Paint the Wind

  John Henderson brooded through the afternoon and evening, weighing the possible gain against the possible losses, figuring every angle that was figurable. It was well after midnight when it occurred to him that maybe there was a way to have it all— Fancy's mine and Jason Madigan's friendship.

  Madigan's dapple gray pawed the ground and puffs of smoke coiled from his nostrils into the chill morning air; Henderson reined his blue roan mare in beside the gray, and looked to right and left under his wide-brimmed hat before speaking. It was the first time in all the years they'd done business together that the banker had seen Jason in other than a proper three-piece suit; he looked infinitely harder and less civilized in the foul-weather gear he now wore than in town clothes.

  Henderson told his tale in an orderly, emotionless fashion; it was to Jason's credit, he thought, that he, too, remained calm, considering the content of the revelation.

  "It's got to be the mine that old-timer McBain was rumored to have found," Henderson said. "I always thought it was all just prospector pipe dreams, now I'm not so sure, Jason.

  "If you can lay hands on the deed and location, or if you can force her to give you power of attorney, we can thumb our noses at silver when it goes down the drain—as it most likely will before the year is out. I'll want fifty percent of whatever comes of this information, of course; that seems to me none too dear for saving your hide and discovering a gold mine for you, simultaneously." Henderson's eyes were cold as marbles.

  Madigan didn't bother to reply; his mind was reeling. How the hell could Fancy have found out after all this time? And how many other people knew what Fancy did? If the gold mine really existed, he'd have to find it... the law would give him control of anything his wife owned, unless there'd been some stipulation to the contrary, in Bandana's will. Even so, her power of attorney would suffice, with Krasky, the local judge, on his payroll. Jason's stomach knotted at the knowledge that Fancy knew the truth— damn it to bloody hell, she would never let it rest now. She would hound him for those confounded deeds from the past and never remember all the good he'd done her. He didn't want to kill her— if she'd been anyone else in this world, his course would have been obvious, but she was Fancy, and the thought of her dead by his own hand sickened him.

  Jason grunted acknowledgment of the bargain, without even bothering to dicker; if Henderson became a problem, he could be disposed of. The two men parted company and headed toward town. Jason slowed his horse deliberately to a walk and let his companion forge ahead of him. He had plenty to think about and it was the kind of thinking best done alone.

  Chapter 117

  Jason braced himself for the onslaught of Fancy's temper and faced her squarely across the library.

  "Why didn't you tell me you owned a gold mine?" he asked quietly.

  Fancy breathed deeply to be certain of her control. Henderson must have betrayed her to Jason; her solar plexus tightened at the danger he'd placed her in.

  "I saw no reason to mention it, Jason. I intended never to work that claim unless everything else was wiped out."

  "Or you needed money to implicate me in something I didn't do," he said.

  There seemed no appropriate reply, so Fancy remained silent.

  Jason rose from behind the handsome walnut desk and moved in front of it; he leaned back and folded his arms. The gesture made him look bull-like and intimidating; Fancy wondered how many people had been cowed by this particular stance over the years.

  "I'm afraid I shall have to ask you for power of attorney, Fancy. You can hardly expect me to allow you to go dangling this gold mine in front of every scalawag in the territory as a bounty on my life."

  "John Henderson is most certainly a scalawag, but I'm surprised to hear you say so."

  Jason smiled, mirthless as a rattler.

  "Let's not play with words, Fancy. No one has ever admired your skillful use of the language more than I, but I'm terribly disappointed in you, and my temper is a bit short just now.

  "I've had the papers drawn up for you. I'm sure you know that as my wife, any property you own belongs to me under the law, but I like to keep my affairs tidy and aboveboard and I would prefer to have your power of attorney."

  Fancy's expression was full of contempt. "You might prefer to be king of England, too, Jason, but you have as much chance of that as of getting my power of attorney. And just to make things perfectly clear, the terms of the will that gave me the mine state that it can never go to my husband."

  "Your power of attorney will override that."

  "No, Jason. Absolutely and unequivocally no."

