio Buzzati
Investigative Commissioner of Fraud
Lombardy Constable District No. 41
The parchment fell like limp cabbage into Leah’s lap, and she stared at the colors of stained glass in the door. It couldn’t be true. Her money was gone . . . so were her expectations of studying where Alfred Stieglitz had. What was she to do now?
* * *
The children had gone swimming with the Sommercamps at the lake for the day, so Leah had stuffed the letter into the slash of her skirt pocket and walked the length of Main Street to think. She did that on occasion—take walks to clear her head, usually when she was stumped on a project and was lacking inspiration and in dire need of some. The fresh air did her good, and observing people and their habits on the streets while going about their business most times got her out of her slump. But today, Leah didn’t think a walk on Main Street could possibly fix what was now broken beyond repair.
After passing Carlyle A. Corn’s Hardware Emporium, Leah knew she needed to talk to someone. She’d always gone to Leo with her troubles. But at this moment, she felt compelled to talk to Wyatt. His name constantly lingered around the edges of her mind. She sensed he’d be able to offer her advice on how to rid herself of the jagged disappointment she was feeling. But that would mean she’d have to tell him about the Veneto Academy. It would be embarrassing to admit she’d been swindled.
Leah passed the Eternity Security Bank just as Geneva briskly walked out the door with her starched muslin petticoats in a flitter. “Leah!” she exclaimed. “My goodness! A friendly face.”
Something was definitely amiss with her mother-in-law.
“It’s dreadful!” Geneva squawked, the silk fruits anchored in her hat bobbing. “He’s really done it this time.”
Leah was scarcely in the mood for Geneva’s problems when she had her own, but she felt obligated to ask, “Who has done what?”
“That husband of mine has threatened to divorce me if I spend one more cent on what he calls ‘the worthless products of flimflam men.’ He’s being impossible, I tell you.”
Leah kept on walking with Geneva trailing along.
“I told him to be reasonable,” the older woman declared. “But no. Even to accuse me of misappropriating household funds is unthinkable. I spend no more than he does on his Republic cigars and Cascaret brandy. Am I to be denied the same luxuries as my husband? Am I a second-class citizen in my own home? Don’t I count for anything? I mean, honestly, if I don’t get my Dr. John Wilson Gibbs electric massage roller, I’ll be covered with wrinkles and have facial blemishes. Really, why shouldn’t I have the massage roller when it guarantees to take off a pound a day? Does he want me fat? I should say not. If I don’t get one of those massagers, it will be the ruin of me. My life will be over,” she lamented. “My—”
“How about my life?” Leah snipped off her tirade as if it were a dead flower that needed pruning. She couldn’t listen to another word without going crazy. “My life is in a sorry state of affairs, too. You’re not the only one with problems.”
Leah had rarely if ever spoken out of turn to Geneva and her harsh words halted the woman in her tracks. “Well, I dare say, someone is having her monthly time.”
Leah walked on, hoping Geneva would go away. But she didn’t and Leah ignored her as she came to the Anvil and Forge. The double-wide doors were thrown up, and a blacksmith’s hammer rang out from the dusky interior.
Leah thought about going inside to ask Mr. Tinhorn if he knew where she could find Wyatt at this time of the day, but Wyatt rode toward the livery on July, saving her from asking.
The sunlight shined across the horse’s black mane and coat, pouring its warmth over Wyatt and leaving his eyes in shadow beneath the brim of his hat. With the dark stubble across his jaw, he appeared unscrupulous enough to be an outlaw. But she knew better than that. All the same, she was drawn to the rugged and vital strength of his powerful body as he sat in the saddle.
She was glad he’d shown up, but not that Geneva hadn’t gone on her way. A sincere conversation with Wyatt couldn’t be personal with her mother-in-law around to listen in.
“Leah, we’re not finished with—”
“I believe we are, Geneva.” Leah smiled at Wyatt.
Wyatt gave the reins pressure, pulling back and bringing July to a halt at the curb. “Nice morning for a ride,” he said to both women. “It’s going to be a scorcher again.”
“Yes, it is,” Leah remarked, shading her eyes against the sun as she lifted her chin to gaze at him.
Leah was about to aggressively suggest that Geneva run along and buy herself the September issue of the Ladies Home Journal, then treat herself to a pink lemonade at the Coffeepot Cafe, when there came an explosive chugging. Though the noise was distant enough for Leah to have overlooked the pop-popping, that sound was definitely out of place for Eternity and was cause for notice.
Both she and Geneva gazed down the road and saw dust rising at the far edge of Main.
Cap-pow!
That gunpowder-like eruption came again, along with a chug, chug, chug. A sputtering and a wheeze sounded just the same as a ninety-year-old man with a case of far-gone tuberculous. Then the toot-toot of a bulb horn burped out a warning to a group of pedestrians in the middle of the street crossing over to the Beaumont Hotel. They ran as if they were a flock of chickens being scattered by a fox.
Wyatt’s horse nickered and snorted, making Leah jump and take several quick steps toward the livery.
“Easy, boy.” Wyatt ran his hand over the horse’s neck in an effort to sooth the skittish July.
As the blur of metal approached, Leah could make out the automobile. She didn’t know enough about them to decipher the make or model, but it was a fancy one. Plum in color where it wasn’t coated with chalky dust, with a fine leather interior and a detachable tonneau. The top was folded back in an accordion manner, and the rear part with seats was loaded with a parcel of black trunks and cases. A steady hand had painted the white script on the auto’s door:
T. N. T. Vibratrel
The smoke coming from the motor puffed out in a cloud of gray, and was likely to choke out the snoozing horses tethered on t
he posts in front of City Hall. They all started shifting their weight, eyes rolling upward.
July’s pointed ears were thrust back, his teeth and lips chomping and working over the bit in his mouth.
“Whoa, July. Whoa.” Wyatt gave the command in a low and soft voice, but with a chord of full control.
Coming into town lopsided on three rims and one tire that looked ready to burst, that heavy touring car rolled to a stop right in front of Geneva and Leah. The driver cut the engine, and a report of backfire began. July’s feet did a nervous dance, and Wyatt’s muscles were bulging in his arms when he took command of those reins to calm the black horse down.
One of the horses that’d been tethered by the reins rather than a lead rope at City Hall jerked his head and snapped the leather in two as he broke free and took off in a run up Seventh Avenue.
The car died on a vapor of stinking smoke and with Wyatt’s curse of eternal damnation. An automobile in Eternity was such a rare sight that not even Geneva bothered to scold Wyatt for swearing, because she—like the other citizens exiting buildings and gathering around for a look-see—was in awe over the machine that was radiating enough heat a person could fry an egg on its hood.
Doffing his smudged goggles and roadster hat, the man behind the dash spoke in a voice as slick as the pomade in his rust-colored hair, “Afternoon, folks. The T. N. T. stands for Tiberius N. Tee.” He slapped the lettering on the door with a loud whack. “Vibratrel! That’s what it’s all about! The best dang treatment you’ll ever find for curing cases of nervous headache, neuralgia, muscular rheumatism, insomnia, et cetera. Stimulates the entire nervous system.” Without taking a breath, he pointed his finger at Wyatt and spouted, “Son, I believe that horse of yours is in dire need of this product. He’s spooked so bad, I’d swan he’s a shaking in his iron shoes.” With that, Tiberius gave a little chuckle. Several of those in attendance laughed with him.
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