Jennifer smiled and took Leslie’s hand again. She led her to a collection that was very special to her and waited while Leslie absorbed what she was seeing. The look on the younger woman’s face was all that Jennie needed to know that the two of them would get on famously.
“Oh! I’ve always wanted to own one of these! They are original Patroons! The old Dutch families of New York hoard these like the very devil. How did you ever?”
Jennifer laughed. “I happen to belong to one of those old Dutch families. I am the one who is currently hoarding them,” she said gaily. “My maiden name is Van Vleet. This painting here is of my great-great-great-grandfather Jonathan Van Vleet. It was done in 1710. That is Peter Van Vleet, my brother. He was seven. It was painted in the Patroon style, but as I’m sure you know, the Patroon painters existed only until about 1730, more or less. A friend of the family, Christopher Chambard, could mimic the style. Isn’t it adorable?”
“Yes. And what a manly-looking seven-year-old! Did your brother live up to the promise?”
Pain flickered in Jennifer’s eloquent violet eyes, and Leslie groaned. “Oh! I’m sorry! Please forgive me. I’m so forward. My mother spent years trying to keep me from asking inappropriate questions, to no avail…”
“No, please. It’s just that I haven’t seen my brother for eight years. I don’t know if he is alive or dead…”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Please.” She quickly changed the subject. “This one is by De Peyster Manner. See the ships in the background. They belonged to dear old Moses. He was a very successful merchant. Moses Van Vleet, my great-great-grandfather. What a pompous dullard he looked!”
Leslie was entranced by the primitive beauty and the vivid colors. “Have you ever seen so much innocence and contentment? You would feel, looking at that painting, that that man could not possibly give short weights in his store!”
“You’re right!” Jennifer agreed, laughing. “Maybe that is why the Dutch, who were shrewd businessmen, liked the Patroon painters! Maybe at one time this hung in the window of his establishment right next to the Bible!”
They both laughed.
“Let me show you to your room. You must be tired.”
They climbed lush carpeted steps, elegantly curved, to a spacious hallway and a large comfortable bedroom with a small balcony that overlooked a surprisingly green lawn and garden in back of the house. Leslie shook her head in disbelief. The trees and flowers could have come directly from Wellesley. Under the noonday sky, the lawn was apple green, partitioned with English hedges, neat rows of local flowers she didn’t recognize, and all carefully manicured. A high stone fence enclosed the garden. A spacious barn, carriage house, and stables in the same style and adobe as the house were ringed at the northern perimeter by a row of tall trees that afforded privacy.
“Oh! It’s so lovely!”
“Thank you. Arizona’s concessions to a New York girl!”
“I had no idea Arizona made concessions! I thought this was a hopeless desert.”
“You have no idea how deep Chane’s engineers had to go to find year-round water!”
“China?”
“Almost!”
They laughed again and Leslie squeezed her hostess’s hand. “Jennifer, I want to thank you for being so nice and for taking me in. I truly appreciate it! I can’t tell you how much,” she said shyly.
“It is our pleasure. We love having a guest. Just relax and don’t worry about a thing. Let us take care of you. Chane didn’t say…Are you Mark Powers’s daughter?” Leslie could tell by Jennie’s face that she was not impressed with Mark Powers.
“He is my uncle. I came here to try to settle my father’s estate. But Uncle Mark…” Her throat tightened, and she felt tears stinging behind her lashes.
“Charles Powers was your father?”
Leslie waited in silence. If Jennifer had disliked him as well, she wouldn’t be able to bear it. There was a lump in her throat and a sense of rampant dread in her chest.
“Yes,” she said tremulously.
“I didn’t know him personally, but Chane said he was a fine, decent man.”
“Thank you,” Leslie whispered gratefully. She realized in that moment that while she hadn’t known her father, she had created a wonderful, warm fantasy about him that she was still emotionally attached to. She really wouldn’t have been able to bear it if Jennifer had smashed it with a careless word.
“Leslie, do you need anything? I’ll be going to Bauer’s later to do some shopping. If you don’t feel like venturing out, make a list. I’ll pick everything up.”
“Thank you, but if your husband sends my bags and Annette, I’ll be fine.”
“Do you have any plans?”
Leslie shook her head. “I don’t know what I’ll do. I used most of my money to come here to try to settle my father’s estate, but I don’t think my uncle intends to give me a cent.”
“Well, my husband is pretty good at business matters. Something will turn up.” Jennifer smiled reassuringly. “Would you like to meet the children?”
They were beautiful and extremely polite, treating Leslie like a princess. The boy was dark-skinned and black-haired, with green eyes—a miniature pirate like his father—and the girl was a delicate, creamy blond with striking blue eyes, elegantly fringed with thick lashes.
“Oh, she didn’t get your eyes,” Leslie said, without thinking.
“Nor Chane’s,” Jennie laughed. “Actually, she has my brother’s eyes.” Pain darkened her eyes momentarily and then she brightened. “Blue is better anyway. No one trusts a woman with purple eyes.”
Leslie admired the toys that they wanted to show her and then allowed Jennifer to rescue her and take her back to her room. “They liked you. I think they would keep you all day, talking your leg off,” Jennifer laughed.
