Paint the Wind

  "It doesn't appear I've got any choice in the matter, whatsoever." Hart pushed some papers into a drawer and locked the rolltop before getting out of his chair. "Care for some dinner, Chance? Bandana says the steaks at Bauer's place are the only ones in town didn't die of old age."

  Chance put his hand on his brother's shoulder, a warm gesture. "I'd like that fine. About the only thing wrong with being rich that I can see, is you and I seem never to see each other anymore."

  Hart nodded, wondering if that loss seemed as great to Chance as it did to him.

  The older brother followed the younger through the door and waited while he locked it.

  "You know, bro, I expect it seems to you that I'm always dreaming up impossible schemes and shooting the moon—and I guess you're just too damned practical to approve of all that I get into. But I've been thinking lately that I'd like to explain a couple of things to you, best I can."

  Hart looked up, surprised by the serious turn in the conversation.

  "I know it looks to you like I go off half-cocked on these wild schemes of mine, doing things I've got no business doing. But to tell you the truth, bro, I don't have a whole hell of a lot of choice in how I go about things. What I mean is, I don't have a God-given talent like you do, or a backbone like Daddy's, that can slave away a lifetime on moral principle and be satisfied with nothing to show at the end of it but righteousness.

  "What talent I got is in my way with people, and in my dreams, which is just another word for ambitions, when you get right down to it. You've got to work with what you've been given in this life, Hart—if you've got big wants, you've got to try for them or else you'll die wanting. I don't intend to grow old feeling maybe if I'd tried for the moon and stars, at least I'd have had one hell of a ride. Does that make any sense to you, at all?"

  "A short life but a glorious one..." Hart replied quietly, touched by his brother's need to be honest with him. "That's what Alexander the Great asked of the gods, Chance. I guess I do understand what you're telling me."

  Chance looked squarely at his brother and Hart saw the caring in his eyes as he spoke again.

  "The second thing I want you to know, bro, is that even if I don't always take your advice, or do the things you think I should, I value what you tell me. It's just that sometimes, I don't know how to do things your way, so I've got to do them mine. But that doesn't mean I don't know yours is the right way." His voice was low and earnest. "You've got a lot of Daddy in you, Hart. I admire that more than you know."

  Hart heard the catch in his brother's voice; sensed that what he'd said had been long brooded over. It was hard for men to show strong emotions to each other—was it fear of vulnerability that stopped them? Was it unmanly to care so much? Their daddy had cared, and he had been a man.

  Hart's voice was husky when he replied, "I understand, Chance... better than you think." He paused a moment, casting about for the right way to say what he needed to. "I love you too."

  Slightly embarrassed, slightly relieved, each man mounted his horse and headed toward town.,

  Chance's Silver Alliance was a huge success and secured him a foot in the door of the elite. His total recall made it easy for him to play back, word for word, conversations in which important things were said; and he had a natural gift for knowing what to say, when.

  His gambling and womanizing were looked on askance by the men in the party whose job it was to keep on the lookout for potential candidates, but "What the hell," they said among themselves... at least they were both manly pursuits, and any red-blooded American boy who looked like McAllister could hardly be faulted for taking advantage of the women who threw themselves into his path.

  Chapter 54

  Fancy felt Aurora's head for the dozenth time; the child was feverish again. She'd tried a score of herbal remedies, but nothing worked for long. She checked her purse to see if there was money for another doctor's visit and was relieved to see there was. The special foods she'd purchased to try to tempt Aurora's finicky appetite had depleted her budget, as had the milk bought from a special herd of cows, and all the other tricks she'd tried to strengthen the little girl. But there was Mrs. Donaher's salary to contend with, and the fact that she'd left the boardinghouse and rented a tiny place of their own.

  She didn't mind sacrificing for Aurora, but this new play was grueling and had sapped her own strength, and it made no sense at all to her that Aurora did not respond to her own vast knowledge of remedies.

  "I don't feel well, Mommy," the child whispered hoarsely— Aurora's throat was always the source of her problems. Tonsillitis, the doctor had called it last winter, then quinsy throat, now it just seemed to be a chronic weakness. The throat is the seat of your soul's purpose, Magda had said....

