The Shadow Portrait (3 page)

“It’s all right, Father,” Cara said. “I enjoy having them.”

“You’re not the best judge of that, Cara. You’re not well, and you don’t need to have this kind of excitement.” Lanier’s eyes came to meet those of Clinton. “As an older son, I would expect you to have better judgment, Clinton.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I just thought—”

“No, you didn’t think! You never do! And you, Benjamin—if you conduct yourself at college as you do in your fool ways here at home, I doubt you will ever graduate.”

Benjamin’s eyes dropped, but he made no reply.

Mary Ann took one step forward and said as defiantly as she could, “Father, Cara gets lonesome in here. We just come to cheer her up.”

“You, Mary Ann, would do better to consider ways to make life easier for your sister, not harder. I’ll speak to you later!” He glared at her fiercely, then added, “And what’s more, young lady, I think it would be entirely inappropriate for you to attend that party you mentioned.”

“But, Father—”

“That’s my final word!”

Mary Ann’s eyes filled with angry tears. She swallowed hard, then looked at Cara before running out of the room, leaving the silence behind her.

Oliver Lanier was not yet finished. He said, “Elizabeth, you and Robert leave at once. I’ll have something to say to you later. You need instructions on how to behave around an invalid.”

Bobby pulled himself up to his full height and said, “I brought Cara a teddy bear, Papa. It was a birthday present.”

“Where did you get the money?” he demanded.

“I saved it up by myself.”

Oliver studied his youngest son and shook his head. “You’ve got to learn the value of a dollar, Robert. Now, all of you leave.”

Cara sadly watched as her brothers and sisters left one by one. It disturbed her greatly to see how that familiar look of fear had come into the expressions of each when confronted with their father’s sternness. Benjamin gave Cara a parting shrug as he exited last, and after he’d quietly closed the door behind him, Cara turned and said, “I wish you hadn’t done that, Father. They were having such a good time.”

“You’re too tenderhearted for your own good, Cara.” Something softened in Oliver’s iron expression whenever he spoke with his oldest child. He came over and sat down on the bed beside Cara and put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. “You’ve got to learn to take better care of yourself, Cara. Wild parties such as I just witnessed will not do you any good. If anything, they will bring on a setback.”

Cara had been over this before with her father, but no matter what she said, he never changed. A hopelessness settled on her as she shrugged her shoulders and silently leaned back against the pillows.

“Dr. McKenzie tells me there’s some improvement in your condition.”

“I suppose so. It’s hard to tell.” Looking out the window, she sighed, then said, “If only I could get outside and breathe some fresh air and get in the sunshine!”

“That will come, my dear Cara. You must be patient.”

Oliver’s business associates would have been surprised if they had seen the gentleness in his expression just now. Indeed, this was the only time such an emotion ever showed. He had doted on this oldest child of his, and her sickness had been a terrible disaster to him. He had had great plans for her—a proper marriage, children—but her lingering illness
had pushed all those dreams aside. For the past ten years he had treated her as gently as his nature would allow.

“The doctor said you’re refusing to take the ale I’ve gotten for you.”

“I hate it, Father! It tastes so awful!”

“We all have to bear our difficulties, Cara,” Oliver said. His voice grew a trifle more definite, and he added, “I want you to take it before you go to bed. I’ll bring it in myself.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I just can’t drink it anymore. It makes me sick!”

Something about a challenge always stirred Oliver. He had grown up a poor young man and had risen to be a wealthy one. The struggle had been brutal, and he had fought his way to the top. Along the way he had acquired an indomitable habit of sternness. Now he rose and said, “I’ll go get the ale right now.” Before she could protest, he left the room. A few minutes later he returned carrying a tall glass of the thick brown ale. “Now, I want you to drink all of this, Cara.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I just can’t,” she insisted, shaking her head.

The struggle that went on for the next few minutes was hateful to Cara. She could not remember a time when she had ever defied her father like this, and her reluctance to obey without question stirred something within him. She saw the determined light in his eyes that his enemies often saw and knew that she would never have any peace until she obeyed him.

“Oh, all right! I’ll drink it. Just leave it on the table.”

“No, I would like to see you drink it now.”

