Authors: Alice Duncan
“I
guess it wasn’t me so much as the exalted prose. Luckily, we all got
along well. It was just being singled out that made it embarrassing.
I pretended to laugh it off, but it was pretty awful.”
“But
your friends must have known that your exceptional behavior would foster
praise, Mr. Partington. Surely they didn’t object to the novels on
that ground.”
“That’s
just it, Miss Montague. My behavior wasn’t exceptional. We were all
just trying to do a job for which we got paid a moderate amount of money.
I didn’t do anything anybody else wouldn’t have done—didn’t
do, if it comes to that.”
“Not
even when you conquered that Indian village single-handedly, Mr. Partington?”
Claire thought she had him with that one. He’d have to confess to
having done an heroic deed this time.
“That
village consisted of twelve people. Three women and nine children. I
didn’t conquer anything.”
“Oh.”
Claire digested this daunting piece of information. “That’s not
the way the event was reported in the press,” she said in a small
voice.
“Of
course it wasn’t.” He sounded disgusted.
“And
the lady you rescued?” Her voice seemed to be getting smaller as the
conversation continued.
“That
was no lady. That was a wh—a woman of . . . of easy virtue who’d
managed to get drunk and fall off her horse. They’re always following
the railroad. I just picked her up and poured her back into her tent.”
“Oh.”
Claire stared, unseeing, at her pillowslip for a moment. “But what
about the war party? The one you diverted from attacking the railroad
by clever stratagems?”
With
a big sigh, Tom said, “My only clever stratagem was to let the poor
souls know where they could find food, Miss Montague. The railroad workers
had taken to killing the buffalo for sport. The Indians needed them
for food. I’d found a small herd of buffalo and showed ‘em where
it was. That doesn’t sound terribly clever to me, but perhaps Clarence
McTeague thought otherwise.”
The
way he spoke her pen name made Claire’s heart take a nose dive.
“I’m
sure Mr. McTeague meant no harm,” she offered tentatively.
Tom
threw his head back so that it rested against the antimacassar on his
chair. He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them negligently
at the ankles. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, exposing a tantalizing
hint of curly golden chest hair. His pose was at once casual and elegant.
He was the most magnificent male Claire had ever seen in her life, and
her poor tattered heart throbbed in response.
“He
may not have meant any harm, but he made me a damned laughing stock.”
He looked at Claire ruefully. “Sorry, Miss Montague. I’m used to
rough company. I didn’t mean to offend you by my profane language.”
“No,”
said Claire, struggling to keep from bursting into tears. “No. You
didn’t offend me.”
His
smile just about did her in. “I’m glad. You’re a very comfortable
woman, Miss Montague. I’m afraid you’re so easy to be with that
I allowed myself to say more than I should have. I hope I haven’t
shattered too many illusions.”
Comfortable.
She was comfortable. Well, Claire guessed being comfortable was better
than nothing. She tried to smile. “Thank you, Mr. Partington. No,
you didn’t shatter my illusions. I already knew you were a modest
man.”
His
little snort didn’t surprise her.
“Well,
I don’t know how modest I am, but I’ll tell you this, although you
might think it shocking. If my uncle Gordon wasn’t already dead, I
might just be tempted to put a bullet in his brain for writing those
blasted
Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee
books. They’ve made my life a
living hell for five years.”
Now,
that surprised her.
Chapter 4
Claire’s
brain raced. As if determined to keep up with it, her feet sped her
towards the Pyrite Arms until she was nearly running down the road.
Tom
Partington hated her books. He not only hated them, but they had made
his life miserable. What was even worse than that was he thought his
uncle had written them and despised him for it!
Good
heavens. She’d been so upset after their conversation, she’d barely
slept a wink all night long, worrying about how on earth she’d ever
be able to confess that it was she and not his uncle Gordon who had
created “Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee.” Yet she didn’t feel it right
that Tom should continue blaming his innocent uncle for them.
She
wished she could apologize to Gordon Partington. It was all her fault
that his nephew had not esteemed him as he surely would have done had
not she, in her innocence, created a monster. But she hadn’t meant
“Tuscaloosa Tom” as a monster; rather, her novels had been meant
as praise for her hero.
If
she confessed her authorship, Tom would undoubtedly hate her. Claire
didn’t think she could stand it if he were to dislike her. She loved
him, for heaven’s sake. The whole situation didn’t bear thinking
of.
So
why could she think of nothing else?
Not
only that, but her latest creation,
Tuscaloosa Tom and the River
of Raging Death
was scheduled for release in January. Mr. Oliphant,
her publisher’s representative, would be arriving any day now with
her advance copies and to finalize arrangements for the one book remaining
to be written under her current contract.
If
Claire had not learned early in life to disguise her emotions, she might
have burst into tears. As it was, she jumped a foot when she rounded
the hedge separating the grounds of the Pyrite Arms from the prying
eyes of the rest of the community and almost collided with Sergei Ivanov.
Sergei,
a portrait artist and resident of the Arms, had been occupied in glaring
at an empty canvas. When Claire uttered a stifled shriek and skidded
to a stop, a hand pressed to her hammering heart, Sergei’s glare transferred
to her, and he lifted his paintbrush in a sinister manner.
Claire
stared at him, her thoughts instantly congealing into a scene of riveting
intensity.
As
the ferocious brave fell dead at his feet, Tom swirled around to behold
yet another peril. A villain stood over Miss Abigail
Faithgood, his dagger poised threateningly.
“Stop,
fiend!” Tom demanded.
“Never!”
the miscreant retorted. “Not until the wench agrees to give up her
foul sheep!” He grabbed Miss Faithgood by her flowing tresses, eliciting
another scream from her ruby lips.