  Fancy glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly time to leave for the theatre. Aurora watched her mother's agitation and leapt on it, her big eyes fever-bright.

  "Don't go, Mommy. I feel really sick this time."

  "I don't have any choice, sweetheart. I can't leave all those people at the theatre with no leading lady, can I?"

  Aurora pushed out her bottom lip. "You have an understudy."

  "Oh, if you only knew how dangerous that is, my darling," Fancy said, as she stood up with a sigh and prepared, reluctantly, fo go.

  Mrs. Donaher was standing in the doorway, tying on her apron; the small plump woman feared for both mother and child. "Don't worry, missus. I'll take good care of the little one while you're gone."

  "Give her this medicine one more time, before she goes to sleep, please, Mrs. Donaher. I'll be back just as soon as the show is over."

  "Why don't you love me, Mommy?" Aurora asked, tears welling in the corners of her great eyes.

  "Not love you, darling? Of course I love you!"

  "If you loved me, you wouldn't go away and leave me when I'm sick."

  "If I don't work, Aurora, how will we eat and pay our rent and Mrs. Donaher?"

  "I don't want Mrs. Donaher! I want my mommy!" Aurora began to sob and the sobs provoked a coughing fit. Fancy worried about coughing; so many children died of consumption that any cough was suspect. Aurora knew it was an excellent way to get her mother's attention.

  Mrs. Donaher saw the frightened look on Fancy's face and stepped forward. This little one had her mother wrapped around her finger, and poor Mrs. Deverell tried so hard to make up for the time she spent away from the girl.

  "Don't you worry now, dear, I'll watch her like she was me own. There's not much I haven't seen of little ones—what with the seven God gave me, and the three I raised for me poor sister, God rest her. Now you just go about your business and we'll be right as rain here."

  Aurora turned her back on her mother deliberately, and facing the wall, began to sob. Fancy took a step toward her, then realizing that sympathy would only provoke more weeping, she turned and fled the room.

  Fancy had the niggling feeling that Aurora's constant illness was somehow connected with the child's inordinate need for attention, but she didn't know what to do about it. She spent every minute she could with Aurora, playing, reading, teaching, talking. But the little girl was a bottomless pit of need; no matter how much she gave, it was never enough. Sometimes Fancy felt she was drowning in Aurora's need... and in her own, to boot. But she couldn't think all that through just now—in half an hour she would have to give a creditable performance. There were important backers in the audience tonight and to perform well she must gather all her resources and concentrate... concentrate...

  The doctor looked up into Fancy's troubled face and removed his spectacles. "I'm afraid your daughter has pneumonia, Mrs. Deverell," he said gravely. "It can be very serious in a child her age. Life-threatening, in fact. She'll have to go to the hospital; there really isn't any choice."

  People died in hospitals, Fancy thought, frightened—people she loved died before their time. Could it be she'd forgotten some important maternal task and this was to be her punishment?

  "I'll see to having
her admitted to the ward, Mrs. Deverell. You must take her round to the clinic immediately."

  Fancy looked up distractedly. "Ward? Clinic? I won't have my little girl in a clinic, Doctor. Private care is what I want."

  The doctor eyed the shabby surroundings.

  "Can you really afford that, Mrs. Deverell? Private care is costly, and I assure you, the patients on the ward get excellent treatment."

  Fancy straightened her spine. "Thank you for your concern, Doctor, but I wouldn't consider putting my child into the hospital without the best of private care."

  The doctor shook his head as if to say there's no dealing rationally with the mother of a sick child. "As you wish then, Mrs. Deverell. Just remember that speed is essential now... your daughter's condition could turn critical at any moment."

  Fancy shut the door behind the doctor and leaned her head against it, trying to breathe. People died of pneumonia... she shut out the hateful thought, swiped at the tears on her cheeks, and gathered her courage.