Cara understood that he would never accept anything that went against his will. Without another word she took the glass and, her shoulders shaking slightly, drained it dry. Setting the glass down, she settled back on the pillows and lay there silently.

Leaning over his daughter, Oliver kissed her forehead and
said with satisfaction, “There, that’s my good girl. It will make you better. I’m sure of it.”

“Father, can I go out for a walk later today?”

“Not today, my dear. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll talk with Dr. McKenzie about it. Now, you rest for the remainder of the day, and I’ll come back and read to you tonight.”

“Thank you, Father.”

As the door closed firmly behind her father, Cara lay there quietly, still enduring the awful taste of the ale. Her eyes went over to the painting, and for a moment she considered getting up and painting some more, but she was exhausted and could not force herself to do it. Finally getting out of bed, she moved over to the window, sat down in the plush chair, and stared out at the bright sunny day and the flowers and the blue skies with puffy white clouds dreamily scudding by. Outside everything seemed bright and cheery, but a dark shroud of sadness wrapped itself around Cara. Though she suffered no lack of anything, she felt more than ever like a prisoner in her own room, and without meaning to, she suddenly began to weep. Tears rolled down her face as she sat there. Finally, she rose and left the window, falling across her bed facedown. Charley leaped up on the bed next to her and began to nuzzle her ear, whining softly. She reached out and hugged him and cried, “Oh, Charley, what am I going to do? What am I going to do . . . ?”

CHAPTER TWO

The Hills of Home

Phil Winslow sat loosely in the wagon seat, relaxing and letting his eyes run over the landscape that stretched out before him. It was a familiar sight, for he had spent the first twenty-four years of his life roaming these hills and exploring the far reaches of the plains that surrounded them. Montana was all he had known until three years ago, when he had abruptly departed for Europe.

As he glanced around, he was impressed with the large expanse of the ranch he called home. After the crowded cities of London and Paris, the skies seemed bigger and bluer, and the open prairie seemed enormous. Now the pale sunshine streamed through the clouds and touched the trees that sloped gently down into the valley where he had been born. Far off, the sharp, pointed mountains pierced the skies, while cottony clouds floated across high above. He thought of the times he had spent in those mountains when the snow was almost waist-deep and he had nearly frozen to death.

Thinking back on his years in this wild land, a smile touched his broad lips. He reached up and fingered his dark brown hair that came down over his collar.
The first thing Pa will say is, “Get a haircut, son!”
He laughed and stroked his face, clean-shaven for the first time in three years. He looked down at his clothes—the same outfit he had donned to make the trip across the Atlantic—a pair of loose-fitting brown trousers, a worn shirt with large sleeves, and an emerald green silk neckerchief tied around his throat. It was not the typical
garb for a man from Montana, and he wondered how his parents would react when they saw him.
They’ll probably think I’m still trying to dress like some crazy artist,
he thought.

On the wagon seat beside him, the driver began to hum a song. Phil turned to look at him. The tall, lanky man with huge, sunburned and callused hands holding the lines smiled back at Phil and sang the tune out loud—”Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nellie.” He had a clear tenor voice, and when he finished the song he turned his shrewd brown eyes back on Winslow, saying, “Guess you don’t mind a little serenade?”

“No, sounds good to me. Wish I could sing that well.”

“You like that song?”

“Don’t think I know it.”

The driver, whose name was Nate Fuller, looked at the young man with surprise. He had picked him up walking along the dusty highways and had been struck by the young man’s silence. There was something foreign looking about him, and now he asked, “You ain’t from around here, are ya?”

“Used to be. I’ve been gone for a while.”

Fuller looked at Winslow’s unusual clothing and said, “I could see you wasn’t no regular hand round here. You been out of the country?”

“Yes,” Winslow nodded. He had been grateful for the ride and now realized he had not paid his “fare” by indulging the driver in the conversation he so obviously desired. “Been over the big water in England and in France for a while.”

Fuller grinned and dug his elbow into Phil’s ribs. “Hey, how ’bout that? Did you meet any of them French steppers? I hear they’re pretty fast.”

