“Yes.”
She wanted to strike out and hit him. Make him suffer for what he’d put her family through. Make him know how she’d missed her mother, and how she’d had to nurse her father’s sorrow while setting her own grief aside and growing up overnight. Did he have any idea what he’d done to her? How he continued to hurt? She’d fallen in love with him—one of the very men responsible for her mother’s death.
“Why did you come to Eternity?” she lashed out. “What do you want from me?”
Wyatt moved toward her but stayed clear of the table. “I didn’t know who you were until I saw Evaline’s portrait. I don’t want to hurt you, Leah.”
She didn’t want to hear the pain in his voice. Her own was so acute, she felt as if she were breaking. “It’s too late for that.”
“I never meant to come back into your life.”
“But you have,” she whispered, unable to trust the steadiness of her voice.
Wyatt pressed the edge of his brow, massaging, then went to the bed and slumped onto the mattress. His body slackened, none of its strength coming to light. She knew he was strong and virile, but the man before her looked tired and defeated. In as much pain as she. It couldn’t be.
A dead quiet stretched over the room.
At length, Leah asked, “Did you lie about why you were sent to the penitentiary? Was the charge really murder instead of grand larceny?”
“No.” He rested his elbows on his knees. At his feet, barely peeking out from beneath the edge of the bedcovers, were dirty leather satchels that appeared to be quite old and battered. She hadn’t noticed them until now. “They brought me to trial for a crime they knew they could get a conviction on. I couldn’t be charged with murder in Telluride without tangible evidence. No one will ever be indicted in your mother’s death.”
She didn’t want to listen, for she’d been told the very same thing by the Telluride sheriff and the Merchants and General detectives who’d been involved. Even now, it was difficult to accept that her mother’s murder would go unvindicated.
Wyatt went on. “I wish someone could be charged; then I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore if it had been me. But too many people were shooting that day to single out a guilty man.”
Leah hadn’t read the newspaper accounts in over sixteen years, having tucked the clippings and sparse follow-up articles away. She couldn’t remember the exact stories the law officials told, other than the fact that none of the suspects were apprehended. Her mourning had been so filled with anguish, she’d walked in a fog for months on end, trying to keep her father from forgetting he was among the living. He still had a daughter and a business. It was then that Owen had come to Telluride to help them put the studio back in order financially. And after that, Leah had tried to go on without looking back.
“If I had known you’d be in Eternity,” Wyatt said while raking his hand through his hair, “I wouldn’t have let myself get near you.”
She sought and held onto his blue eyes, watching for his reaction. “Then whatever part of yourself you left behind is so important, you’d risk my finding out who you were, no matter how remote the chances would have been.”
“Yes.”
“What is it that’s buried, or was until this morning, on that mountain?”
His answer was simple and undiluted. “You don’t need to know.”
“But I think I can guess. Your share of the money you stole from the Silverton bank that never turned up.”
Wyatt’s gaze lowered to the satchels.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“It’s everyone’s share,” he said at length. “Sixty thousand dollars.”
Despite herself, Leah gasped. “You have sixty thousand dollars sitting at your feet?”
“I haven’t counted it yet, but that’s what it’s supposed to be.”
“There is no man you made investments with. It was the Silverton money all along. You’re planning on using it to buy your ranch.”
“I was.”
“This money was robbed from good people.” Leah scooted away from the table with trembling hands. Once on her feet, she went toward the door. She didn’t know Wyatt. She couldn’t have.
Wyatt stood and walked to her, but kept a wedge of space between them. “There wasn’t a day that went by in the pen that I didn’t think about Evaline . . . or you. I wrote a letter telling you how sorry I was, but—”
“I never got a letter.”
“I never mailed one.”
Leah put her face in her hands and took in deep breaths. She could feel Wyatt’s eyes on her back, but in the heat of his gaze she couldn’t sense any request for her forgiveness. Not that she could ever forgive him.
