"Well, that's unfortunate, Sister. I saw Kate's dad a while back, and he asked me to check on his daughter when I rode through. He'll come for Kate as soon as he can. Might be another month. He's managing the crew at the Anaconda copper mine, can't get away. His wife got that terrible influenza, and now her doctor's worried she could lose the baby they're expecting. They're keeping her in bed under a nurse's care." Thomas reached into a saddlebag, withdrew a canvas sack of coins and offered it to the nun. "Jim said they owed the school for her keep, so he sent along what's due."
The nun took the heavy bag, tossing a surprised look at Thomas. She hefted the payment, and Thomas felt an odd jolt as an unexpected look of avarice flitted across her face. She jiggled the packet up and down again, smiling slightly.
"I'm grateful, Mr. Moran, for your trouble –and it's high time they sent us something for taking on that little gal—she's a passel of extra work." She looked down at the bag of coins. "Well, you'd best come in and see the school, and have a bite to eat while I put this in a safe place. There's a pot of stew left on the stove … might still be warm. You rode in during our noon break."
Thomas followed the billowing habit of Sister Campbell through the door of the small schoolhouse building, immediately inhaling the familiar gamey scent of cooked venison. His stomach growled. Thomas glanced around at bare walls, the tattered books on battered desks. A narrow scrap of faded green curtain fluttered above the open window. Flour sack fabric, he reckoned. Sure a bleak schoolroom, Thomas thought. A tall white kitchen cupboard loomed in the corner, its flour bin ajar, and a dusting of white flour had drifted over the worn pine floor. At a nearby stool, pretending to read her primer, sat the nun's nemesis. Kate snuck a peek at Thomas out of the corner of her eye. Thomas winked at her, and her elfin face erupted into a smile warm enough to kindle a fire in the schoolroom's pot-bellied stove. Then, seeing the nun whip through the schoolroom door, she abandoned herself to her fate, lowered her head to the book and began to read, her finger leading the stumbling words across the page.
The nun frowned, narrowing her eyes at Kate, then turned to Thomas. "Help yourself, Mr. Moran, while I get you some bread from my cabin. I thought there was a slice left, but I guess someone took it," she said, looking pointedly at the small child. Kate kept her eyes directed downward at her primer. Sister Campbell turned and left.
A sooty, cast-iron Dutch oven sat on an imposing cook stove in the back of the room and the nearby table held blue granite-ware bowls and spoons. Thomas ambled over and peered hopefully into the pot. An unappealing brown mass sat in the bottom of the pot. "Looks like cookin' isn't Sister's strong suit," he said aloud. He was rewarded by a titter. He sniffed. Smells okay, though. Thomas chose a bowl and ladled a generous portion of venison stew into the tin bowl. Seeing nowhere for an adult to sit, he perched his bony bottom on a sturdy desk as the nun came toward him carrying a wrapped loaf of homemade bread. The first spoonful of stew was heaven—lukewarm, but tasty. On his painting trips, Thomas pampered his horses, but seldom took time to make himself hot dinners. He made short work of the lukewarm meal. Thomas swallowed the last spoonful, mopped the bowl with a piece of the chewy bread until it was wiped clean, and put his bowl into a nearby dishpan.
"Sister, what a delicious change from my own poor cooking. Much obliged." Thomas thought a minute, watched Kate struggle over her primer, then fibbed, "I hate to leave without seeing Father Michael. We go way back. And he promised the O'Bournes I would stay a week or more—wanted me to teach the wee gal some art. She's a prodigy, they say. I assume that arrangement is still acceptable." He continued in a mild tone, "Shall I camp over by the river?
"Well …" began the nun.
"Must be hard feeding all these kids," Thomas jumped in. "I'm old, but I'm not decrepit, and I'm good with a fishing pole. How about I catch you some trout or catfish, 'bout every other day. When I'm ready to move on, I can leave you any leftover canned goods from my packs, since I can replenish most everything in Great Falls." Thomas looked at Sister Campbell with his best poker face, judging her reaction to the offer, then upped the ante, "Think there's still some tins of ham."
She smiled. "You're welcome to camp here, of course, Mr. Moran."