“Thank you. They are adorable. I don’t usually like children,” she admitted.
Jennie laughed, “I admire your honesty. Few people like children, except their own, and not always then. I told Chane I would have his children on one condition—that the boys looked like him and the girls like me. I had nightmare visions of great, hulking females and delicate, fragile boys…”
They laughed, and Jennifer left to let her relax. Leslie tried the bed. Two bounces told her it was as comfortable as it looked. A painting caught her eye, and she went to stand before it. She stood there a long time, studying the dark, warm, tonal style, the directness of the presentation, with a growing sense of excitement. She knew the artist! She was sure of it!
Trembling in her eagerness, she turned the canvas and searched for an inscription—finally found it in the top right corner. “Girl at the Piano to Jennifer with love, Theodore Robinson.” It was he! In her excitement, she reacted by habit, looking for her mother to share it with.
Art had always been the center of their life together. Meals were rarely on time; household chores, laundry, even shopping, were done haphazardly, or to accommodate their schedule, which revolved around lighting.
“The house is here to serve us, not vice-versa!” Margaret would say emphatically when her friends who did not paint would look askance at the cozy clutter of paint pots, brushes, and drying canvases.
Leslie grew up with the resinous smell of oil paints and turpentine, eating cold meals, and loving it. She despised clocks and schedules and felt truly sorry for friends whose lives were meticulously regulated.
There had been many times when she’d been summoned from classes for a “family emergency” that turned out to be a chance for the two of them to rush across town to chat with some visiting artist, and at least as many times when she’d skipped school altogether to see a show or a collection. When there was money enough, which was very seldom in the early days, they would purchase tickets to Boston, pack a big basket of chicken, wine, cheese, and fruit and stay overnight in the city, visiting the art museums from the time they opened in the morning until closing time at night. They would ride ba
ck on the Pullman coach and arrive in Wellesley late at night. Leslie remembered walking in the very middle of the wide, dark streets, hurrying through shadowy, scary aisles, her small hand tucked warmly inside her mother’s.
Now her mother was dead and Wellesley, Massachusetts, was thousands of miles away, shrouded in shadowy mists, unreachable. Even the memory of those green and pleasant hills seemed like a dream. She was filled with a vague sense of anxiety. By publicly denouncing her uncle, she had broken her last family tie, as bad as it was. She felt the way she had after the funeral, when she had walked back in the house and seen the canvas her mother had been preparing for her next painting…
She didn’t realize she was crying until Jennifer, who had come up to bring her a tray, pulled her into her arms and began to stroke her back. “You’ve had a rough time of it, Leslie,” she crooned softly. “Let the tears fall; let them come. Don’t fight it. There, that’s better. A good cry will do wonders, there, there…”
Jennifer held her closely while great, gasping sobs shook her slender body. It seemed much later when Jennifer moved to dry Leslie’s tears, after the worst had passed.
“Feel better now?”
“I feel drained,” she said, shuddering. “I never cried before, not until after my mother died. Now I seem to be crying all the time. It isn’t like me. I just don’t cry,” she said, shaking her head, still sniffling.
Jennifer sat down on the bed and pulled Leslie down beside her. “You lost both your parents in a short time; you were betrayed by your uncle and kidnapped. You have tremendous strength, or you wouldn’t have survived all that. You must be reeling emotionally.” She paused and patted the slender hand that was lying limp in Leslie’s lap. “I remember when my parents were both killed. At the time I seemed to be coping with everything, doing what had to be done, going about my life the way I thought I had to do, until one day I realized that I had just been keeping myself busy so I wouldn’t have to realize they were really gone. It was very difficult,” she sighed. “You loved your mother very much, didn’t you?”
Leslie nodded, feeling her bottom lip tremble.
“Your mother loved you very much as well. And being a mother myself now, I realize that if I should die suddenly, I would want my children to have a good cry—one time only—and then do whatever they had to do so they could remember me with happiness. A mother loves her children as long as they live, not just as long as she lives. When I die I want my children to be happy, not sad, as soon as possible. Your mother would want the same for you. Love wants only love for payment, not unhappiness nor tears.” She hugged Leslie and changed the subject. “Maybe you’ve been holding too much inside. I remember when I was about your age, I began tearing up at the slightest provocation. I discovered that I was in love.”
“With Mr. Kincaid?” she asked, sniffing.
“Yes.”
“But he is so perfect for you…”
Jennie laughed. “It didn’t seem so at the time. Falling in love with him was equivalent to the worst disaster imaginable. You see, I thought he had been responsible for my parents’ deaths. It was far more complicated than that even, but suffice to say, he appeared to be entirely unsuitable.”
Leslie felt new tears welling up into her eyes. She felt sure suddenly that everyone in the world knew that she had tried to protect Cantrell. She would never live it down.
“I’m sorry, Leslie,” Jennie said softly. “I’m so dense sometimes. I didn’t realize…”
“It’s all right,” she said quickly.
“Do you love him?”
Leslie shrugged, feeling desolate. “No. I don’t know. At first I hated him. Then I felt confused. I didn’t want them to hurt him. I don’t want him to hang.”
