Portraits

by Stef Ann Holm

  —Chinese proverb

  November 11, 1892

  Idaho State Penitentiary

  Harlen had had the dream again. That he’d been digging for the money. Unearthing it had been so easy. He’d gone straight to the spot by the cross, lifted a couple of scoops of dirt with a shovel, and there they were. Those Yellow Crawford apricot cans and the satchels. Just where he’d left them.

  It was so simple.

  His life was going to be just as simple when he got out. He’d have no worries. He’d be set. And after his application for a pardon went through today, he’d be out free and clear to get himself a decent soak in a tub, then buy a drink and a woman.

  Everything would be as it always had.

  November 8, 1897

  Idaho State Penitentiary

  In 1893, the old wooden wall surrounding the prison had come tumbling down, replaced by a new sandstone structure that convict labor had built. The town had come out in force to watch the unveiling. Harlen had wished he hadn’t had to be there to see it.

  After his petition had been denied, he’d spent the next five years as a stone cutter in the quarry. His body developed into that of a man’s. As solid as the rock he picked at, day in and day out.

  Richard Robison had an appointment in the morning with the new governor of Idaho, named Steunenberg, and the incoming warden, Charles VanDorn. Harlen had seen five prior wardens come and go. He figured not even the prison system could hold a man inside if it wasn’t his sentence. The walls were full of miscreants and offenders, most of whom would never reform. Each day the dining hall message board had new notices to the prisoners tacked to it.

  Suicide wasn’t uncommon, though Harlen had never considered that way out. Even when his pardon had been denied in 1892, he’d taken his anger out on his cell and destroyed prison property. Putting a twisted bedsheet around his neck would have been the easy way out. Harlen wanted his freedom too badly to cheat himself out of walking through the penitentiary doors when his time was up.

  Life took on a routine for Harlen. Getting up at the same hour, going to bed at the same hour, eating the same food three times a day for 365 days of the year. He stayed to himself after Manny died. To those who would try and befriend him, he made it clear that he wanted to be left alone. Fighting became a way of survival.

  Dreaming about getting the money became his only thread of sanity and hope of a better existence.

  That and his pardon hearing on the eighth of November. He’d composed the letter himself, struggling to get everything spelled right and having Richard correct it for him. Over the years, he’d learned to write better, having nothing else to do at night but look through the handful of books the prison offered its inmates and study how sentences were put together.

  Sitting on the edge of his cot as the rain battered the rooftop, Harlen lit a match he’d hoarded and scratched a flame to life. He held the letter to the waning light to read his words once more.

  Application for Pardon

  Boise, Idaho

  November 1, 1897

  To the Hon. Board of Prison Commissioners

  Gentlemen:

  I, Harlen Shepard Riley, who am serving a twenty-year sentence in the Idaho State Penitentiary for Grand Larceny, arrested under Sec. 6452 of the Revised Statutes of Idaho, plead guilty to the crime of “armed robbery.” I do hereby apply to your Hon. Board, for a full and free Pardon. I have worked truly and faithfully for the State, especially in the Quarry, and have observed the prison rules to the best of my ability. If granted a pardon, I promise to be a good and law-abiding citizen, and apply myself to the laws of society; in your petitioner, will ever pray.

  Signed,

  Harlen Shepard Riley

  Convict No. 628

  November 11, 1901

  Idaho State Penitentiary

  The new century had come upon the penitentiary without fanfare. There had been speculation among the prisoners that they would finally see plumbing and electricity. Both came. The plumbing was not without numerous notices to the prisoners about its use and what not to put down the pipes. And the electricity was nothing that any of them could operate. Lights had been installed down the middle of the cell house but none in the cells, so prisoners were kept in the dark when a main switch was thrown and those big glass bulbs shut down until the following night, when they remained on only for one hour.

  In September of 1900, Harlen received a letter from Richard Robison. Harlen was able to read enough by trial and error to make out that Richard had been called out of the West to return back East to Boston to see to an estate of his wife’s. In his place, he was putting a Boise attorney by the name of Stanton Mercer on Harlen’s case to plea for his release the following year.

