Portraits

by Stef Ann Holm

  Wyatt frowned with cold fury, his eyes hooded. “That rotten smelling contraption you’re in is what’s making this horse’s hair stand up.”

  “This rotten smelling contraption?” Tiberius parroted with mock horror. “Why, son, let me tell you a thing or two about this here automobile. It’s a top-of-the-line nineteen-ought-three Oldsmobile with power transmitted to the rear axle by a roller chain of four thousand pounds of working strength, running dee-rect,” he pronounced with a twang, “from the motor shaft. It’s operated by a single lever from the seat and responds instantly to the will of the operator. Not like that horse of yours, son, whose just about ready to bolt outta his hide.”

  “At least he’s got four solid feet, not like those chewed-up rounds of rubber you’ve got there.” Wyatt eased forward in the saddle, sitting taller. “Let’s see how far you get on them now that they’ve gone flatter than a shadow.” Then he wheeled the prancing July around and gave him the spurs.

  Though Leah didn’t share the same animosity for automobiles as Wyatt, she had found Tiberius N. Tee to be rude and brash.

  “Never mind about him, folks,” Tiberius went on. “I can tell he won’t be sampling the benefits of the Vibratrel, and be sorely lacking in health for it.” The huckster stood up and motioned the crowd in with his right hand, where he wore a gold Masonic ring on his pinky finger. “Gather around, folks. Gather around.”

  Leah gazed down the street, hoping to find Wyatt. But he had ridden out of sight. Geneva brushed past her to move in closer to Tiberius, and Leah held back, letting the onlookers walk ahead. She went to the bench in front of the livery and sat down, wishing Wyatt would return soon, that she could have the opportunity to speak with him.

  “Let me testify to this statement,” Tiberius hawked, “that the Vibratrel vibrates five thousand times a minute, folks, and is under perfect control with a switch that regulates the vibrating mechanism. The machine is so simple to use, it can be handled by a child. Now if that hasn’t got your attention, ladies and gentlemen, you are surely not the customers for me.”

  Geneva piped up like a church organ. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Tiberius N. Tee, but I believe it’s going to be Tibby to you, good madam. All my customers call me Tibby.” He grinned like a fat cat. “Now then, folks, the Vibratrel is nickel plated and comes complete in an attractive case, and it’s a bargain for the price.”

  “Just what is the price?” someone asked.

  “Anyone who cares about the fortification of their body can’t afford not to have a Vibratrel,” Tibby countered in a crafty tone.

  A few of the spectators scoffed at the way he was hedging and wandered off, and Tibby acted fast. “I agree, folks. It’s hot out here.” He flipped the car door open and hopped out. “No sense in doing business on the street. I’ll be checking into a room at the nearest hotel and giving a demonstration in the lobby at eight this evening.” To the disbanding crowd, he announced, “And by the by, not only do I endorse the Vibratrel, I have a complete line of wigs, hairpieces, toupees, and mustaches that are of the finest quality and can’t be bought in a catalog anywhere.”

  Geneva lingered, her teeth catching her lower lip.

  Tibby tipped his hat to her. “Pretty lady, would you be so kind as to point me to the nearest hardware store. It would seem I have three flat tires and am running that eight-horse power engine of mine on mere gasoline fumes. Time for a fill-up.”

  “Oh, my . . . well . . .” Geneva blushed brighter than a new penny. “Why, I could show you where the hardware store is, if you want.”

  “I would be delighted to share your company on the walk.” He offered her the crook of his arm and Geneva took it without blinking an eye. “And may I say, good madam, that the Vibratrel could work wonders for you. Though I’m sure you are in excellent health as we speak. Not a day over forty, to be certain.”

  Geneva tittered. “Oh, you’re too kind.”

  “Never, my dear. I know classic good health. But one can never take fitness for granted. I believe that the Vibratrel could make a new woman out of you.”

  Their voices droned to murmurs, and Leah could hear no more. Not that she wanted to. Geneva wasn’t acting her age, nor herself, and Leah hoped Hartzell gave her what-for when he found out his wife had bought a T. N. T. Vibratrel when he’d specifically told her not to purchase another newfangled doodad to restore her youth and beauty.