  "I have asked you for the last time, Fancy."

  "And I have told you no for the last time, Jason. I will never sign. I'll see you in hell before I'll see you get Bandana's mine."

  "I can force you to do this, Fancy..."

  "You can't force me to do diddly, you murdering bastard. You neither own nor control me; I thought you'd noticed that by now." Two sleepless nights had left her nerves on high E, and the crisis of Aurora had yet to be faced. Jason's temper, too, was stretched taut; if Fancy didn't acquiesce willingly, he'd be forced to measures he didn't wish to employ.

  "I have never been stern with you, Fancy," he said, choosing his words with great care. "But you must not assume that means I'm not capable of being so. If I have to force you to sign this paper, I will do so by whatever means are at my disposal, do not mistake me in this. Silver is going under; there's no question about it anymore, just a matter of time. Within weeks or moments this country will be on the gold standard and the gold standard alone. Only a gold mine can save the men and women on this mountain, and you have no right whatsoever to let a rich vein lie dormant, when the whole of Leadville will starve to death for your selfish willfulness. Any judge in Colorado would uphold me if I have you declared incompetent."

  "Why, you sanctimonious son of a bitch! Don't you dare threaten me with your judges. There must be one judge left in all of Christendom who isn't for sale."

  His voice was deadly cold and deadly serious. "Don't count on it, Fancy. I know ten judges who'd see I have your best interest and Colorado's at heart in this. And I know ten more who could be bought with a hell of a lot less lure than the proceeds of a major gold mine."

  "My best interests at heart? Really, Jason... did you have my best interests at heart when you murdered my husband, too?" The scorn in her voice bit through the man's control and Jason took an involuntary step toward her, then stopped himself.

  "A drifter killed Chance. It's a matter of public record."

  "I'm sure you purchase public record at least as easily as you purchase judges, Jason. Why don't you just tell me the whole of it, now that I know so much? Did you kill Chance so you could get the mines, or was it me you wanted? Did you shoot him yourself, or did you just dispatch a minion to do the deed, you contemptible lowlife? And how about Bandana and the Fancy Penny—do you really think I'd let Bandana's murderer lay hands on his only legacy? Why, I'd blow the whole goddamned mountain to gold dust before I'd let that happen."

  Jason's face contorted with anger. "You silly autocratic little bitch. Don't you understand what you're forcing me to do? Don't you know how much I've always loved you? I could have made you happy, if you'd ever let go of your fantasy of that weakling. All Chance ever gave you was heartache and the contempt of everyone around you. I've given you love and respect and security, and you've repaid it by hiding your property and accusing me of criminal acts."

  The continuing lie enraged her. "You manipulative bastard... I will never be your wife. I loved Chance, do you hear that, Jason? When he touched me I wanted him more than life itself... I feel nothing for you but loathing." Fancy tried to push past her husband, but he grabbed her wrist in a grip so hard, she cried out.

  "Don't you make me do anything we'll both regret, you little fool. I can't have you threatening me or running around town making accusations..."

  "Oh, really?" Fancy answered him with cold contempt, although she
knew she was in terrible danger. Never let a bully smell your fear... "And what exactly will you do to stop me, Jason? Will you kill me too?"

  Jason dropped his hands to his sides wordlessly and let Fancy pass. He stood in the doorway for a long quiet while without moving. He would do what he must to stop her from destroying him, but it infuriated him that she'd force him to harm her in any way; that was never what he'd planned. She had all the money in the world, and all the love, as long as she had him. Why could she not just love him as he loved her and let the McAllister past die the ignominious death it deserved? Chance was never any good for her—the irony of the situation was grotesque.

  Jason pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose hard; he wiped his watery eyes and took a deep breath. If he didn't want to kill her, there was only one other way he knew to stop her.