  Harlen’s faith had been tested for nearly a decade and a half. Though he wouldn’t admit to it, he’d fallen back on some of the Bible verses his dad had read to him when he’d been a boy. Harlen didn’t own a Good Book, nor did he read the several the prison made available.

  On a gray November 11, 1901, fourteen years after Harlen’s incarceration, he was denied one again. He fell into a grave depression that might have killed him had it not been for the intense work in the quarry and a guard by the name of Jack Holloway. Holloway had been from Utah and taken a liking to Harlen. He gave him magazines and newspapers to catch him up on the outside. It had been years since Harlen had had a cigarette, and Holloway supplied him with a few hand-rolleds every now and then.

  The Petitioner’s Act of 1901 came into effect that year, making it possible for Harlen to reapply for citizenship in three years instead of five.

  Those next three years were nearly void of emotion for Harlen. If denied once again, that would mean he’d have to spend his full twenty years in the pen. A thought that was too dispiriting for him to accept.

  April 29, 1904

  Idaho State Penitentiary

  C. S. Perrine, the warden who had come to the Idaho pen in February the year before, was willing to look at Harlen’s application seven months early. Stanton Mercer took it over to the office, where the hearing was short, and within the hour Harlen was called to the commissary.

  Harlen stood stock-still, having gone through disappointment so often. He knew the routine, the stance to take to bear the news.

  Stanton lowered his lawyer’s case onto the tabletop and pulled out a document that he handed to Harlen.

  Harlen’s hand shook as he scanned the paper.

  Restoration to Citizenship

  No. 11028

  THE STATE OF IDAHO

  VS.

  Harlen Shepard Riley

  Convicted in the District Court of Bear Lake County,

  November Term, A.D. 1887.

  Offense: Grand larceny

  Term of Sentence: 20 Years.

  Executive Office,

  Boise, Idaho April 29 1904

  For the reason that the above-named convict has served out in satisfactory conduct his sentence in the Penitentiary, for good behavior, he is granted a full pardon and restored to full citizenship and the right of suffrage.

  By the order of the Governor,

  J. Morrison

  Harlen lifted his gaze to Stanton, unable to speak.

  “There’ll be some more paperwork to file. It’s not like you can walk out today.”

  Nodding, Harlen was feeling emotions that were undescribable. There was also a numbness. A foggy sense of disbelief that he would be able to walk across the “deadline” and through the Trinity arch that he’d helped to build, without one of the guards taking a shot at him.

  Harlen couldn’t sleep that night. He laid in his cot imagining all that fresh air he was going to be able to smell. Would the sky be bluer on the outside? The trees greener?

  A clerical error in the paperwork caused a three-month delay in Harlen’s release. On June 24, all that was required was another signature by Governor Morrison and final documentation by the warden’s secretary.

  And then, at 8:00 A.M., on th
e first day of July, 1904, Harlen Shepard Riley walked out of the Idaho State Penitentiary with the clothes on his back and seven dollars and twenty-eight cents. As soon as his resoled boot hit the free ground, he left Harlen’s battered shadow behind and became Wyatt Holloway, a man with a quest.

  23

  Money unjustly gotten is but snow on which hot water is poured.

  —Chinese proverb

  Leah’s week was ending as miserably as it had begun. Her encounter with Wyatt over the weekend had kept slipping through her thoughts. Despite working on the photographs for the school, she felt listless during the day. At night, sleep came only in drifts of fleeting moments. She couldn’t eat much, and caught herself staring out her office’s second-story window to the mountainside where Wyatt rode each morning before going to the restaurant.

  This morning, as she’d been pinning negatives to print on the cording across the window, she held back when she saw Wyatt returning to town earlier than normal. He sat astride his black horse, July, who’d been loaded down with several bundles wrapped in canvas. On all other occasions, he’d ridden down Main Street without a pack tethered to the back of his saddle.

