Paint the Wind

  The unintended irony of the statement stabbed at her, for there was more within her of their sharing than simple memories.

  Some day, Hart, you'll be a famous artist and you'll paint my portraits. Both of them.

  Some day, Chance, when I'm rich and renowned, I'll come sing for you at the governor's mansion.

  Take care of yourselves. I'm little but I'm tough, so you needn't worry about me.

  I'm not tough enough to face saying good-bye, though, so you'll just have to forgive me for sneaking out while you were gone.

  I'll never forget all we were together.

  I'm sending all the love I have to you and to Bandana. Tell him for me that if I had only one friend left in this sorry world, I'd want it to be him.

  Fancy

  PART IV: DRIVEN BY THE WIND

  Fancy Moves On

  "You never know your luck 'til the wheel stops."

  Bandana McBain

  Chapter 33

  Fancy forced herself to pay attention to the steep trail through the mountains. There was no use looking back. She pulled her jacket tighter, trying to quell the loneliness. She didn't like to be alone—alone was full of fears and history.

  A wolf howled somewhere ahead; the eerie sound bounced back and forth through endless canyons before it faded. She wasn't afraid; she'd faced worse than wolves with Atticus, but it was a desolate sound.

  Fancy knew the woods, what to eat and what to stay shy of, what to use for fire, what for bedding, yet she must not be careless. She was distracted, and accidents happened to anyone heedless in the woods; she forced herself to pay attention to the road before her.

  She would go to Denver. Magda and Wes had been headed there when the circus folded. She would find them and Magda would know what to do. Perhaps her tarot cards would disclose if this child she carried would ever see the light of this world.

  Eighty miles across the mountains could be done in six days walking, if she put her back into it. There was little enough to carry; only Atticus' banjo, her music box, the herbs she'd put up last summer and the clothes the men had given her, all stuffed into an old carpetbag.

  She'd tried not to let herself think about the baby, but it dwelled in her consciousness, just as clingingly as it did in her womb. She'd expected pregnancy to make her feel entrapment and despair, but there was a strange sense of kinship with this flicker of life within.

  She pulled the blanket close around her and settled in to sleep. There were so many memories in the woods... and it was far better to think of Atticus and the long ago, than to worry about the future. She hoped, as she dozed off, that in sleep there would be no dreams.

  Something brushed Fancy's face, rousing her; a rough leather glove closed around her wrist and all vestige of sleep was banished by adrenaline. Three men loomed over her in the clearing. Their hands were already unfastening their belts.

  Fancy fought at the bulk that pinned her, but she was small and the man was strong. The ground that had seemed so benevolent a moment ago now scraped blood from her shoulder, arms, and buttocks through the fabric of her clothes. The man tore at her shirt and breeches; filthy hands and ragged fingernails raked her skin. Leather chaps and trousers were pulled halfway down the man's legs to reveal his malevolent organ. Fancy felt her stomach lurch and she nearly vomited.

  He lunged forward onto her body and she glimpsed the world in fragments; a patch of pale slate sky beyond his shoulder, a leering mouth questing for her own, a smothering weight of flannel and buckskin cutting off breath and escape, the rank smell of unwashed skin and teeth and clothes.

  With a mighty wrench her thighs were pried apart; a searing white-hot poker of flesh was thrust shockingly between her legs. Fancy felt her inner folds assaulted, torn; pain ripped secret places. Fancy squeezed her eyes tight shut and thought of dying.

  "I'm next, Harve! Leave some for me." There was laughter somewhere.

  His rutting done, the grunting man lay still on top of her for a moment and the desperate girl gathered herself, waiting for him to lurch to his feet. The instant he rose, she scrambled out from under him and ran toward the trees at the edge of the clearing.

  "Lookit her run, Jake!" a voice behind her shouted. "Jes' like a rabbit, ain't she?"

  Fancy heard the pursuers' laughter as she struggled through the undergrowth. Her heart raced uncontrollably; she couldn't breathe to run. Brambles cut her knees and fingers; she slipped on something slimy and flailing out with her arms for a nonexistent handhold, she slid backward down the grade.