  She scribbled a hasty note to Jason asking help; it would tip the balance of leverage irrevocably in his favor, but there was no time to worry about that now. He'd asked her repeatedly, during the last months, to live with him, and she'd managed to hold him off without offending, for much as she took comfort in his company, she didn't love him. Now she thanked God silently that she hadn't broken with him, as she had sometimes considered when he pushed her. What on earth would she do in this crisis without him? Fancy sealed the envelope and hastened to the bedroom.

  "I'll take her, Mrs. Donaher," she said as steadily as she could. "If you'll call us a cab, I'll get her to the hospital. Just take this letter round to Mr. Madigan for me. Please be certain it goes to him directly. Don't leave it in anyone else's hands."

  Mrs. Donaher read the terror in Fancy's eyes and responded. She'd lost only one of her seven, but there wasn't a day of her life when that little lost boy didn't live in her heart.

  The hospital room was whitewashed to a bluish tinge; the smell of disinfectant permeated the woolen blanket on which Fancy had laid her head next to Aurora. She listened absently to the hospital sounds—the occasional moans of a patient in the ward farther down the hall, the soft footfalls of the nursing nuns in the corridors, the clickety sound of their rosary beads.

  An aged nun entered the room to check on the child's condition. She took her pulse, which was rapid and irregular, and changed the sweat-soaked bed linen.

  "I've asked God to spare your child, Mrs. Deverell," she said softly to the young woman who hadn't left her daughter for three endless days and nights.

  "A lot of good that will do, Sister," Fancy replied.

  The nun stood very still, hands folded beneath her capelet. "You seem so very angry when you speak of God, Mrs. Deverell. May I ask why?"

  "Because God has taken everyone I've ever loved from me, Sister, and I am very, very angry."

  "It takes immense faith in God to rail at Him, child. Only those who believe deeply take the trouble to be angry. Surely He knows what's in your heart."

  "If there is a God, Sister, why does He never answer my prayers?"

  The nun pursed her lips in contemplation, then replied in a compassionate voice. "Sometimes, my dear, He answers and says no."

  For a long time after the nun had pattered down the hall, Fancy thought about what she'd said with terrible misgiving.

  "Can't breathe, Mommy." Aurora's voice was a whisper. Her rattling breath sounded ragged in the small bony chest and every effort to pull air into her diseased lungs made the child suffer.

  "I love you, baby," Fancy whispered, stroking the fevered forehead. The doctor had done all he could, but the infection still filled the child's lungs with fluid and the fever still hovered far too high for safety. Fancy put her arms around her daughter and felt that the sheets were again damp from the fever sweat. On impulse, she pulled the clean blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapping the little girl in its fold, she lifted her out of bed and onto her lap.

  So frail, she thought, clutching Aurora close to her heart. I cannot bear to lose you.... The crisis would come tonight, the doctor said; the fever would peak and then dissipate, or the infection would outdistance all that medicine could do and would rampage its way through the little body that had no strength left to fight back. Fancy rocked the child, racking her brain for some effort left untried. Magda could save her, but Magda was far away....

  "I wanted to live in a big house, Mommy," the child whispered. "Mr. Madigan said he'd take care of us..." A fit of uncontrollable coughing racked her. Spasms convulsed the small limbs and left the fragile body fighting for breath.

  Fancy held her daughter so close that the rattle in her chest reverberated against the mother's heart. An unutterable sense of failure welled in Fancy; all she'd ever wanted for Aurora was safety and plenty... but what had she provided her? Bedbugs and poverty, dragged from pillar to post, weakened so this insidious illness could destroy her.

  "Stay alive, baby," she whispered into the girl's dark hair as she rocked her. "If you just stay alive, Mommy will get you what you need, I swear it. I'll let Mr. Madigan take care of us and bring us to his big house and you can feel safe, sweetheart, truly safe and warm. And you won't have to be afraid of anything ever again. I promise you, darling. Just stay alive, Aurora... please, sweetheart. You just have to stay alive."

  Fancy tried desperately to remember what Magda had taught her of healing, so long ago. Why hadn't she paid more attention? She remembered the healing energy she'd once felt fill her hands... how in God's name had she gathered it? She moved to the door, and glancing once up the corridor, closed and locked it behind her.