  “If there’s some justice in this town, Bean Scudder’s going to kick that man’s hide out of Eternity before sundown.”

  Turning toward the sound of Wyatt’s voice, Leah mutely nodded, following his hard gaze leveled on the Oldsmobile.

  “I came through the back of the livery,” Wyatt explained, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “That drummer rubbed me the wrong way.”

  Leah rose from the bench and agreed, “But I bet he’s going to sell a few of those Vibratrels before he leaves town.”

  Slapping the dust from his hat, Wyatt replaced the Stetson on his head and thrust his hands into his back pockets. “I’ve got a half hour before I have to be at the Happy City. Can I buy you a cola?”

  “I’d like that, Wyatt.”

  Wyatt put his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the cafe.

  Casswell Tinhorn’s voice beckoned before they got too far along. “Hey, Wyatt!”

  Turning, Wyatt lifted his chin a notch. “Yeah?”

  “Found y’all a bronc you can practice on.” The creases at the corners of Tinhorn’s eyes were lined with soot, and his flushed face shined with sweat. “A friend of mine pastures a gelding down yonder by the Aspenglow on a forty-acre place. Ax Miller—that’s his name, said you could help yourself to B. B. tomorrow. Ax and his wife’ll be at church in the morning, so if you go out early, B. B. is the fleabitten roan. I didn’t have any luck with the bull though, but I’ve got one more possibility.”

  “Obliged, Tinhorn.”

  “Y’all are crazy, you know.” Casswell wiped the grime from his neck with a handkerchief that hadn’t been white in some time. “You’re too old to be getting y’self throwed off a pony.”

  Wyatt shrugged dismissively. “I’ve still got all my teeth.”

  “Not for long,” the blacksmith snorted. “Y’all are going to get ’em kicked out if you get your mouth in the line of fire.”

  “Don’t plan to.”

  Tinhorn waved them off and went back inside. Wyatt went on with Leah and she gave him a speculative glance.

  “Are you really going to try and break a wild horse?”

  “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  “I need the practice.”

  Leah was given no opportunity to inquire further, as they’d reached the Coffeepot Cafe and Wyatt held the door open for her. A bell jingled overhead announcing their arrival. The small restaurant was tiny but cozy with round tables covered by hand-embroidered cotton cloths. No matter what time of the year, a patron could always find a seasonal centerpiece on his table. Whether it was fresh-cut garden flowers, pine boughs and cranberries, or corn husks and miniature pumpkins, Shelva DuChenne ran a nice little eatery. She did mostly all the cooking herself, and was best known for her brown Betty. Her daughter Grace ran the dining room and appeared from the back with an apron around her slim waist and an order pad in her hand.

  The noon dinner rush had a ways to go before it commenced, so Leah and Wyatt pretty much had the cafe to themselves. The only other customers were the eldest members of the B.P.O.E. No. 406, Wither Fosdick and Huff McMasters, two of Eternity’s best checker players. They’d set up a board near the dotted swiss-curtained window where the sun blazed across their table. Each was dozing through a game half finished.

  “Hi there,” Grace DuChenne greeted in a friendly tone as Wyatt removed his hat. “Good to see you, Mrs. Kirkland. Been a long time since you come into the cafe. Sit wherever you want. The place isn’t near full-up yet.”

  Wyatt ch
ose a table in the corner nearest to the back wall. He held a chair out for her and Leah sat as Grace flapped menus down before them.

  “We’d like two Coca-Colas, darlin’,” Wyatt said, handing the menus back.

  An unexpected pang of jealousy knocked Leah in the ribs. Though the owner’s daughter was pretty with her corn silk-colored hair in a fashionable twist, and meadow-green eyes that were trimmed with thick blond lashes, she had barely turned seventeen this summer. She was awfully young for Wyatt . . . but too comely not to turn his head.

  Suddenly, Leah felt every bit her twenty-six years. She found herself reaching to the back of her neck to fuss with the baby-fine wisps of hair that always seemed to fall from her bun. When Wyatt’s gaze followed the younger woman as she went off to get their drinks, Leah quickly pinched some color into her cheeks and wet her lips to make them shine.