  Fancy packed the portmanteau, feverishly stuffing in the barest necessities. Nothing mattered but getting away from Jason, for the peril of her position now resonated about her like a live electric wire. She must get out of Leadville without delay, go to stay with Magda, until Hart arrived. She'd misread Henderson badly, she couldn't afford to make the same mistake with her husband. There was no way to know precisely what Jason would do to retaliate, but with the cat out of the bag, he would sure as hell do something fast and devastating. Fancy ticked off the list of what she must do now... go first to Jewel to leave a message for Hart, then seek sanctuary with Wes and Magda to plan her strategy. Surely there was a judge somewhere west of the Divide who wasn't in Jason's pocket—Wes' newspaper friends would know who was honest and who was not.

  The boys were safe back East, and Aurora had refused to leave with her. "You actually want me to leave here?" Aurora had said, incredulously, when Fancy finished her breathless explanation, after the fight with Jason. "To go running off to God knows where with you? Haven't you figured out yet that I can't stand the sight of you? You always do this to me, Mother. You always try to find a way to spoil things for me, don't you? I like it here... near to Chinatown." She'd smiled as if to say, I told you there were some things you couldn't force to your will.

  Fancy swung the portmanteau off the bed; she wouldn't think about Aurora now. She couldn't force the girl to come with her if she didn't want to, and there wasn't time for coaxing. Jason cared about Aurora, odds were she'd be in no danger from him, at least until Fancy could get help.

  She looked around her for what might have been left behind, and took in several deep breaths. She must not make any more mistakes. Letting Jason find out how much she knew had been suicidal; God damn John Henderson to hell for twice eternity! Fancy forced her back to straighten, patted her hair in under the brim of her bonnet, fastened the waist of the traveling suit, and picked up the heavy bag.

  Damn! She'd taken only the most meager necessities, yet the portmanteau was barely carryable. How insidious was this need of the material world and all its spoils; once she could have survived on roots and herbs and the love of Atticus.

  Fancy gathered her wits, pulled on her gloves, and opened the door to the pitch-black street... she gasped audibly as she looked up into the faces of two men she'd never seen before. They stood blocking the way, with two others behind them. Absolute terror possessed her. Sweet Jesus, he does mean to kill me!

  "Now you just come quietly with us, Mrs. Madigan," the one closest to her said, as the other pulled the bag from her hand and grasped her arm roughly. The shock of being intercepted pushed her pulse rate into frenzy and her voice shook. "I most certainly will not go with you! Take your hands off me before I call the servants!" She tried to break away, but the second man grasped her other arm and pinned it to her side. Rage and fear surged wildly; she tore at one man's face as she tried to wrench free. Fierce as one of Magda's cats, she fought, screamed, kicked, gouged, until it took all four men to drag her struggling to the waiting carriage.

  Servants in night clothes stood hovering on the periphery of her vision doing nothing, and Aurora stood motionless beside the doorway.

  "Aurora!" Fancy screamed. "Aurora, run to the sheriff. Get help for me!"

  "I told you she was crazy," the girl called out to the men who were forcing her mother into the coach; then she turned and walked calmly back into the house.

  Fancy ceased to struggle, Aurora's betrayal undermining her in some terrible way. She let the men bundle her into the cab. Aurora must have gone to Jason... Jason must have warned the servants not to interfere. Where were they taking her? And what would happen when they got there? She must stay calm now. She must stay very calm indeed.

  Chapter 118

  The asylum stood in the shadow of the mountains, surrounded on all sides by thick woodland. It was a dismal structure of indeterminate architecture and there were bars on all the windows; the few outbuildings were similarly jail-like, but small and insignificant.

  Full cognizance of the menace she faced constricted Fancy's heart with an almost physical pain. No one could possibly know where she'd been taken. The ride had lasted all night and most of the next day; she'd tried to keep track of the route, but it had been too long and circuitous. She was pulled abruptly from the cab when it halted and hustled, in a phalanx of guards, through the side door of the asylum.

  Insane! Of course that was what he would attempt. A man as powerful as Jason could put a woman into an insane asylum for life, if he could get a judge and a doctor to help him. "Hysteria" was what they called it, the name stemmed from the Greek word for womb. Women became hysterical, they said irrational things, made accusations, flouted men's authority... and were bundled away to pay the price for these unconscionable acts of lunacy.