Sister Mary gazed out the window. Her eyes sidled to the horses, and Thomas had the feeling she was assessing the bulging saddlebags.
"Fish would be appreciated. But if you plan to break bread with us while you're camping, we'd still appreciate a donation to pay for your meals. The bacon, beans and flour needed to cook for so many children are expensive. Venison and rabbit brought in by trappers and hunters is our mainstay, with eggs from my small chicken flock." She went on, "And of course, Kate can't have her schooling interrupted. You can teach her in her free time if you think she'll listen to you. But why Father Michael asked you to teach her art, of all things, is beyond me."
"Think he felt the sprout needed a lot to occupy her mind, what with her mother sick and all. And I'll sure respect your class schedule, Sister Campbell. I reckon I'll feed myself at the camp, but I'll bring some fish most days when I pick up Kate, depending on my luck. Might take you up on buying some eggs, though, if you have a few to sell . . . hungry for those."
She nodded. "I'll keep some out for you tomorrow."
Thomas shifted from one tired foot to the other. "I'd appreciate it. Thank you. Also, I have some items in my saddlebags that O'Bourne and some friends sent along for the school. Want to take a look?"
"Yes, I sure do, Mr. Moran. We're always begging for even the basics—pencils, paper, books, more desks. And more Bibles, of course." Her forehead wrinkled in thought. "Students who sleep in the shed out behind the school need new blankets. St. Benedict's feeds, clothes, and teaches the little heathens, but the Indians can't give us much."
Hearing a ruckus outside, the nun fluttered toward the window and peered out, checking on the children playing outdoors. Her eyes widened. "Heathen hooligans!" she yelled out the open window. "Quit chasin' my rooster!" She yanked her head back in. "Excuse me a minute." The nun darted through the door, vulture wings of black whipping around her. As she pulled her foot through, a toe caught on the doorjamb and she stumbled on, muttering with annoyance.
Thomas chuckled. "I wouldn't want to be one of those young folk right this minute. That nun looks like a bit of bad weather." He sauntered over to Kate.
"Got somethin' for you, little miss. First, got a note here from your daddy," He handed her a scribbled letter from Jim O'Bourne. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out several drawing pencils, a fat eraser, and a small brown booklet half-filled with his own sketches and script. The other pages were empty – ready for Kate's fingers to fill them with tiny masterpieces. He put them on her desk. Joyful eyes looked up at Thomas.
"Drawin' stuff! Real art pencils," she whispered in awe. "How'd ya' know? Thanks, mister!"
"Well, I didn't. But your daddy said you had an artist in you scrabbling her way out, Kate. Didn't really believe him until I saw you drawing on the hardpan. Artists need supplies—and lessons. I'll hang around for a while and teach you what I can. Read that notebook. It'll help you learn to draw. The words might be too big for a little sprout, but you'll grow into 'em if you keep practicing with your schoolbooks. When you read, think of each letter as a tiny drawing—it'll help you get by." Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small penknife. "For sharpening those pencils." Thomas said. "Know how to use one?"
Kate nodded at Thomas with a look that said, "Christmas came early".
He lowered his voice. "Might be best not to let Sister Mary Campbell know you have any of it, though. The Sister, she seems all business. Might think you were wastin' time." As Sister Campbell's steps approached the open door he whispered, "Don't lose 'em, now." A tiny hand slipped treasures into a calico pocket.
Sister Campbell walked in, wheezing, the gleam in her eyes heralding victory over the chicken chasers.
"Well," Thomas said to the winded nun, "As I was saying, come on outs
ide and we'll see what I've got for the school from Jim O'Bourne and his pals."
Reaching the horses, Thomas dug into his panniers, pulled out a dictionary, several rulers and a world atlas, four parcels of lined paper and several packs of pencils. He presented them to Sister Mary. From another pannier he withdrew a large bag of horehound hard candy and added it to the pile. As the candy sack appeared, the nun's expression changed from boredom to delight. "Thank you! Oh, my goodness, these writing supplies are like a gift from God! And I don't think most of these children have ever tasted candy. Horehound's my favorite." A fleeting squint of greed marred her features.