  Rough fingers clasped her ankles and yanked her, screaming, into the arms of one of the men. He forced her back against a tree, while another passed a rope around her waist and the trunk. Isolated feelings of pain scraped in and out of sharp focus; cold wet bark raked naked skin, a broken tree branch drew blood from her pinned arm; goose bumps tightened the flesh of her breasts.

  "Pert little nipples she's got there, ain't they, Elmore?" the short man said. He'd pulled down his trousers and his manhood had risen threateningly from its nest of dark hair.

  "If'n you hold 'er laigs up fer me, I kin get me a piece of this sweet thing," he called out, and Fancy felt her legs jerked out from under her. They're going to kill my baby, she thought suddenly, and a wave of new fury strengthened her. She wrenched against the rope, a dying creature in a snare; she kicked out ferociously and connected with the man's belly, heard him grunt and double over in pain.

  "No!" she screamed in outrage as another man took the first one's place and tried to wrestle her legs apart.

  A gunshot shattered the air like a sign from God. All motion ceased. The man wrenched himself free of Fancy, as a whiskey voice broke the unnatural stillness.

  "When you get to hell, you filthy son of a bitch, you tell 'em Jewel sent you!" A second gunshot flung the rapist reeling past the tree before he crumpled to the ground.

  One of the other two had nearly cleared leather With his six-gun before a bullet sent him sprawling backward. The third made the mistake of diving for his saddle scabbard, but his hand never closed on the Winchester.

  Fancy, sobbing, sucked in great gulps of air in an effort to stay alive; she couldn't see her savior clearly through her tears. Atop a prancing palomino gelding sat a woman, neither old nor young, her face set in a vengeful expression. Her body was too voluptuous for the man's shirt and riding breeches that contained it, and too young somehow for her face, which was worldly-wise. A holster was tied low on her thigh and the gun that had emerged from it was obviously an intimate part of her apparel.

  Jewel dismounted, the Colt still unholstered, and walked to each of the three bodies in turn, nudging them sharply with a booted toe... none were alive. She gave a grunt of satisfaction and kicked the last one for good measure.

  She pulled a skinning knife from its sheath at her belt and sawed straight through the hemp that bound Fancy, and the girl slid to the ground, her legs too rubbery to hold her.

  "Did you know 'em?" Jewel asked, her voice husky with anger and concern.

  Fancy shook her head no, and tried to get up onto her feet; as she took a step forward, the ugly pain between her legs buckled her again and Jewel's hand shot forward to support her.

  "You sit, kid," she said authoritatively, and Fancy sank to the ground as the woman collected her torn clothing.

  Fancy clutched the shirt protectively to her body and stood up; Jewel saw a trickle of blood wend its way along her thigh. She pulled off the neckerchief she wore and soaked it in the stream before handing it to Fancy.

  Her face aflame, Fancy swiped at the sticky blood—don't let it be my baby, she prayed, still in shock. She pulled on her shirt and resolutely made her way to the water's edge to clean away what had been done to her. Jewel watched the fierce determination and pride that made the injured girl fight so hard for control.

  "You need a place to stay, kid?" she asked gently. She pulled up the hat slung from a rawhide thong about her neck, pushed it down firmly on her head, and waited for a r
eply.

  Fancy, weak and disoriented, hesitated. "I can't think right now. I was going to Denver."

  Jewel grunted. "Long way, Denver. You ain't in shape to go there today, that's for damn sure. You look like you could use a good stiff whiskey. Besides, there's woman things you got to do now to fix what them bastards did to you."

  Fancy looked wistfully at the trail and nodded.

  Jewel looked at Fancy's bedraggled condition, then at the three dead bodies.

  "It might be we should move on outta here, kid. The sheriff's a real pain in the arse about dead bodies, even if they deserve to be that way. A woman in my profession cain't be too careful of stayin' clear of the law."

  Fancy still said nothing.

  "Got a name?" Jewel asked, and the girl replied in a voice that sounded nothing like her own.

  "Fancy, eh? Great name, kid. Got any friends in the Gulch?"

  Fancy shook her head no, emphatically. "I was going to Denver to look for work. I'm an actress and a singer, and I've been out here prospecting for gold and silver."

