Portraits

by Stef Ann Holm

  But Wyatt had had a far-off look on his face. A distance in his eyes that made her think he wasn’t with her, but rather recalling some other moment. She’d asked him what was wrong, but he refused to talk to her. Instead, he’d walked away, only to be swallowed in the throng of exposition goers.

  “Hey, Wyatt!” Tug tromped through the foyer in his cowboy boots and met Wyatt, pulling Leah from her thoughts of yesterday.

  “How you doing today, Tug?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.”

  Though it wasn’t appropriate for a man to enter a lady’s home when she wasn’t properly dressed, Leah sensed by the serious look on Wyatt’s face that he wanted to discuss something important with her.

  “Let Wyatt in, Rosalure.”

  “Sure, Momma.”

  Wyatt entered and removed his hat. The locks of his dark hair were neatly combed, and his clothing was clean and pressed. He might have come for a social call were it not for the somber line of his mouth.

  “You two run along and finish getting ready for church. If you don’t dally and argue, I’ll let you go to Nanna’s right after services for cookies and milk,” Leah said, thinking it best for her and Wyatt to be alone. Both Tug and Rosalure bounded up the stairs past her, and she heard the doors to their rooms slam closed.

  Leah lay her hand lightly on the banister as she continued her assent. “Wyatt, is something wrong?”

  He looked down a moment, then up at her. “No.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “I just wanted to tell you that I saw the paper and the picture looked nice.”

  Leah could tell there was more, but wasn’t sure how to bring it out of Wyatt. “I know you weren’t thrilled about the idea, but I was hoping you’d be pleased with the results.”

  “If you’ve got a minute, could you show me your studio? I’d like to see where you developed the picture. I’m just a little curious now how everything goes together.”

  Wyatt had never had an interest in her business apartment before. Not that he was disinterested, but seeing that he didn’t want his portrait done, Leah had had no reason to show him upstairs before. She was proud of her working area, but hadn’t wanted to appear boastful and encourage him to step inside her studio. Now that he was asking, even though her time was tight she couldn’t refuse.

  “I’d be happy to show you, Wyatt. But I’ve got to be at the church in a half hour.”

  “I won’t keep you.”

  Leah turned and went up the stairs, feeling Wyatt’s eyes boring into her back as she did so. It was as if he were trying to look at her from the inside out and see who she really was.

  * * *

  For Wyatt, finding the money on the mountain had become inconsequential for the moment. He hadn’t given the moving of the cross and its new whereabouts more than a passing thought after Rosalure had made the comment about being laid out on an undertaker’s table. As soon as he started figuring facts and dates, he began putting together a far-fetched scenario.

  Leah Kirkland could be Little Darlin’.

  He didn’t want it to be true. But too many pieces to a complex puzzle were falling into place. She was a photographer. She was of the age Little Darlin’ would be today. Her son’s middle name was Edwin, as in Edwin Darling in Telluride. Leah had no living family; that meant no mother. Too many clues. Too many fingers pointing in her direction.

  Wyatt hadn’t slept all night. All the places, all the people he could have picked to be and befriend, he couldn’t have turned full circle and met up with Little Darlin’ again. He just couldn’t have. What kind of cruel fate would that be for a man who’d suffered years of incarceration . . . years of not knowing whether he’d killed a child’s mother. Years of trying to put the past behind him, only to have it confront him headlong in the face.

  He had to find out who Leah was. And he had to know without asking. If Leah had been that girl in Telluride, and if she ever found out who he was, she’d hate him.

  He wouldn’t blame her. But he’d become too close to her to let her go. Too many feelings were riding the line here. He was afraid to lose her without ever having had her heart. Leah had taken his life and given it meaning. Because of her, he wanted to stay in Eternity and start afresh. But he could never stay if she was Little Darlin’. He couldn’t face her each day knowing that he’d had a part in her mother’s death and outright deceiving her as to who he really was.