  Fancy tried to recall the colors of the chakras, and how to get her spine into proper alignment. Damn it all, there had to be a way to remember! She lowered her hips and tried to imagine the flesh hanging from her bones as Magda had taught. Red, orange, yellow, green, sky blue, indigo, white-gold... that was it! It was worth a try. With every ounce of energy she could muster, Fancy sent her own chakras spinning and eventually she felt the tingling fire seep into her arms and hands, as if filling twin cups.

  Magda, help me! she cried out in her heart. Trying to breathe in the strength she needed, Fancy laid her fiery hands on her daughter's chest and prayed to a god she barely believed in, with all the fervor of a zealot.

  When the doctor returned to check on Aurora at 11:00 p.m., he found her lying in the rocker in her mother's arms. Much to his amazement both mother and child were sleeping peacefully.

  Aurora's illness was the turning point for Fancy in many ways, for it made her feel vulnerable again, and made clear the virtue of not having to cope with adversity alone. Jason's money paid the bills, Jason's presence made the staff snap to, Jason's kindness made life easier. For all she knew, it may have been Jason's power that saved her daughter's life, not God's.

  If only I could love him, she thought moodily. He's strong and smart, tough enough to protect me and Aurora—he's even generous enough to want to. And he's lovable in small ways, like the constant barrage of flowers, candy and toys for Aurora, the countless indulgences...

  But he isn't Chance. Maybe love like that only strikes once in a lifetime and, lightning-like, is gone forever. Maybe no one could bear that intensity on a day-to-day basis anyway....

  It was time to make some decisions; Jason had asked her to be his mistress. He hadn't asked her to be his wife, as she'd expected. He'd been angry at her refusal, just as she'd been angry at his proposing the wrong thing. Damn it to hell! They'd had a terrible row and he'd said he intended to see other women and she could go to the devil for all he cared. She had waited three days for him to call and apologize, but there'd been no word at all.

  Fancy drummed her fingers nervously on the chest of drawers before deciding that she mustn't lose him now, not when Aurora still needed care and she had made a promise to her child. Goose bumps rose on her arms as she unfolded the wrinkled sheet of paper, then refolded it and f
inally flattened it out on the desk. She hadn't even looked at it since that day in Magda's bedroom, years before.

  The hairs rose at the nape of her neck as she began to assemble the items the paper said she would need.... What if the spell didn't work.... What if it did?

  Fancy pushed her hair back hurriedly from her forehead, there wasn't much time before the housekeeper returned.

  If only she knew what deosil meant....

  "You seem defeated rather than elated in accepting my offer of a home and all that any woman could wish for, Fancy," Jason said astutely, standing next to Aurora's bed at St. Vincent's Infirmary. "Many women would jump at the chance to share my world." He'd decided to feel pleased at her acquiescence, rather than hurt by her lack of enthusiasm, but it was difficult.

  Fancy took a breath before replying. "You must forgive me, Jason, if becoming your mistress is not the apex of all I had in mind for myself."

  Jason threw back his head and roared with laughter. At least she was honest—he would have seen through self-serving subterfuge in an instant.

  "Then become my wife instead."

  Fancy's eyes darted to his; never once before this had he mentioned marriage.

  "Let's not spoil a good thing, Jason," she said carefully. "I'm too tired to get married." The smile that accompanied the rebuff was weary enough to make it believable.

  Jason pursed his lips, deciding whether to be angry or relieved. Marriage could always come later. Fancy was doing this for the child's sake, and for expediency, not out of adoration. No matter. All life was leverage and how you used it. He would get a good return on his investment in Fancy and Aurora, and so would they. The three days he'd spent waiting for her to call had been unnervingly empty.

  Jason bent down to Aurora's bedside and lifted the little girl into his arms. He'd gone out of his way to be good to the child and she'd responded in kind. How starved for a father's love this bird-thin daughter of Fancy's was, and how exquisitely beautiful. Even drained by her illness, Aurora's beauty had caused nurses and doctors to look in on her more frequently than was strictly necessary. That, and the fact that Jason Madigan was paying her bills.