  "Oh, shit! Another half-assed tenderfoot lookin' for easy money. Just what the Gulch needs."

  "No! I'm not like that. I've paid my dues... I'm not afraid of hard work. I'm not afraid of anything."

  Jewel put one foot in the near stirrup and turned to look at the ravaged stranger. Her laugh sounded more like a man's than a woman's.

  "Then it's a good thing I found you, honey. 'Cause you ain't got the sense God gave a chicken. I'm the only woman I know tough enough not to be afraid of man nor beast." She hoisted herself into the saddle and checked the movement of the frisky horse.

  "Hate to ask you to ride, kid, the way you must be feelin', but there ain't no other way. My horse can carry us both, and your belongings. A little bitty thing like you won't even make him breathe hard."

  Fancy looked at the three dead men with revulsion.

  "Do we just leave them here?"

  "From what I seen of 'em, they sure as hell don't deserve buryin'. They'll give the wolves a good dinner—probably be the only charitable act any of 'em ever done."

  Jewel gave Fancy a hand up behind her. Fresh pain shot upward from her injured parts; she straddled the horse, but she bit her lip to keep from crying and clung to Jewel. She felt the warmth of blood between her legs and wondered if she was miscarrying. She felt oddly protective of the baby now.

  "Not a word of what's gone on to any of my girls, ya hear?" Jewel said once, and Fancy nodded, too depressed and heartsick to care where she was going or what would happen once she got there.

  Fancy sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and struggled for control. She felt ill and irreparably injured—bruises and cuts stung all over her body and the searing pain within her woman-parts throbbed constant memories.

  Jewel had been kind and efficient. She'd made Fancy bathe and douche with pearlash and then vinegar; she'd put hypericum on her cuts and arnica on her bruises. After that, she'd left her guest to grapple with her own demons. Fancy had made no mention of her pregnancy, but Jewel had eyed the swollen, darkened nipples with an expert's understanding and said nothing. The bleeding had stopped after a few hours, and Fancy was surprised at her own relief.

  Rape. How could such savagery be called by such a simple name? No one word could explain the terror... the helplessness and the mad agony of responsibility, as if she had somehow caused it to happen, or at least had failed to stop them. Fancy fought down the sense of despair she always experienced when anything slipped through her guard; a darkling terror beyond all reason.

  She stood up shakily. There was no point at all in trying to sleep —the possibility of dreaming was too awful to contemplate. She looked at the galvanized tub that stood by the fireplace—she'd left it only minutes before, but she still felt unclean.

  Perhaps if she bathed again, it would make a difference...

  Jewel knocked softly before entering; when there was no response she peeked inside. Her eyes ran swiftly over the empty bed and rested on the tub. Fancy's head had fallen to the side as she lay in the soothing water, sound asleep.

  "I know how you feel, kid," Jewel whispered into the room's stillness. "Dirty and ruined." She shook her head at the unfairness of life and walked to the side of the tub.

  She touched Fancy gently on the shoulder, but the girl jumped, startled and afraid.

  "It's all right, kid. You're safe now. You just cain't stay in this tub all night. The water's gone cold."

  Fancy nodded and rose, obedient as a child. Jewel walked to the foot of the bed where an afghan lay folded, and picking up the heavy woolen coverlet, she spread it over the exhausted girl. She stood for a moment watching Fancy's body settle into a semblance of repose, a thoughtful expression on her own face, then she turned down the kerosene lamp on the table and tiptoed out of the room.

  It was nearly nine o'clock when Jewel pushed open the door to Fancy's room again; she was no longer clad in trail clothes. Her lurid red hair was coiffed into elaborate fluffiness and she was corseted and gowned in a way that made her spectacular bosom seem even more so. It was hard not to stare at those breasts, Fancy thought, embarrassed.

  "Great tits, ain't they?" asked Jewel with a hint of some emotion in her voice that Fancy couldn't name. Aggression? Pride? She nodded assent.

