Portraits Page 4

  The marshal turned to the woman with a grumble. “What is it, LaRaine?”

  “Your fried chicken is going to be on the table in fifteen minutes. You’ll be home then if you want to eat it while it’s hot.”

  Scudder’s face brightened. “Why, yes, sugar puss. I’m on my way just as soon as I give Moon his orders.” Then to the lady who’d brought the envelope, he said, “Thank you for the fast work. I’ll have Deputy Moon log this while he’s on his night-shift duty.”

  Then to Wyatt, Scudder said, “You better get on over to the Happy City Chinese Restaurant.”

  “What for?”

  The marshal headed for his office and called over his shoulder, “The dishwasher job. Like I said, you don’t have lawful employment in twenty-four hours, I’ve got a cell with your name on it, boy.” The marshal’s parting comment was spoken through a snicker that Wyatt didn’t appreciate.

  The lady’s clearing her throat startled Wyatt, and he turned toward her. “He’s not kidding, you know.” She stood pretty close, considering that he was a stranger, and she was not in the least bit giddy around him or afraid. The fragrance of carnations came to Wyatt, smelling so fine and erotic, he’d forgotten such a floral scent existed. Hard-pressed not to pull the lady into his arms and drag his nose across every inch of her skin, he forced himself to listen to what she was going on about. “I’d suggest you do as he says, or he will lock you up. He’s had a bad day. A drunk shot six bottles off this tree.”

  Wyatt lifted his brows, his pulse so heated he could barely think. Her friendly advice invited him to flirt with her. He hadn’t engaged a woman in conversation in such a long time, he decided to test the waters. He used to be able to send the ladies into bashful giggles. “You’ve got a cute smudge on your cheek, darlin’.”

  “Oh, do I?”

  But that was it. She made no coy attempt to wipe it or ask him for a kerchief to do so.

  He knew he’d changed physically, but had hoped that he still could charm a woman. Maybe it was because he was big now. Not the same lanky kid he used to be. His body had hardened like sandstone. His muscles had been cut and chiseled to well-defined slabs of flesh from years of back-breaking labor. He’d had his nose broken, so his face wasn’t that of a pretty boy anymore. And his hands were too large, with the knuckle joints bulky from abuse. He didn’t think too much of his appearance these days. He wasn’t ugly, but he wasn’t that willowy young man who could mount a horse by making a running leap into the air and landing squarely on the horse’s back.

  In short, he was thirty-eight and beginning to feel his age.

  “Leo opens at five,” she was saying, snapping Wyatt out of his thoughts. “I doubt there’ll be a line for the job, but you never know.”

  Then she scurried up Eighth Avenue, sometimes stepping on that shoe ribbon as she disappeared from his view.

  * * *

  Wyatt refused to accept that the only job to be had in Eternity was as a dishwasher. He’d had some blacksmithing experience, so he’d checked at the Anvil and Forge first and talked with a man named Casswell Tinhorn. But he didn’t need any help and directed Wyatt to the Happy City Chinese Restaurant. Before he went on, Wyatt made arrangements to put July up in a stall for the night in the livery, then he set out on foot.

  He spent all of ten minutes walking both sides of Main Street, making inquiries that were shot down within seconds. He’d had hard-luck jobs before. He’d done worse than dishwashing—and without pay—because he’d had no choice. Cannery work and washing and pressing laundry were low on the list. Breaking rock in the quarry had looked a lot better afterward.

  As Wyatt ended his full circle, one of the last establishments on this side of the street was the Happy City. The place stuck out like a sore thumb with its twin carvings of two fat guys in underwear, in front. There was a short tower over the entry door that had an upward-curving roof over each story. Its red paint was peeling and in dire need of a fresh coat. From outward appearances, it looked like the owner didn’t have a buck to his name.

  Wyatt wandered over to have a better look, not because he was considering the job but because the sign in the window looked invitingly familiar to him. It was that same red sign he’d seen throughout the country at various eateries.