“I wish you’d never come. I hated Harlen, but Wyatt . . . I . . .” Her muffled voice moistened her palms and she lifted her head but didn’t turn to face him. She wouldn’t let him see her crying. “You’ve pretended to be someone you aren’t, but you’re still Harlen Shepard Riley. You always will be. The money proves it.”
Then she walked through the doorway and down the hall without looking back. She’d been doing that most all her life. She just couldn’t anymore.
* * *
Wyatt parted the muslin curtains and stared out the window onto Main watching Leah as she walked with her head down. Her shoulders quivered, a sign she was crying. Letting the curtain fall, he moved away, unable to view her grief without going after her and making her believe he had never wanted to hurt her. He would have given anything not to have been baptized Harlen Riley. Or at least the Harlen Leah had known.
Crossing to the bed, Wyatt’s gaze fell to the satchels. In frustration and torment, he kicked them deeper beneath the frame out of his sight. He cursed what they suddenly represented: his failure at being Wyatt on the outside.
In the beginning, the money had meant security and a future for Wyatt Holloway. A fresh start. Now all the satchels represented was Harlen’s inability to follow the straight and narrow path. They were worth no more than the very sandstone he’d uncovered them from. He realized that by giving Leah the money, it would be like stealing it all over again. She’d see through his thin plan to give it to her. And as for himself, he could never keep a cent of it now.
A rap sounded on the door and Wyatt went to it, wondering if Leah had returned. Hoping that maybe . . . but not daring to . . .
When he answered the knock, Wyatt gazed into the dull hazel eyes of an old friend. His voice failed him, and a bundle of memories came crashing in so hard, his shoulders ached from the weight. If he hadn’t known the man behind the eyes, Wyatt wouldn’t have recognized him. The once-blond hair had dimmed to the color of whitewash at the temples, and the complexion that used to boast a rich tan was now faded to paste. A mustache bristled across his upper lip but was not the tidy and elegant thatch of hair it used to be. The physically fit body that had always been trim was clothed with a mended suit that hung off his bones as if there was scant meat on them.
“Are you going to invite me in, Harlen?” The suave voice had taken on a gravelly tone. A sickly sound that rattled deep from his concave chest.
Wyatt released his hold on the doorknob and stepped aside, closing the door behind him as Colvin Henkels coughed his way to the table. He brought out a handkerchief and held it next to his mouth while his body racked with spasms. When the fit was over, he wadded the blood-speckled linen back into his trouser pocket.
With an uneven breath that seemed a labor to grasp, Colvin said, “Pour me a drink, Harlen.”
“I don’t drink anymore, Colvin.”
Colvin laughed so hard, he began coughing again. He went through the same process with the handkerchief. “I don’t believe you Harlen. But then again, I never would’ve believed this.” He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a wrinkled copy of the Eternity Tribune. “I picked this up in Durango. Surprised the hell out of me to see your picture. Figured you’d still be up in Canada living high on the hog with our money.”
/> Wyatt kept his expression void of emotion, though he was feeling like rattling some of Colvin’s teeth. Nate’s and Thomas Jefferson’s, too, if they’d been around. “I never ran off with the Silverton money.”
“Then why didn’t you meet us like you said? You and Manny took off and we never seen hide nor hair of you.” Licking his lower lip, Colvin swore, then wiped the flecks of blood with his soiled square of linen. “You sure as hell never sent no word. Nothing. For all we knew, Manny went with you.”
“Manny’s dead.”
Colvin snorted. “Well that don’t surprise me. He never trusted anyone. Probably went off half-cocked and got peppered with bullets.”
“He was shot by one of the guards at the Idaho Penitentiary.”
“How do you know?”
“I was with him when it happened.”
The vague outline of Colvin’s pale brows drew downward. “You got put in the pen? When?”
“Some detectives caught me up at Montrose a few days after we split up. Since they couldn’t pin the Telluride incident on me, they extradited me to Montpelier and charged me with that robbery we pulled in eighty-five. They had proof and witnesses that it was the Loco Boys who’d done the job. I was sent to the Idaho Territorial Penitentiary for a twenty-year sentence, but served seventeen. I’ve only been out a few months.”