  It would seem that Wyatt had finally found what he’d been looking for.

  Turning away from the curtains, Leah went on to finish her work, trying diligently to put Wyatt from her mind, with marginal success. By the time the children came home from school she’d completed only one print. In her attempt to immerse herself in her surroundings, she’d gotten sidetracked when she’d looked for special velox with a matt surface, and had ended up cleaning out her paper cabinet. That had led to the table, and from there the filing cabinets where she stored the original orders she’d taken for the past several years.

  “Momma!” Rosalure burst into the room, out of breath. She must have run the entire way from the school to home. “You’ll never guess.”

  Sitting on the floor surrounded by old files, Leah looked up. “What?”

  “Donny chased me around the schoolyard and he told Pinkie that he thought I was pretty.”

  “You are pretty.”

  Tug came sauntering in the studio, unceremoniously dropping a picture book onto the settee. “Hello, Momma.”

  “Did you have a good day at school?”

  “It was all right.” Tug slumped onto the floor by Leah. “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning.”

  Rosalure kneeled down next to the stacks of files, absently undoing the braiding at the back of one envelope and opening the flap. “You never clean anything.” Sliding a portrait out, she gazed at it.

  “Well, it was time to, I suppose.”

  Tug crossed his legs and investigated, too. He selected a yellowed envelope that was brittle at the edges. “What’s in here, Momma?”

  “Oh, that’s some of Poppa Darling’s work. Careful of the envelope, Tug. Don’t open that.”

  Putting it aside, Tug reached for another that was in just as poor condition. This time, he didn’t ask Leah, he went right ahead and opened the envelope. A photograph fell out, along with newspaper clippings that had turned a buttery color from age.

  Tug discarded the articles and studied the photograph, his pale brows furrowed. “These guys are dressed funny.”

  “Men used to wear clothes like that.”

  “Did Poppa Darling?”

  “Yes.”

  Rosalure lifted a portfolio from the collection, separating the sides and gazing at the picture inside. “Our Nanna Evaline sure was pretty, Momma.”

  “Yes, she was. She wanted to be an actress.”

  “How come she didn’t?” Tug asked.

  “Because she married Poppa Darling and she had me to take care of.”

  Tug’s gaze lowered to the photograph he held. By a glance, Leah knew which one he was looking at. Her father had taken that portrait on the day her mother had been killed. She hadn’t brought the envelope out in a long time, preferring to keep the past buried. But the plate had been an important one back then, the photograph used to try and apprehend the members of the Loco Boys. Only none of them ever were caught. None of them had ever paid for having had a part in her mother’s death.

  Cold tingles rose goose bumps on Leah’s arms, and she shivered. “Tug, put that away. Momma doesn’t want it out.”

  “Let me see it, Tug.” Rosalure leaned closer to gaze at the portrait. Pointing to one of the two men standing behind the chairs of three sitting subjects, she giggled, “That one is dressed funny.” Then her laughter suddenly quieted as she grabbed the photograph’s edge. “Give me it for a minute, Tug.” Bringing the photograph closer, her eyes narrowed as she lifted her chin. “Momma, how come Poppa Darling took a picture of Wyatt?”

  Stacking the files that were ready to be put away, Leah said, “Poppa Darling didn’t take a picture of Wyatt.”

  “Yes he did. It’s Wyatt. Right there.” She held the photograph out to Leah. “See, Momma. The man with the slightly glaring watch fob.”

  Leah took the portrait and gazed at the man Rosalure had directed her to. Harlen Shepard Riley.

  Examining Harlen’s facial features very critically, Leah noted there were startling similarities. The shape of the eyes and mouth. But Harlen’s nose was wrong. Wyatt’s was slightly crooked. And the build of the men were different. Wyatt was big. Harlen was slender.