  Wyatt wanted to go to her studio for the simple reason that if she was Little Darlin’, there could be a picture of her when she was younger. The photograph parlor that he’d been in had scads of pictures. Some of customers, some of family. All sorts of cartes de visite, cabinet photos, and cards. If only she’d kept some of her old photographs downstairs, he would have known sooner. But the only ones she displayed in her parlor were of her children and her wedding portrait.

  Needing to see a likeness of her parents had made him come to seek the truth. Though it had been a long time, he felt he could identify Evaline Darling. She’d been a striking woman. The kind of woman a man didn’t easily forget.

  The hallway carpet buffered his steps as Wyatt followed. The odor of chemicals grew and he had the same feeling he had the first time he’d entered her home: an overwhelming need to hold his breath and run. Leah went through an open doorway into a room bright with sunshine from skylights, and he followed. The smells were stronger and his nostrils smarted as he was brought back in time to Darling’s on that fateful day in 1887.

  Wyatt couldn’t be distracted by a place in time. He put a wedge of distance between himself and back then, focusing instead on the present and taking in his surroundings.

  The walls were blue and ivory, colors that softened the interior and gave a velvety look to the studio. Rugs of exotic patterns laid on the floor, while pots filled with ferns and flowers dappled the free space in the corners and on the window ledges. An easel with a backdrop setting of a lush garden stood next to a window where negatives were anchored by clothespins and hung on string that sagged across the sash.

  Plain as day, the transparent imprint of him and Tug dangled over the window.

  “Well, this is it,” Leah said as she clasped her hands in front of her. “It’s nothing fancy, but it suffices quite nicely. This room used to be a bedroom, but I converted it into my work space. The water closet is my darkroom.”

  Nodding, Wyatt’s gaze didn’t meet Leah’s. He took a slow stroll through the room, taking in all the photographs that were on display. At each framed picture, he paused and gave the portraits a thorough examination. None struck a chord with him. But he continued to each table until he reached one with a lace cloth draped over the surface. Amid the ornate frames of silver and etched wood, he found what he feared most.

  Wyatt’s palms grew damp and his nerve endings stabbed tiny needles into his pulse. Stretching his hand out, he lifted an oval off the tabletop and brought the portrait closer. The image was that of a girl in a pinafore, her hair plaited close to her head. The half-smile was unmistakably Leah’s . . . unmistakably Little Darlin’s.

  “I was about nine in that photograph.” Leah had come to stand behind him. He felt her presence, her warmth, soaking into him and making him want to take her in his arms and forget he’d ever seen the picture. Forget about everything.

  Wyatt gently set the frame back on the table, trying to keep his fingers from shaking. “Where was it taken?”

  “Telluride. At my father’s gallery.”

  Closing his eyes, Wyatt cursed Harlen Shepard Riley’s existence. “Your father was a photographer?”

  “Yes.” Leah reached for another picture. “This is a picture of him and my mother.”

  Wyatt could barely look at the images of the couple dressed in their best before a curtain of velvet. Edwin had a look of pride about him, while Evaline held herself with a regal pose and not a hint of a smile. She was just as beautiful as Wyatt had remembered.

  With his stomach clenched tightly, Wyatt said, “You
don’t speak about them much.”

  Replacing the photograph, Leah dusted the edge with her fingertips. “My mother died when I was young, and my father passed away the year I turned seventeen and married my husband. I took my father’s death very hard, but my mother’s . . . I don’t like to think about that.” Leah’s voice clogged with emotion.

  Though Wyatt hated to, he had to know how Leah felt about that day. How she’d coped, how she’d gone on . . . what had happened to her. Had she known about him? What had become of him? Had she tried to find out?

  His throat dry as parchment, Wyatt asked, “How did she die?”

  Leah’s gaze met his. “She was murdered in Telluride. I saw her get shot.”

  Wyatt could barely hear over the pounding of his heartbeat as it battered his ribs. “What happened?”