  She must concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other until she could figure a way out of this peril... no judge or doctor would declare her insane... not even Jason could corrupt everyone in Colorado.

  The wardress opened the door and threw a heap of coarse gray clothing onto the bed beside Fancy. She was large and shapeless, her hair was gray and her face as square as a block of granite.

  "Undress yourself, dearie," the woman said, eyeing Fancy's expensive mousseline frock, now ripped and dirtied, with malicious interest.

  "When you leave," Fancy answered coolly.

  The wardress laughed. "Ain't that a tickle, dearie," she said; then, frowning with immense hostility, she took an ominous step nearer and said, "Strip. Now!"

  Fancy gauged the woman's size, strength, and intent, then nodded. She disrobed as decorously as possible. Stupid bitch, she thought vengefully, do you think I'll be intimidated by being seen nude by the likes of you? But the malevolent presence was frightening, and so was the sense of being trapped in a dangerous world.

  "I'll need these clothes when I leave here," she said, trying not to let the livid terror she felt creep into her voice.

  "That's a laugh, dearie. If you ever do get out of here, they'll take you in your asylum dress, in a straitjacket, or naked as a jaybird. No one cares a rat's ass about the likes of you." She moved toward the door.

  Fancy thought quickly, assessing her options; what if her only chance might be to gain this woman's confidence?

  "My name is Fancy Madigan," she said quickly. "Fancy McAllister Madigan." Surely everyone in Colorado knew that name by now.

  "Sure it is, dearie. And I'm Lillie Langtry." She laughed again, as joylessly as before. "Everybody here thinks he's somebody famous. We've got two Napoleons, three Julius Caesars, and one Jesus Christ gets crucified every Friday afternoon."

  "No. You don't understand! I really am Mrs. Madigan."

  "That ain't what it says on your card, dearie. It says Françoise Deverell, large as life. Don't sound like no real person's name to me, mind you. But what do I care? That's what your husband put down on the paper, so that's what it is at Brookehaven."

  "My husband? Is my husband here? Could I see him?"

  "I don't answer no questions for inmates. But I'll tell you this much. They're just waitin' on Judge Krasky's commitment paper
s to get here and after that, it won't matter a pig's nostril if your husband's here or not."

  Fancy stood very still after the door had closed behind the wardress; she let the panic rise and pass through her, until it was gone and only she remained.

  She knew something of hospitals for the insane; most were no better than Bedlam. Pathetic lunatics crowded into concrete wards... filthy, hungry, beyond hope of liberation. She had once been asked to perform at a benefit for the state hospital for the insane in New York, an asylum called Bellevue. Never, never had there been a place less aptly named. She remembered what she'd seen as she toured the wards. I will not think about that now. Later. There'll be time later to think about everything. Right now I have to find a way to get out of here.

  Could there have been some narcotic in her food? Fancy wondered. She'd been feeling lethargic, light-headed, unable to gather her thoughts coherently for the past few days, and had eaten as little as possible. I mustn't let them drug me, she told herself resolutely, but hunger gnawed at her vitals like a mouse. If I can't eat, I won't... I've gone hungry before; they don't know how tough I am.

  Fancy tried to maneuver her body into a more comfortable position, but ever since she'd tried to escape by the window, the day before, her wrists had been strapped to the sides of the bed. Restraints, the wardress called them. The fury and frustration of being chained like an animal made her want to flail against the straps in rage, want to scream and shriek and cry for help... being chained could turn anyone mad.

  She heard the wardress arrive with a tray of food and turned her head toward the sound. "Time to feed you, dearie. The cook was real hurt, you ain't been clearing your plate the last few days." The huge woman lumbered in and plopped down on the bed beside Fancy, making the springs squeal beneath her excess weight. She pulled the sheet down, roughly, exposing Fancy's bare breasts; they'd taken away her clothes after the escape attempt, too, as a sign of her absolute helplessness. "Don't want to spill nothin' on your nice clean sheet, dearie," the hateful woman said, as she smiled unpleasantly at Fancy's body.