  “Do you come here often?” Leah asked in what she hoped was a tone as casual as Sunday.

  Redirecting his gaze on Leah, Wyatt adjusted the lineup of the salt and pepper shakers. “Not all that much. I sometimes buy breakfast. The food is always hot and the service is pleasant.”

  “Hmm.” Leah didn’t feel any better.

  Grace returned with two colas she’d already popped the caps to, and with glasses tipped upside-down over their narrow mouths. She set each bottle and aligned the glasses next to them, then pulled a bill from her apron pocket and set it between Wyatt and Leah. “If there’s anything else you’ll be wanting, just give a holler. I’ll be in back.”

  Leah watched the girl retreat, wondering why Grace had put the ticket in the middle, as if the refreshment might just be Leah’s treat. But Leah supposed she could see how the young girl had gotten that impression. All Grace had ever seen was that Leah Kirkland paid her own way, so why would she accept a Coca-Cola from Wyatt Holloway?

  Wanting to groan, Leah silently poured the drink into the glass and took a small sip. She refused to think about how she must appear to be the self-sufficient dowager to those surrounding her. Instead of dwelling on that, she reached into her pocket, took the letter out, and smoothed the wrinkles from the edges as she flattened the paper on the table.

  “You never asked why I wanted to learn Italian,” she began.

  Wyatt drank his cola from the bottle rather than using the glass. “I figured so you could make out what those opera records were talking about.”

  “Partially, but that’s not the entire reason.” She fingered the corner of the envelope, then lifted it to show Wyatt. “It’s from Italy. A few months ago, I mailed my enrollment fee to the Veneto Academy for Image Artists in Lombardy so I could study photography where Alfred Stieglitz had. I sent the school a thousand dollars.”

  Wyatt whistled softly and let the pitch fall slowly silent. “A thousand dollars is a lot of money to spend on some academy.”

  “I would have paid two thousand if it could have gotten me into the school. But that doesn’t matter now. My tuition was stolen. Embezzled by the school’s director. The Veneto has been shut down, and I’m out the money with no place to go.”

  Wyatt grew thoughtful, “I thought you wanted to win that contest and go to New York?”

  “Oh, I do. But Italy is where all the master artists began.”

  “So forget it and stay here.” Wyatt’s eyes held hers, then he quietly added, “Or if you want to be so much like this Stieglitz guy, go to New York and meet him.”

  The air in Leah’s lungs compressed. “I only wish! But heavens, no. I couldn’t just knock on his door and say hello. He’s just the most famous photographer that there is—for a man. There are women with great talent—E. Alice Austen, Anne Brigman, and Gertrude Käsebier—but none have captured his success. He’s like Leonardo da Vinci was to art. He’s . . . well, he’s simply the best in the business. He’s won every conceivable award. No, I couldn’t just show up at the Little Galleries without being invited.”

  “Then win the contest.”

  “Would I that I could.” Leah ran her fingertips over the letter’s surface, grazing the slanted words that had been written in a city so far away. “But in order to win, the artist’s work has to be so outstanding and compelling that the images leap off the paper. I don’t have that kind of talent.”

  “I thought what you showed me the other night looked good.”

  “Amateurish,” she countered. “I realize that now. I don’t have a chance of winning that contest with those photographs. I don’t know why I even considered them.”

  Bringing himself forward, Wyatt leaned toward her and touched her fingers. The light contact sent a warming shiver through her. “That’s not true. I think you have a lot of talent.”

  “I appreciate the confidence, Wyatt. Truly I do. But you don’t understand what it’s like to be a woman photographer. Men have so long held the most advantageous place behind cameras, and in various professions, simply because they are expected to make a business and not a pastime of what they undertake. Because of my gender, what I do is looked upon as a hobby.” She absorbed the warmth from his fingers, pausing to gaze at the connection of their hands. His comfort gave her the courage to admit, “I thought that if I could go to the Veneto, I could be famous and prove everyone wrong. But now it’s not to be, and I don’t know where to turn or what to do.”

  He captured her eyes with his, a window of compassion and commiseration lighting the blue depths. “Sometimes life can kick you in the butt.”