  "These titties were my downfall and they damn well been my resurrection." Her voice was throaty, companionable. "This place is a saloon and a whorehouse, case you been wonderin'. I'm the head whore. Jewel Mack by name. The miner's friend from here to the Comstock." She waited for that piece of information to be digested, and Fancy studied her face with curiosity.

  It was square-jawed and determined. The nose was straight, the mouth sensuously wide and full, the eyes were large and intelligent with fashionably curved eyebrows, and a pasted-on beauty mark adorned the right cheek. Jewel's face was artfully painted, arresting and memorable, but it was her body that everyone would remember, for it was simply breathtaking.

  "I don't know how to thank you for what you did to help me out there."

  "Men outnumber women hereabouts five hundred to one. A woman traveling alone in these hills has to watch her step."

  Fancy nodded, not trying to explain. She remembered Hart's endless warnings and the memory made her want to cry.

  "Been thinkin' about you, kid. Thinkin' maybe we better talk some about what happened to you—it looked pretty dicey from where I sat and it's best not to hold bad memories inside if you can help it. I got about an hour to spare right now before the sourdoughs start to raise the roof downstairs, so if you'd care to commence tellin' me your story, I'm all ears."

  Jewel studied the beautiful young girl with the intensity of intuition that had made her a successful survivor. Ideas had begun to percolate the moment she'd rescued Fancy. It wasn't every day a female of quality landed in the Gulch, much less a female of quality who needed a helping hand from the likes of Jewel. It wouldn't do to push the kid just yet, she had some getting-over to do. But after that...

  Fancy talked, haltingly at first, but Jewel was an old hand at listening to woman-troubles. She probed gently, carefully, letting Fancy get the horror out of her system, onto the table where the hurt could be stared down. The kid had spirit, but no woman was tough enough to withstand rape without grave injury. Unless Jewel missed her bet, the kid had been vulnerable, way down deep, long before those three bastards had come into her life; and there was more to the story than she was letting on. A man, a pregnancy... whatever it was, she had heard it all before.

  Jewel shook her head sagely as she let herself out into the hallway. The kid might have real possibilities once she healed.

  Fancy, drained of everything but profound sorrow, fell back into an exhausted slumber. She dreamed about her baby and knew that it was safe. When had the spark within her changed from a problem that entrapped her to a life she could love and protect? A baby... her baby... Fancy thought the thought or dreamed the dream, she wasn't sure which... but in the
vision, her baby was safe and it was hers alone, to love forever.

  Chapter 34

  Jewel Mack, born Julia McClosky in Pittsford, Pennsylvania, drew the stink of the coal mines into her lungs from the moment of birth. The sky darkened by coal dust into perpetual twilight, the slag heaps that inexorably consigned all life and greenery to destruction, the brain-numbing sound of machinery pounding the earth into disgorging its black and noxious produce—these were the sights and sounds of her early years that passed for childhood.

  Jewel Mack, madam of the most prosperous whorehouse in California Gulch, sat in the small rocking chair by the upstairs window of the Crown, facing Main Street. She held her mother's diary in her hands. As always, when she turned back the scarred cover of her mother's book, a still-sharp pang of sorrow and a host of images arose in her, called forth by the stained and tattered pages, traversed by the spidery cursives of her mother's script. Old-fashioned, simple words were there; God-fearing and steadfast in the face of all hopelessness. From the moment of her mother's death, Jewel had read and reread the woman's diary a thousand times. No matter what Fate had taken from her, it had left her this small book as consolation.

  June 24, 1852. Mr. McClosky says we are going West to the Oregon Territories or to California. I begged him not to make us go so far from home and family, but to no good end. Those who have gone on the wagon trains are lost forever to their loved ones. Cod grant me strength to do my Christian duty. I struggle with the devil daily. The hatred wells up in me at my husband's touch. Cod has set him above me as my spouse and I must do my best to be obedient.

  "My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle and are spent without hope." Job 7:6

  July 18, 1852. My heart is jubilant. Mr. McClosky has found that the cost of a wagon and foodstuffs needed for the trip west is more than $800. Cornelia Swift and her husband have been saving two years to amass only half this extravagant number. Maybe Cod will grant me a year or two longer with my sweet mother and father and all those I love before I am sent into cruel exile.