  Refreshing and Delicious

  Coca-Cola .05¢

  That made Wyatt pause and deliberate. He was thirsty and could go in and have a glass to think over his other options. When he opened the door, the smells that met him were some of the strangest aromas he’d ever had the displeasure of smelling. He hadn’t a clue as to what Chinese food was.

  The place wasn’t well lit, but he clearly saw the porcelain cat with fangs and a grin to put a laughing madam to shame. It sat in the vestibule, almost as if to distract customers from coming in. Chinese watercolors of tradesmen and an oil portrait of a guy in a black cap who looked as if he was important hung on the wall. There was a lot of colorful silk screens, and a red lacquered cabinet with brass hardware that appeared out of place with all the plain pine tables.

  A man parted the curtain of reedlike beads that separated the kitchen from the dining area. He was a good-looking fellow. Not too short and with a pleasant face that disguised any attempt Wyatt would have made as to his age. His almond-shaped eyes were as black as his hair. He squinted against the smoke curling from the cigarette clamped in his mouth.

  “We don’t open till five for supper.”

  Wyatt wasn’t sure how he’d expected the man to sound, but having an accent that reminded him of a fellow he’d once met from New York hadn’t been on his mind.

  “Wasn’t looking to get a meal. I just wanted a cola.”

  The man gave him a tentative glance, then shrugged. “Sit down.”

  Wyatt did in the rawhide-bottomed chair he’d been pointed to. He took his hat off and ran his hand through his windblown hair. The table was situated at one of the front windows where wooden shutters had been pushed open to allow lingering sunlight in. A candleholder with a fat candle inside was on the table, causing Wyatt to glance at the ceiling. No electric lights.

  The man had gone into the kitchen, the reeds stirring behind him. Wyatt saw a younger fellow at a square butcher’s table. He held a cleaver and whacked a raw chicken into parts faster than a roper hog-tying a calf in a contest.

  Returning with two cola bottles, the man gave one to Wyatt, then sat down opposite him. Using an opener, he flipped the caps off each bottle.

  “You aren’t from around here,” the man remarked as he took a sip of cola. He still had his cigarette. The stub dangled in his fingers.

  “No,” Wyatt replied.

  “You look like you’re out of place, mister.”

  Wyatt did feel sort of out of place, only he didn’t want to admit it. “I could say the same about you. You’re no westerner.”

  “No far-easterner either,” he said as he lifted his chin a notch. “Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York.”

  Wyatt hadn’t taken a drink yet, uncertain if he wanted to share a conversation and a Coca-Cola with a stranger. He’d grown distrustful of his fellow man, with circumstances being what they had been most of his adult life. But as soon as the man replied with blunt candor, Wyatt warmed up to him a little.

  “Leo Wang,” the restaurateur offered with an extended hand.

  Wyatt took it. “Wyatt Holloway.”

  “Where you from, Mr. Holloway?”

  “Wyatt,” he amended. “Up north.”

  “Ah, a man who doesn’t want people to know too much about him. I’ll respect that.” Leo drank again, noticed Wyatt hadn’t, and frowned. “You don’t want your Coca-Cola?”

  Wyatt lifted the bottle and drank that first sugary sip that always slid down his throat better than fine bourbon. There was something about this cola stuff that really appealed to him. He couldn’t exactly say what. He’d had sarsaparilla before, so he’d known the texture of carbonation in his mouth. But this was just like the sign said: delicious and re
freshing.

  Scudder’s obnoxious face suddenly appeared in the window. He tapped on the glass with his gun tip. Leo gave him a big smile, and Wyatt had to at least acknowledge him with a nod. Then the marshal chuckled before walking off. It annoyed the hell out of Wyatt to think he was being followed, or encouraged to do something he didn’t really want to do.

  In the marshal’s wake, Leo’s smile fell, and he muttered, “What a pain in the tail butt.”

  Wyatt smiled. “You don’t like the local law officer?”

  “About as much as I like hot dogs.”

  Wyatt didn’t know what a hot dog was, and took it to be some kind of Chinese food, but he didn’t want to insult Leo by asking him if he really ate dogs. A good feeling had settled over him and he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

  The front door opened and two kids—a girl about the age of nine and a boy no older than five—wove their way around the tables, a woman not far behind them. She was the same one from in front of the marshal’s office.