Well, Thomas thought, guess if you've never tasted it, you don't miss it. Adding that candy to the pot did the trick, though.
Thomas gestured to the distant grove. "How about I take my horses over by that stand of cottonwoods near the river and set up camp?" With a feeling of satisfaction he said, "You can send little Kate over in the morning for her first painting lesson."
The nun nodded and went back into the school.
As Thomas untied the last horse from the hitching post, he noticed a slight Indian boy of about eleven watching him curiously from several yards away. When Thomas tossed him a wave, the boy nodded his head, then looked Thomas up and down as if he was a wagon boss inspecting a new horse wrangler. The child opened his mouth as if to speak, then abruptly snapped his mouth shut, turned and walked stiffly away.
Strange.
Thomas gave a mental shrug and swung up into the saddle.
Several miles downstream, a slim Blackfoot woman put her minnow bucket down on the gravel next to her husband's fishing pole. She flicked her hand toward their favorite fishing spot, a deep backwater of the Yellowstone River where the trunks of massive dead trees rested on the sandbar and long branches dipped like graceful arms into the water. The woman put both hands on her chest and raised stricken brown eyes to look inquiringly at her spouse. In her native tongue, she said, "Trouble. Always it finds us."
They stood together and gazed down at the bloated body of the white woman, embraced by the waterlogged tangle of driftwood.
"I think it is the woman of God."
Chapter 10
Sage Bluff, Montana, present day
"Mrs. Reynolds? This is Jessie O'Bourne from Sage Bluff, Montana. I am so sorry about your daughter." Jessie sighed.
"Oh, yes. I'm so glad you called."
"One of the men here at the Sheriff's Department said you believed your daughter was on her way to our home, and that you asked me to call. Ma'am, I didn't know your daughter. But I thought I should call as you requested."
"Miss O'Bourne . . . my daughter Amber. . ." She stopped. There was an audible gulp then she continued, "I'm going to have my husband talk to you."
"This is Jack Reynolds, Miss O'Bourne," a voice boomed. "We realize you didn't know our girl. But I'm sure you can understand we need to know what happened to her."
"I don't think I can help with that, Mr. Reynolds. I know absolutely nothing helpful."
"What we want to know . . . we wonder if there was something in her research—who she talked to—whatever—that got her killed. On Friday, we are burying our baby girl."
"I am so very sorry," Jessie said again.
Jack Reynolds coughed. "Since she was killed on her way to visit with your family, we wanted to speak to you in person."
"But I don't know why she was coming to see us, Mr. Reynolds," Jessie protested.
"The O'Bourne name is mentioned many times in the last few pages of her work. She told us you and your family would be some of the key interviews for her thesis."
"That's just astonishing. We know nothing—"
"Miss O'Bourne, her mother and I think her research got her into trouble with someone. We want you to look at her laptop, but we don't want to ship it for fear it might be lost or damaged. As you can imagine, it's now pretty precious to us. It has copies of the research she's doing—did—for her thesis."
"I'm just an artist, Mr. Reynolds. I'm not sure what I can do. Why me? The police—"
"The police?" He snorted in derision. "They don't seem to take the idea seriously. The police are only searching for a drug link. Well—that ex-boyfriend of hers wasn't a winner—not by a long shot—but our girl was clean. Clean." He hesitated. "And we want every possible motive explored."
"But I don't even know what Amber was studying. I have no idea why she wanted to interview our family." Jessie scrunched up her face.
Geez, could it have something to with the old stories?
"Surely one of her professors would be a better choice. I'm just a painter. I also have to be here to judge a large art competition in two weeks, and it's a long way to—"
"Miss O'Bourne, please indulge us. I am familiar with your work. And I looked you up online. You're more than just a painter. You're a master artist. We know you have the right education to search through her research and see where it was headed. In the course of doing so, you might notice if something appears—I don't know—odd."
"Well . . . ."
"How about I get online right now and book you a round trip to Denver?"
"Mr. Reynolds, I can't just drop everything and come to Denver."