“Jesus,” Colvin mumbled, moving to the bed and sitting down. His face was the color of parchment. “All this time we thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Wyatt said bitterly.
“Manny got arrested, too?”
“He came in three months after me. They tried him for the Montpelier robbery, too. He couldn’t take the prison life and tried to escape in ninety. That’s when a guard shot him. He’s buried in a cemetery up near Table Rock.”
“But we never heard anything about no arrests,” Colvin wheezed, bringing a hand to his chest and thumping on his ribs. His fingers were stained yellow from burned nubs of tobacco. “If you’d been sent to prison, we would have known.”
“The authorities kept it quiet. They wanted you to show up and look for me. Look for the money.”
Colvin’s blunt eyes lifted. “What did happen to all that money? Sixty thousand was what we figured.”
Wyatt’s gaze averted to the bed where Colvin sat on top of a fortune without knowing it. “I don’t have it,” he lied coolly.
“What happened to it?”
“It’s lost.”
“What do you mean, it’s lost?” His voice rose with anger. “You had it, for chrissake. It was you we trusted.”
“I buried the money in the woods. I went back to the area when I got out, but it’s been too long. Nothing looks the same. The landmarks are gone. I wouldn’t know where to look.”
“Son of a bitch.” Colvin’s rattling cough hit him to such a degree, he couldn’t catch his breath.
Wyatt went to him. “Lie down.”
“N-No. I got to stay sitting up,” Colvin managed between fits of barking into his handkerchief.
Backing away, Wyatt examined Colvin with a fraction of pity. His old riding partner was a mere shell of the man he used to be. All those times they’d dressed themselves up like saddle tramps, Colvin Henkels had turned into one for real.
When Colvin’s seizure passed, Wyatt uttered his suspicions. “How long have you had tuberculosis?”
“Too long to still be living.” Colvin’s linen had all but turned red instead of white. His hands were smeared with blood.
“Where’s Nate and Thomas Jefferson?” Wyatt asked. “Do you ever see them?”
“Nate was killed some fourteen years ago by a sheriff up in Baggs. Thomas Jefferson took himself a bride and they moved to the Midwest to start over. Haven’t heard from him since ninety-two. Just me left around here.”
“What have you been doing?”
Colvin gave a rattle-sounding laugh. “Gambling in backwater towns, staying one step ahead of the law until the statute of limitations ran out on me. Drinking mostly. Staying alive.”
Wyatt pondered the life Colvin had been living while he’d been on the Quarry Gang. He didn’t know which of them had had things worse.
“You plan on staying in Eternity?” Wyatt asked, not wanting Colvin to be near Leah. Not wanting Leah to recognize Colvin.
“It’s not for me. I seen that pissant marshal sitting on a cooler outside his office. He reminds me of that buffalo with beady eyes I once shot outside Cheyenne. You remember that?”
Wyatt nodded, but he didn’t.
“I’ve got me a whore down in Durango who takes care of my needs. She’ll probably end up burying me.”
The thought was dismal, one which Wyatt hated to think could end up happening to him.
“Harlen . . . ?” Colvin kept his deep cough in the back of his throat, gasping for breath and trying to hold in the fits that racked his body. “I’m short of cash for the stage. You got some money you could give me?”
Silently, Wyatt went to the bureau. Opening the top drawer, his fingers passed over the prize money he’d won at the rodeo. Next to it was his billfold with such a paltry amount inside, the wallet itself was worth more. He knew damn well whatever he gave Colvin would go to liquor and the gaming tables. Withdrawing the short stack of greenbacks, he walked to Colvin and handed them to him. “A hundred dollars ought to get you to Durango, and then some.”
Colvin folded the money and shoved it into his shirt pocket that was pockmarked with tiny tobacco burns. “I thank you, Harlen.” Then he stood. “The next stage rolls out at three, so I suspect this reunion is over.”
Seeing him to the door, Wyatt reached for the edge as Colvin opened it. Wyatt held back, unable to reach for and shake the hand of an old friend who’d thought he’d cheated him.