  “A notorious gang of outlaws came into the studio to have their portrait taken, though we didn’t know their occupation at the time. I don’t recall much about them, other than there was one . . .” Her voice drifted as her brows furrowed. Wyatt inhaled so deeply his chest hurt. “I remember him most, because he gave me candy. He seemed like a gentleman. They all were dressed so nicely. But they were coldblooded killers. Every one of them.”

  Wyatt didn’t think he could listen to any more. He felt as if the ceiling were dropping down on him, closing over him and crushing his bones to dust.

  Leah fingered a ribbon on her gown and wet her lips. “When they left with their portrait, I thought that was the end of it, but then the gunfire started. I looked out the window and saw my mother crossing the street. She wore a light-colored dress. I can’t recall the exact shade.”

  Peach. The color came to Wyatt as if he were right there with Evaline Darling all over again. Why hadn’t he seen that Leah looked so much like her? Her eyes, her hair, the shape of her face.

  “Then the horses and riders came barreling down the street, and the next thing I saw was Mother falling . . . into the gutter, her pale dress covered with mud and blood. I’ll never forget the way she lay there. So still . . .” A tear slipped from Leah’s eyes, rolling down her cheek and splashing on the collar of her robe.

  Wyatt wanted desperately to comfort Leah. To touch her. But his hands were stained. He couldn’t betray her in such a way as to console her about himself.

  “And then he rode by and our eyes met,” Leah went on. “I don’t know if he was the one or not, but I had to blame someone for what had happened. And since he’d looked at me, I’ve always known Harlen Shepard Riley had to be the one who killed her.”

  She spoke the name with such disdain, Wyatt wanted to erase it from her lips, putting passion on her mouth instead of hatred. But what had been done could not be undone.

  “Did they ever capture him?” he asked in a voice so heavy with pain, he could barely speak.

  She shook her head. “No. No one ever saw him again. We heard he’d fled to Canada with money he’d stolen from a bank in Silverton. That was all. He never had to suffer for what he did to my mother. He never had to pay the way my father did. Living alone with his heart broken.”

  If Leah could know, could understand that Wyatt’s heart had broken that day, too, perhaps . . .

  Wyatt lowered his head, letting go of hopes that made him feel pitiful. There was no way to make her understand that he’d been young and reckless. There was no way to tell her that he’d spent seventeen years in hell paying for what he’d done. None of that could bring Evaline back.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Wyatt offered in a tone so chock-full of emotion, he thought he might break down and spill his guts. But words of sympathy would be too little, too late.

  Leah lay her hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”

  Shame ate at him so deeply, he felt the marrow of his bones being chewed.

  “I didn’t mean to cry,” Leah said. “It’s just that . . . I loved my mother, but I never told her that I did. I tried to show her, but she couldn’t see. I think that’s why it’s so important that I be successful in my photography. She wanted to be an actress and wasn’t able to, because she was a wife and mother. I want her to be proud of me.”

  “I’m proud of you.” Wyatt’s words were whispered softer than a feather. His breathing was labored and he had to get out of the room before he suffocated from the strong components of developing liquids that permeated from the walls, the floor, the very air he was sucking into his lungs.

  “Are you all right?” She lifted her hand to his cheek. Her fingers burned him and he wanted to crush her next to his chest and breathe in the perfume of her hair. He wanted to close off everything inside him but her. But wanting to and being able to were tearing him in two. He had to leave. To get away.

  Slipping away from her touch, he said, “I’ve kept you too long. I’ve got to go.”

  “Wyatt?” Leah followed him to the door. “Are you sure you’re all right? You don’t look well.”

  He didn’t feel well. His stomach was lurching and punching his guts to bits. “I’ve got to be going.” But seconds before he turned, he put her face to memory, drinking in every detail until he could draw her portrait in his head.

  Then Wyatt left, taking the stairs two at a time before they could swallow him whole.

  Once he was out the door, he gulped in the cleansing air and nearly ran for the Starlight Hotel. He needed a plan.

  But he needed money worse.