  Leo stood and took his bottle with him. “The cola is on me since we both think Bean Scudder is a windbag.” Then to the children who were scraping chairs back, “Hey, Rosalure and Tug. Have you been behaving yourselves today?”

  The girl smiled. “We were at Nanna’s house making candy. Tug ate too much. He says he’s got a stomachache.”

  Not saying anything, the boy slid his chair out and slipped onto the seat, his face not much higher than the table. He made fists out of his dirty hands, stacked them, and plopped his chin on the top.

  “I’ll bring you a glass of milk, Tug,” Leo offered, and went through the reed curtain into the kitchen.

  Wyatt glanced at the woman.

  “Hello, again,” she greeted. Before sitting, she paused, indecision on her face and in her eyes, then she squared her shoulders and walked directly toward him. “I suppose on a chance meeting it isn’t necessary to introduce ourselves, but I believe twice within the half hour would.” She extended her hand, and he was late on taking her smooth fingers into his own. The shock of making contact with her soft feminine skin had him startled over the magnitude of his reaction. He’d never dreamed the mere touch of a woman’s hand in his could awaken such a response as the fire spreading to his groin.

  “Leah Kirkland,” she said in that brisk voice of hers.

  “Holloway,” he countered, fervently trying to disguise the rasp of desire in his voice.

  She lightly pumped his hand, then pulled away. A faint tint of a blush was on her cheeks, but she managed to tamp it down before it got the best of her and colored her face. He noticed the smudge was gone. “Well . . . enjoy your dinner. I recommend the yen ching chow mein.” She took her seat without a backward glance and reprimanded the boy for poking his finger into the candle wax and making shavings out of it.

  Leah Kirkland . . .

  The name played over in his head until he could place it. Hell, she was that female photographer. One of those infernal picture-takers. It had been a photograph that caused many of the miserable things in his life. He never wanted one made of him again, so he was going to have to avoid her. Because a reprint of his likeness would be lethal. If the picture ever circulated, they’d know where to find him.

  And Wyatt Holloway was a man who didn’t want to be found.

  2

  A maiden marries to please her parents, a widow to please herself.

  —Chinese proverb

  Men didn’t intimidate Leah. After all, she’d been married to one. Being in the photography profession necessitated touching, bending, and molding a man’s body to suit her creativity when she worked. She’d learned how to disassociate herself from anything that could be construed as intimacy with strangers or town acquaintances that other women would have found embarrassing. To Leah, it was her job and responsibility to capture the sitter in his most flattering angle. That meant adjustments and physical contact with members of the opposite sex.

  When her term of mourning had ended three years ago, Fremont Quigley, the postmaster, and Leemon Winterowd, the owner of Everlasting Monuments and Statuary, had set up appointments within the same week. After that initial sitting, both men had requested a new photograph of himself once a month, until she’d come to the conclusion that their only purpose in having their portraits taken was to give them the opportunity of having her hands on their shoulders and their chins. Put off by their tomfoolery, she’d gently but firmly let them know she wasn’t interested—though neither had taken the hint to heart, for both continued to try and attract her attention.

  Her career precluded courting, but that didn’t mean she was adverse to remarrying if she met a free spirit like herself. In the spring of 1902, there had been someone she’d considered until he revealed his true opinion of women professionals. Frederick Warrick was an article writer for National Geographic magazine and had been sent to Colorado to do a piece on mining towns that had become cattle towns. In the beginning, she’d found him breathtakingly handsome and quite the charmer. Then he told her his ideal of the perfect wife was submissiveness and domesticity. He’d suggested she should dispose herself to the lesser “arts” such as needlework, embroidery, and china and miniature painting, and give up photography if she wanted to land a husband.

  Until she met a man as passionate about something as she was about photography—and who accepted that not all widows were candidates to be teachers or seamstresses—she wasn’t looking for a suitor.

  In the interim, she’d made plans. Big plans that she had only confided to Leo. Her mother-in-law, Geneva Kirkland, would never condone her behavior, much less come close to understanding why Leah had to go to Italy to study.