A smile creased Phil Winslow’s lips, and his eyes closed so that they were barely visible. “I guess I saw a few,” he said, “which I shouldn’t have.”

“Man’s gotta have his fun when he’s young,” Fuller protested. “Tell me about ’em.”

“Not much to tell. Most of them are pretty homely. Not nearly as good-looking as Montana girls.”

“You tell me that?” Fuller was surprised. “I don’t know where, but I got the idea that they was some pumpkins.”

“Most of them are hard as horseshoe nails. The ones I met, anyway.”

Fuller considered the young man’s comments for a time, slapped the lines on the backs of the matched bays, and then asked, “What was you doin’ over there, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“Don’t mind at all,” Phil said cheerfully. He turned to cast his eyes around the horizon, then lifted his arm. “Right over that ridge is where I was born.”

“Why, that’s where Zach Winslow lives.”

“That’s right. I’m Phil Winslow, his son.”

Suddenly Fuller’s eyes opened wide in recognition, and he turned to face the man beside him. “Why, shore, I remember you! You used to come to the dances in Grove City, you and your brothers. I heard tell you left. Never did know why, though. Your pa’s got a big ranch there, and lots of young fellows would like to step into a situation like that.”

“They’d be right, too. My pa has built a fine ranch, and I was a fool for ever leaving it.” He hesitated saying any more, then shrugged. After all, the man had kindly given him a ride. The least he could do was to be friendly in return. “I had this idea for a long time that I’d like to be a painter.”

“Painter? You mean like paint houses?”

“No,” Winslow smiled. “I mean paint pictures. Been making smears ever since I was just a kid. It wasn’t that I hated ranching and nursing cows so much,” he added thoughtfully, “but somehow this thing was in me, and I just wanted to do it all my life. Most people called me a fool for throwing this all away to go off to Europe to study—probably for nothing.”

Nate Fuller shrugged his thin shoulders. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Winslow. Now, me, when I was a young feller, I always had a dream somehow of bein’ a sailor. Just somethin’ about ships that always fascinated me, so I made up my mind to go to sea.” He grew silent and his hands were still
on his knees. Finally he said regretfully, “Well, look around you. Does this look anything like an ocean? I woke up a few years ago nearly an old man and said to myself, ‘One thing I always promised myself was I wouldn’t stay here and farm,’ and by crackies, I gone and did it!” His eyes were sad as he turned to meet Phil’s, and he shook his head. “You’re young enough to take a stab at it. You probably won’t never regret it. Did you learn how to paint good?”

Phil laughed. “Well, a little bit. Paintings aren’t like cows. You
know
you’re going to sell a cow, but a fellow could work for a year on a painting and then have everybody walk right by it like it was a street sign.”

“You don’t say? Well, I’d sure like to see some of those paintings of yours.”

“I had ’em shipped over. If you’ll stop by my folks’ house, you can see some of them hanging on the walls.”

“Why, I’ll do that.”

The two men fell silent, Phil thinking of his homecoming, and Nate Fuller, no doubt, regretting his lost career at sea. Wistfully, Nate began singing his song again. Being a man who never stayed quiet for long, he said, “Guess if you’d been here, Winslow, you’d have heard this song. A couple of years ago it was the biggest thing goin’. I even remember the fella who wrote it—man by the name of Tilser. Think he wrote it for barbershop quartets. It’s about clear weather that follows a storm. Then when the big earthquake hit San Francisco last year, he changed it to ‘Wait Till the Sun Shines, Frisco.’ I guess they was needin’ some kind of encouragement after that big quake. Anyhow, he must’ve made a bunch of money off of that one song. Everybody in the country was singin’ it, I reckon.”

“I guess I’ve missed out on a lot in three years. Don’t know any of the songs, any of the books that are out, and even less about politics.”

“The only politics you need to know is Teddy Roosevelt.”

“Do you think he’ll run for another term?”

“Can’t! Promised he wouldn’t! But he’s already making noises about who he wants in his place. A fellow named Taft. Don’t know nothin’ about him, but he won’t be no Teddy Roosevelt!” Fuller continued to talk politics until finally the wagon crested a hill. He pointed with his big hand and said, “Yep, there she is. Your pa sure made a nice spread out of it.”