"I know I'm being pushy. But I already checked the schedule. If you'll drive to Billings this evening, we'll reimburse you for a hotel. A ticket can be waiting for you at the check-in counter and you can catch a plane at 7:20 in the morning—"
"But—"
"— and you'd be here by mid-morning. Our visit should only take a couple hours."
"Mr. Reynolds, I don't think I can possibly do that."
There was silence on the other end, then he said, "I see I've come on way too strong." His voice became soft. "My apologies." Silence. "But please. Please help us."
"Sir, what was your daughter's thesis about?"
"I have a draft of it here. Let me read the title."
Jessie could hear papers rattling.
"Amber kept changing it. She has . . . had . . . enough information for a book, actually, not just a thesis. Hmm, yes. It's titled Thomas Moran's Expeditions in Art—Capturing the West on Canvas," he said in a flat tone. "But while she was working on her thesis, she became interested in two Moran paintings that disappeared in Sage Bluff in 1939."
"Omigod." Jessie swallowed. "When my aunt Kate was killed."
"She was obsessed with them. Not just because the paintings worked into her paper, but because she wanted to find them. Amber wanted to be the one to give them back to the St. Benedict's school."
"Moran's paintings . . . they're so valuable. If someone thought she had a lead . . . ." Jessie didn't want to finish her thought.
"Exactly, Miss O'Bourne. Exactly. Will you come?"
"Yes. I will. I'll be there as soon as possible."
"Oh, thank you." Jack Reynolds' breath came out in a whoosh of relief. "We're so grateful."
Jessie felt Jack rubbing against her ankle. Like a toddler, he wanted attention most when she was on the phone. She reached a hand down and petted his soft back.
"Don't book me a flight, though. I'm driving. I'll leave in half an hour. She looked at her watch. Let's see—that puts me there by late evening."
Jack flopped down by her foot and proceeded to lick his tail.
"Um . . . do you like cats?"
Chapter 11
Rural Montana, April 1918
"Seems like I been workin' on mixing paint all this week." Kate said. "And I still can't get the color right for paintin' that old rooster. Mean old thing anyhow."
"Keep at it, sprout," Thomas encouraged. One of his old shirts covered Kate's clothes, and she stood with a rectangle of linen canvas tacked on the board he'd placed on his easel. She was using one of his palettes for mixing paint. He sighed. He was readying to move on and it was going to be difficult to leave. Interrupting his packing, he handed her a palette knife and a tube of sienna paint.
"You want to do it right, don't you? You have to pay y
our dues—means you got to work at it like a demon. Every great painter had to start from scratch. That's the same way you're learning, sprout."
For almost three weeks, Thomas had taught Kate, filling her notebook with illustrated suggestions and watching her absorb the painting process that seemed as natural to her as drawing breath. He watched her sparingly squeeze out paint and begin to press the palette knife down into the color.
"Don't hurry it," he said.
A few minutes later, she tilted her head and tugged on her left braid, squinting at the mixed glob of paint. She grinned.
"Think I got it already." She held up the palette knife triumphantly and showed Thomas. "Looks just like the color of that ratty old chicken tail, don't it?"
He nodded, and sighed again.
I'm going to miss her. She's a prodigy, all right. No wonder Jim insisted I stop by. Heck, he could've had any number of people drop that payment off. He knew I couldn't resist the little toad. But where on earth is Father Michael?
"They're not hers, you know." Kate dropped into the silence.
"What aren't hers?"
"Them chickens," she shot back. "Daddy brought 'em for Father Michael. If they were her chickens, I wouldn't even paint that stuck-up rooster."
"Mad at her, are you?" He looked at her, noticing for the first time a bruise darkening on her thin arm. His jaw clenched. "What happened—you still dawdling over your reading?"
She jerked a shoulder up. "Naw. Sister Campbell was mad I got some paint on my skirt. At least I wash. She don't even wash that robe, neither. It's dirty, and it's too short. That's 'cause it ain't hers neither."
Curious now, he asked, "What do you mean, sprout?"
"Ain't her robe," Kate said with conviction. "The other nun left it here. John Running Bear said the first teacher took off after a big argument with Sister Campbell and the new one just started wearing her black clothes."
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