“Claire?
Miss Montague?”
Her
attention thus jerked back to the here and now, Claire realized Sergei’s
attitude had changed from one of belligerence to one of concern. Pressing
her forehead, momentarily disconcerted, Claire said, “I’m so sorry,
Sergei. I got lost in a fog there for a minute.”
Turning
to resume glowering at his canvas, Sergei muttered, “Fog is to be
chosen over a tarnished soul.”
Since
Claire didn’t know how to respond to Sergei’s cryptic utterance,
she chose to say instead, “I see you’re beginning work on another
project, Sergei. Who will be honored by your artistry this time?”
She gave him as sunny a smile as she could manufacture.
With
a gloomy sigh, the artist said, “Mrs. Humphrey Albright.”
“Mrs.
Albright?” Triumph replaced despair in Claire’s breast. “Why,
Mrs. Albright is one of Pyrite Springs’ leading citizens, Sergei.
What a wonderful achievement for you.”
Scowling
at his canvas, Sergei said darkly, “A tarnished soul will out, Miss
Montague.”
Her
sense of triumph diminishing rapidly, Claire said uncertainly, “Do
you mean you believe Mrs. Albright to be the possessor of a tarnished
soul?”
His
slanting look rubbed the rest of the shine off of Claire’s moment.
“Oh, dear, Sergei. Are you absolutely certain? I’m sure she’s
a very nice lady. I can’t believe her soul can be so very tarnished.”
Another
darkling glance from her friend assured Claire that while she might
not believe such a thing, Sergei certainly did. “Well, Sergei, you
must remember that there are many people who prefer to keep their soul’s
imperfections to themselves. Are you sure you must paint them?”
Sergei
scowled at her as if she’d just suggested he sell his firstborn. “I
paint what I see, Miss Montague. I will not prostitute my art for fools.”
With
a sigh, Claire said, “No, I suppose you won’t. Well, just don’t
be surprised if Mrs. Albright objects. You remember the ruckus Mr. Gilmore
kicked up.”
Throwing
his head back, Sergei barked out a short, “Hah! Barbarians!”
Claire
decided to leave Sergei to his dark reflections. Shaking her head, she
made her way up the gravel path to the front door of the Pyrite Arms.
With a brisk tug at the bell pull, she pushed the door open and called
out, “Mrs. Elliott, it’s just Claire. Is Dianthe in?”
A
harassed-looking woman scuttled through a door on the other side of
the hallway and smiled at Claire. Waving in the appropriate direction,
she said, “She’s in the parlor, Miss Claire. Creating a dance to
go along with that dreadful picture Mr. Sergei painted last month.”
“Thank
you, Mrs. Elliott.”
“Think
nothing of it, dearie. Why on earth anybody would want to dance around
in front of that thing is beyond me. Worse than wild Indians these artists
are.” Mrs. Elliott hurried off.
Another
hearty sigh saw Claire into the parlor. She stopped, mesmerized, at
the scene that greeted her eyes. There, on an easel in front of the
fireplace, in a place of honor, resided Sergei Ivanov’s portrait of
Alphonse Gilbert, mayor of Pyrite Springs and proprietor of the Pyrite
Springs Mercantile and Furniture Emporium.
Although
she admired Sergei as an artist of rare ability, Claire couldn’t help
but wince as she gazed at the countenance on that canvas. Sergei, who
claimed to paint the souls of his subjects, had evidently discerned
sins in the jovial Mr. Gilmore’s soul that Claire couldn’t even
imagine.
Before
the portrait, prostrate amid a buttery froth of chiffon, lay Dianthe
St. Sauvre. When the door clicked shut, Dianthe’s head lifted, and
Claire found herself being scrutinized by two glorious blue eyes in
a beautiful face set into a head topped with tumbling blond curls.
“Hello,
Claire. What brings you here?”
All
at once Claire wondered why Miss Abigail Faithgood’s tresses should
be flowing if she were hiding out behind a rock in the wilderness. Such
a circumstance didn’t seem right somehow, but she decided to put her
mind to the matter later.
Dianthe
rose from the floor and fluttered onto the sofa. Claire couldn’t contain
a tiny—virtually nonexistent—stab of envy.
“I
spoke with Mr. Partington last evening, Dianthe, and he told me he is
definitely interested in continuing the tradition of Artistic Evenings.”
“How
wonderful!”
Claire
sat in a wing chair, trying very hard to keep her gaze from straying
to the ghastly painting by the fireplace. She couldn’t stop herself
from saying, “I can’t imagine why Sergei always seems to see one’s
soul as black. Do you understand it, Dianthe?”
“He’s
a Russian, Claire.”
“Do
you think that accounts for it?”
“Of
course. You know how somber and dank the Russian spirit is.”
“I
hadn’t actually thought about it, to tell you the truth.”
“Oh,
yes, my dear. Positively centuries of oppression lurk behind Sergei’s
wounds.”
“His
wounds!” Claire sat up, distressed that one of her artists could have
been hurt without her having been told about it.
“His
spiritual wounds, Claire darling,” Dianthe murmured, sinking back
against a pile of pillows on the sofa.
“Oh.
Of course.” Claire shot another nervous glance at Mr. Gilmore’s
portrait brought forth a sincere. “What a terrible shame.”
“Mr.
Gilmore thought so, too.”
“I
know. Has he had second thoughts about pressing charges? Perhaps I should
speak with him again.”
“Well,
since Sergei gave him back his money, he isn’t as angry, but I’m
afraid he’s threatening legal action should Sergei ever show the portrait.
At least he didn’t smash it, as he wanted to do.”