  Geneva was a sore subject with Leah. For her children’s sake, she tried to be civil. But soon Leah wouldn’t have to contend with Geneva anymore, because Leah would be on an adventure to Europe, stopping first in New York City to visit the infamous brownstone where Photo-Secessionists made their spiritual home in the Little Galleries at 291 Fifth Avenue. The mere thought of meeting the dynamic Camera Works editor, Alfred Stieglitz, brought on gooseflesh to Leah’s arms.

  She’d already sent Mr. Giuseppe Ciccolella in Lombardy, Italy, one thousand dollars to reserve her space in the Veneto Academy for Image Artists. She wanted to study photography in the quaint villa like the great Stieglitz had. To learn all his secrets from the masters and become so renowned, her name would be recognized with Austen, Brigman, and even the former first lady, Mrs. Cleveland. Leah’s dream was to win the coveted first prize in the New York Amateur Photographer contest. With the proper tutorage, she could have a chance.

  The glass candleholder tumbled onto its side, pulling Leah from her thoughts.

  “Tug, what did Momma say about putting your fingernail in that candle wax?”

  Tug made no reply. From the exaggerated pout he gave her, he was still angry because she’d taken his hat from him for inappropriate conduct. Flushing Rosalure’s musical bird figure down the toilet was not to be tolerated. Tug had had to forfeit his beloved Roughrider Roy cowboy hat for a week as punishment.

  “Momma said not to put your fingernail in the candle.” Leah answered her own question with a reprimanding tone that made Tug stop and pay attention to her, “Thank you, Tug. That was a good boy.”

  His nose wrinkled and he sighed with high drama. “Sure do miss the ol’ Roughrider,” he drawled. “A man just ain’t a cowboy without his hat.”

  Leah folded her arms. “You’ll have your hat in due time.”

  Rosalure stuck out her tongue at her brother. “Serves you right for flushing my Precious down the unmentionable.”

  Tug jutted his chin forward and returned Rosalure’s gesture.

  Intervening, Leah stretched her hands across the table and kept her children at arm’s length. “There will be none of this at the supper table. You keep to yourself,” she told Tug, then repeated the same admonition to Rosalure.

  Leah pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose; not only
the weight of her hair gave her a headache today, but also the bickering of her children. Though they had their disagreements, for the most part, Rosalure and Tug got along as well as could be expected between a boy and girl with a five-year spread in their ages.

  Each day with Tug was a struggle for Leah. Raising a son without the direction of a husband was difficult. The habits of little boys perplexed her. Tug constantly brought home “treasures”: snakeskins, fossils, beetles, and animal dung. Rosalure had never done such a thing, nor had Leah when she was a girl.

  She sometimes grew resentful of her husband, Owen, passing away when Tug had been four months old. Her son had no father figure in his life to guide him, and Leah didn’t know how to communicate with a boy who took pleasure in poking the eyes out of a live sucker fish. The only close male relative who could shed some light on the subject was her father-in-law, Hartzell. But he saw Tug as a commodity, a future successor as manager of the Eternity Security Bank—a position Hartzell now occupied as founder and owner.

  Leah blamed herself for Tug’s scampish ways. If she’d spent more time with him in his infancy instead of letting Geneva coddle him, Tug might not be so willful. During Rosalure’s formative years, Leah had been a mother and wife, giving her daughter all her attention. With Tug, Leah was a widow raising two children on her own, which necessitated that she bring in an income to supplement the modest premium of her husband’s Phoenix Mutual life insurance policy. Between the demands put on her by Marshal Scudder, the Eternity Tribune, and her own clients who came to her home studio, Leah fell short in the mothering department. The hardship of guilt for extending herself too far from her children weighed heavily on her. But she did the best she could given the set of circumstances she found herself in at the age of twenty-six.

  Tug had made a tight ball out of the wax shavings, and before Leah could stop him, he flicked the ivory marble with his forefinger. His missile missed his intended victim, Rosalure, and sailed through the space separating her table and Mr. Holloway’s, hitting the man on the shoulder of his duster.