  He thought seriously about robbing the Eternity Security Bank. He had to get out of town. Away from Leah before he broke down and told her the truth about everything. Before he told her that he loved her. But nothing good would come of her knowing who he’d been. Revealing who he was would just dredge up her hurt and add to her scars.

  There were some loose ends he had to tie up before he left. One was getting hold of that negative of him and Tug and destroying it. He couldn’t stop his photograph from circulating in the local newspaper, but he didn’t want any more copies produced. If any of the boys ever saw that picture, they’d come hunt him down with a vengeance.

  Wyatt thought of all that cash on the mountain and hated to leave it. But unearthing the money would take time. Time he didn’t have. He couldn’t afford to stay another day.

  When Leah was at church, he’d have to break into her house and take the negative . . . then he’d figure out what to do about the bank. Just the thought of wielding a gun against Hartzell and telling him to put up the cash made Wyatt grow stone cold.

  What kind of man was he, that he could turn around and rob a friend? That he could even think about it, much less go through with it.

  Hadn’t he changed at all? Or was he fooling himself? Was Wyatt Holloway nothing more than a shadow of Harlen Shepard Riley?

  * * *

  The house was quiet when Leah returned home from church alone. Removing her hat and gloves, Leah climbed the stairs with the intentions of changing her moiré dusty-rose dress for a simpler ivory linen. As she neared the top landing, she froze, thinking that she heard a noise from her studio. She listened closely but could discern nothing further. Taking extra care with her steps, she proceeded. She knew which areas on the floor to avoid, which planks that groaned beneath her weight. Nearing her studio, she held back in the doorway and peeked around the jamb.

  Wyatt stood at the window where she kept her negatives. He had one in his hand and folded it before she could stop him.

  “What are you doing?” Her unflinching question rang through the room. She wasn’t nearly as upset about finding him in her home as she was about his destroying one of her prints.

  He swiveled quickly, confronting her. “Leah.”

  Entering the studio, she went straight to him and took the film from his grasp. She saw the print was of Wyatt and Tug. She’d been proud of that picture. Even more so than others, because this one had Wyatt in it. She’d planned on making a copy for herself to keep on display. Now it was ruined. Lifting her gaze to his, she asked, “Why?”

  “I don
’t want my picture in a newspaper again. I don’t want my picture showing up anywhere. If you don’t have the negative, you can’t make another copy.”

  “But I wouldn’t have. Not without asking you.”

  “You couldn’t ask me if I wasn’t around.”

  Leah’s earlier apprehensions about Wyatt’s strange behavior rose, but even more concern about his implication. “Are you leaving Eternity?”

  His steelly blue eyes held hers. “Would you miss me if I did?”

  “Of course I would miss you.” Fear knotted inside her. He’d always said he’d leave. But she thought . . . hoped . . . he changed his mind. “We all would miss you. Tug and Rosalure. Leo. Everyone.” Less troubled over his sneaking into her home, she took his hand in hers. “Something happened yesterday, didn’t it? It’s not just the photograph that has you acting so unlike yourself. Tell me, Wyatt. Please.” She gave his fingers light pressure. “You can tell me anything.”

  He drew away from her, removed his hat, and ran his hands through his hair, tousling the locks. “There are some things I can’t tell you.”

  “No, there aren’t. There can’t be. We’re friends . . . more than friends,” she added quietly. “At least you are to me. I trust you, Wyatt. Whatever it is, it can’t be all that bad. I could help you.”

  “You can’t help me.” Replacing his Stetson, he went to the window once more and gazed through the pane at the cross high on the mountain. His words were as far off as the icon. “You don’t know me. I’ve done things in the past.”

  “I know who you are now. That’s all that matters.” Leah stood behind him, putting her hand on his shoulder and thinking how right he felt next to her. She’d known for some time that he was special. That she’d grown in her desires since she’d met him. Wyatt was strong and caring. His presence was good for Tug and he treated Rosalure as if she was a grown-up young lady. Hartzell was fond of him, and even Geneva had turned around in her opinions.