  Still, her breath solidified in her throat. Funny how she’d remembered Harlen through a child’s eyes. Dark and swarthy beneath his hat, yet in some ways kind, because he’d given her the candy. She’d been confused and distraught after he’d ridden out of Telluride. But in her memories, Harlen was a cold and ugly man. Looking at his portrait, she could see a set to his mouth that was so like Wyatt’s, it made icy fear twist around her heart.

  Wyatt couldn’t be Harlen Riley. Wyatt wasn’t a killer. And yet, Wyatt had confessed to being in prison. For seventeen years. Leah did some quick calculations and realized that Wyatt had been incarcerated shortly after her mother’s death.

  No, it couldn’t be true.

  If Harlen had been arrested, surely she and her father would have been notified that one of the gang members had been apprehended. There was no reason to keep his capture a secret.

  “It is Wyatt,” Rosalure said adamantly. “I know it is.”

  Leah momentarily met Rosalure’s gaze, then lowered hers once more to the young man in the portrait. His eyes pulled her. Even without knowing the color, they came across dark and fathomless. Just like Wyatt’s. The jaw, the position of his ears, the shape of his mouth . . . these were Wyatt’s traits.

  Wyatt had acted strangely that Sunday when he’d wanted to see her studio. When he’d looked at her mother’s portrait. He hadn’t been himself since. He’d pushed her away, as if he knew of a strong reason to stay out of her life.

  Being involved with her mother’s murder would have been a strong reason.

  Leah put the photograph back into the folder and stood. “Rosalure, please watch your brother for me. I’ll be back soon.” Her voice was absolutely emotionless, and it chilled her.

  “Where you going, Momma?” Tug asked.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  Rosalure went after her into the hallway, but stopped short of the landing. “Are you going to see Wyatt and show him the picture?”

  Leah made no reply of confirmation. “Don’t let Tug open too many of the envelopes. Some are old and will fall apart.”

  Gripping the doorknob, Leah let herself out without bothering with a hat or gloves. Her stride was automatic and wooden as she walked to the Starlight Hotel. Once in the lobby, she went past Almorene East’s curious gaze, only to be stopped by her voice.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Kirkland?”

  “Is Mr. Holloway in his room?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m going up to see him.”

  “But—”

  “Which room is his?”

  “The third to the last on the right, but�
��

  “I won’t be long.”

  Almorene sputtered a moment, then fell quiet. “Leave the door open.”

  Leah took the stairs, measuring out the doors and knocking on Wyatt’s. She heard his footfall as he came to the door and swung it open.

  He didn’t show surprise at finding her there. His face was drawn, the lines at his mouth set. “Leah.”

  She didn’t wait to be invited in. She merely walked past him and strode to the middle of the plain room. Taking a deep breath, she forced her beating heart to slow. If her fears were premature, there was no sense in getting worked up. Not until she knew for sure.

  “I need to ask you something,” she began, “and I would hope that you would be honest with me.” Withdrawing the photograph from the envelope, she held it out for Wyatt to see. “Is that you in this portrait?”

  Wyatt didn’t take the photograph after briefly scanning the five men with hardly a glance. Then his eyes rose to hers and he turned away, a gesture that all but admitted it was him. An innocent man would have studied the portrait. An innocent man would have been curious about who the men were. But Wyatt didn’t have to look long at something he was familiar with. For he’d already seen it. He’d lived it.

  Leah fell into a chair at the table and laid the photograph in front of her. She could barely contain her anger, her hurt. Gazing at Wyatt through eyes that had filled with tears, she had to ask, “Are you Harlen Shepard Riley?”

  Wyatt faced her. “I used to be.”

  Putting her hand to her mouth, Leah lowered her head. Her eyes closed against the tears burning the backs of her lids. He’d come to her as a deceiver, and she’d welcomed him with open arms. “You lied to me.”

  “A sin of omission.”

  Her gaze rose and glared accusingly at him. “I spoke your name in my house. I told you things about Telluride. I showed you my parents’ portrait. You knew who I was.”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew before you made love to me.”