  * * *

  Wyatt gave Leah’s fingers a slight squeeze before letting go. He hadn’t planned on holding her hand, but it had seemed natural that he’d reach out to her. She didn’t seem shocked by his cynical words, or even that he’d referred to a part of the anatomy.

  “Your plans for a ranch aren’t going well?”

  “Yeah. The money I need hasn’t turned up like I thought it would.”

  “If you need Hartzell to draw up a draft at the bank, or to contact the branch where your money is to come from, I’m sure he’d be happy to assist you.”

  “It’s not that easy.” Wyatt gazed at the calluses on his right hand, running his thumbnail over the ridge of hard skin on his palm. He’d never dreamed he’d still be in Eternity weeks after he’d arrived. All those years he’d plotted and gone through the motions of digging up those satchels, his visualization had never had him picking at sandstone for days on end with nothing but aching joints to show for his time. Hell, it was just like he was still on Table Rock, with a pick and a ten-hour day without a thought to call his own. His spirits were so low, and his paycheck from Leo just barely getting him by, that Wyatt had to face the fact that it could be weeks, maybe even months, before he ever found a hint of apricot can . . . if even that. But he couldn’t accept that he’d be flat busted and broke after he’d put so much into looking for that sixty thousand dollars.

  “You already have a banker handling your account?” Leah’s inquiry broke through his reflections.

  “The money isn’t going to come from any bank.” Wyatt had had ample time to come up with a story. One that would accommodate anyone who asked—namely, Scudder. “I’m waiting on a fellow to arrive in Eternity with some payoff funds I invested in long ago. Only he hasn’t shown up yet, and I’ve got to do something while I’m waiting.”

  Leah’s brows rose. “Do what?”

  Wyatt dug into his denim pocket and took out the quarter-folded flyer that had been pasted up over every available electric pole and fence plank. Smoothing the crease out, he showed Leah. Her gaze lowered to the lettering and she quietly scanned the advertisement. Wyatt knew it by heart.

  The Aspenglow River Stampede and Eternity Grange No. 321 Exposition had printed the circular calling would-be buckaroos to take a ride on the wild side. One-hundred-dollar cash awards for best bronc bareback skills, bull riding, calf roping, and steer wrestling. Wyatt intended on winning all four. That’d be four hundred big ones in his threadworn pocket. Money he couldn’t afford not to go after.

  Leah�
�s eyes met his, their color a fiery brown. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Naw. I’ve got rawhide gloves and spurs. That’s all I need. That and some practice.” Wyatt fingered the stubble on his jaw, thinking he would have shaved this morning had he known he’d be sitting across from Leah at a table.

  “I assume you know what you’re doing when it comes to cattle. But that doesn’t mean you have to tangle with a bull for a hundred dollars.” She caught a bead of moisture on her bottle before it rolled to the tablecloth and wet the surface. His eyes followed the tip of her finger moving slowly across the glass. He found the gesture to be innocently erotic, making his insides tighten and giving him a run for his concentration on what she was saying. “Last winter over at Half Pint Gilman’s place, a ranch hand was gored to death. I didn’t know him personally, but I knew of him. Everyone said he was a nice young boy, and his dying like that gives me a case of the shivers.”

  Snapping his gaze from her hand, Wyatt ventured, “I can’t argue with you that it’s dangerous. It’s been some time since I gave a bull the chance to put me in a funeral parlor, and I have no desire to get my guts ripped out by sharp horns. I think once a man knows how to go about dropping a steer, the method’ll stick with him all his life. But first things first. Tomorrow, I’m going to give B. B. a try and see if I can stick my seat to him for a wild ride.”

  “But what if he throws you?”

  “There’s no what if, darlin’,” he said, unable to quell her concern. “He will buck me off, and that’s a fact. What counts is how long I can stay on him before I take flight.”

  He could see by the determination on her oval face that she was fixing for a debate about the logistics of having the wind knocked out of his chest, so he quickly maneuvered the subject to ram home his point. “Leah, sometimes you’ve got to take life by the horns and run with it no matter that what you’re doing isn’t what you’d call comfortable. Maybe you ought to take a picture that’s totally unlike you. Something that will make those judges stand up and peel their eyes wide open. Make yourself stick out a little more.”