“You ever get down Durango way, you look me up. I’ll either be at the Palace Bar or Boot Hill.” Then Colvin retreated down the hallway, his shoulders twitching from fresh coughs.
Wyatt swung the door closed with his forefinger, remaining where he stood for a long moment. He’d wondered which one if any of the boys would find him. In all his musings, he’d never expected to see any of them less than what they’d been in their twenties. Full of piss and vinegar, ready for a fight and a good time.
Colvin’s gaunt face and the destitution of his dilapidated state was hard to see. It made Wyatt’s own situation seem less tattered though not less crippling. What he and Leah had had could never be restored.
Wyatt went to the table, sat, and emptied the contents of the envelope next to the portrait Leah had left. He then began to read the newspaper clippings, losing himself to that day in Telluride.
* * *
Leah had tried to put her thoughts into her planting beds instead of Wyatt . . . Harlen. She couldn’t get used to calling him that criminal’s name, yet they were one and the same. Ever since yesterday, when she’d unleashed her tears, she’d been hard-pressed not to cry at the slightest thought of Wyatt.
Rosalure and Tug didn’t know what had happened between her and Wyatt. Her children thought they’d had an argument but would mend their rift. When Leah had returned from Wyatt’s hotel room, she’d fibbed to Rosalure and told her that the man in the picture hadn’t been Wyatt. Leah had never been dishonest with Rosalure, but she couldn’t tell her daughter that the man she’d developed an affection for was a fraud.
And Tug . . .
Tug was very difficult to convince that Wyatt wasn’t needed in their lives. Her son had formed an attachment to Wyatt that wasn’t easily broken. A bond that Tug was begging to continue even though Leah had forbidden him to go near Wyatt anymore. Tug had stomped his feet and yelled that he hated her, then stormed into his room and hadn’t come out until the following morning. And then he wouldn’t speak to her, but he had a gleam of purpose in his eyes.
Leah knew he was planning on going to Wyatt. That’s why she’d given him and Rosalure the task of organizing the toolshed with the incentive of three dollars apiece. At
the prospect of such a vast amount, Tug had temporarily given up his mission. It was a good thing, because Leah needed the time to think. To figure out what to do.
Raking the earth around her rosebushes, Leah’s battle to keep Wyatt out of her head wasn’t easily won. When she heard horses’ hooves clopping against the street and nearing her fence, she was glad for the distraction. Shading her gaze against the sun with the flat of her hand, she saw Wyatt, who’d dismounted and stood obstructed by July. The horse’s rump was loaded with packs and gear that suggested Wyatt had lashed all his worldly goods on his horse.
After tethering July, Wyatt walked up to the gate with an envelope in his hand. He didn’t presume to let himself in. Speaking across the yard, he said, “I’d like to talk with you a minute.”
Leah didn’t set her gardening tool down. “I don’t have anything else I can say to you.”
“I brought the portrait back. And the newspaper clippings.”
She remained quiet, working and trying to remain composed, though her heartbeat was rendering her breathless. How she’d wanted to despise him for what he’d done? But when she saw his face, she only remembered Wyatt, not Harlen.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lay the envelope against the fence post. “I read everything. Have you?”
“Of course I have.”
“Then you know that the bullet that killed your mother was a .45.”
Leah hadn’t recalled the caliber. She hadn’t thought it a detail to remember.
“Most lawmen use .45s,” Wyatt went on, “though I’m not pinning the blame on one of them. Two of the boys who were with me, Manny Vasquez and Colvin Henkels, always strapped on Colt .45s. I’m not telling you that so you have more to wonder about and give you heartache. It’s just a fact I can’t alter. And so you’ll know, Manny’s dead and Colvin’s on his way. He’s dying of tuberculosis.”
Pausing, Leah dared to face Wyatt. The sun was behind him, his figure outlined by a silhouette of fiery gold. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”
Wyatt put his hands on the top rung of the split-rail fence. “I couldn’t have fired the shot that killed your mother. I’ve never liked to fire .45s. The gun I had then, and now, is a Remington-Rider .44. It throws an entirely different bullet.”
Portraits Page 35