She looked up, blinking back tears. Jennie smiled and pulled her into her arms again. “You are a very honest young woman. Sometimes people don’t understand such honesty. That was the case when I fell in love with Chane. Even my brother didn’t understand. He…” Jennie stopped, unable to continue.
“What happened?” Leslie asked, pulling away to search Jennie’s wide purple eyes, now clouded with pain.
“I don’t know. He disappeared eight years ago, only days after my marriage. I haven’t seen him since. I don’t know whether to grieve for him or to be furious with him…And so I have done both—for eight years.”
“You love him very much…”
Jennie nodded. “I love him the same way I love my children, with the same unreasoning passionate possessiveness…”
She sighed heavily. “As a child, he had the most expressive face. When he smiled he could light up a room. When he glowered, he could dim the sun. I always knew what he was thinking—we thought alike. I blame myself. Because I knew he suspected I was in love with Chane—and I didn’t try to explain to him.” Tears welled in her dark eyes, and she tried to blink them back, continuing as if she couldn’t help herself.
“I was angry. I said stupid, stupid things to Peter, forgetting how much he loved me. I forced him to leave. It was all my fault.”
Jennie’s voice was choked with pain. Leslie wanted to stop her, but she felt helpless to intervene. “I was so self-centered,” she said bitterly. “I didn’t take into account that he hadn’t recovered from our parents’ deaths, that he was in pain and struggling with his own survival. You see, Peter was so stoical that he fooled me. He could turn to stone, become unreachable. And sometimes he used that to trick me into thinking all was well.” She paused, covering her face with her hands. “He must have been in such pain, thinking I had fallen in love with the man who had caused our parents’ deaths…Peter loved them and it was obvious he worshipped me. I could see it in his eyes even when he didn’t want me to. I should have known that I couldn’t keep hurting him the way I was. There is no justification for me, because you see,” she said, wiping the tears off her cheeks, “if I had talked to him, everything would have been fine between us, but when I first fell in love with Chane, I refused to explain my actions, because I couldn’t—I didn’t understand them myself.”
Leslie sighed and Jennie dragged in a ragged breath and patted Leslie’s hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you all that.”
“Please don’t apologize. I feel honored that you did.”
“So!” Jennie said, standing up and becoming brisk and cheerful. “You must be hungry. Eat something,” she said, waving at the tray, “then you can take a nap. That will help you to acclimate yourself. If you’re like me, nothing ever looks quite so bad after a meal or a nap. Mrs. Lillian prepared this special tray for you so you can spend some time by yourself…if that suits your mood. If not, come downstairs for dinner. I’ll leave it up to you.”
Leslie smiled in gratitude.
Jennie found Chane in the kitchen fending for himself while Mrs. Lillian fussed at him for stealing food.
“I need to talk to you.”
Chane sobered instantly. He took her arm and led her into his study. When the door closed, Jennie faced him. “I want you to save that train robber.”
Chane looked at her as if he didn’t quite believe his ears. “You want me to save the man who has been robbing my trains?”
Jennie shrugged. “Yes.”
“But why?” he said, incredulous and frowning. A muscle bunched in his cheek, and Jennie reached out to touch it.
“Because Leslie is in love with him. She’s a bright, sensitive, warm-hearted young woman. If she loves him, he can’t be so bad.”
Chane threw back his head and laughed. Jennie waited patiently while he sobered. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, the light in her eyes steady and determined.
He shook his head. “The paper gets wind of this, they’re going to think I’ve lost my mind.”
Jennie smiled. “You’ll do it?”
He grinned and held out his hands in helplessness. “For you, love, I would give up my entire fortune, but,” he said, sobering,” don’t expect a miracle. At thi
s moment the prosecutor is deciding whether he has enough evidence to try Cantrell on eight counts of murder, mayhem, kidnapping, and train robbery or on just a hundred or so counts of train robbery.”
He sighed. “God knows what else he’s done.” He shook his head. It was typical of Jennie to allow her ready compassion to rule her in these matters, but it could only cause her more pain if he wasn’t able to save the young man. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “But I’m not able to perform miracles.”
“Of course you are. I can’t wait to tell Leslie exactly how you did it.”
“Dammit, Jennie.” He laughed. “This is serious.”
“I know, but you’ll think of something.”
“Well, don’t say anything to Leslie. It will only hurt her more if I fail.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chane arranged for Leslie Powers’ luggage and her lady’s maid to be delivered to the house, and then headed back to the jail.
“Sheriff, I’d like to talk to your prisoner.”
“Cantrell?”
“Please.”
“Help yourself.”
Kincaid walked over to the cell where Cantrell’s lean form was sprawled on a cot.
“Cantrell, I’d like to talk to you,” he said quietly.
Ward shoved his hat up off his nose. “So talk.”
“Leslie Powers said Younger intends to kill you. I would like to know why.”
Ward considered telling Kincaid the truth, but his stubbornness refused to let him do that. Kincaid was not his friend. He was still the same man who had caused the deaths of both his parents. Nothing could change that, not even the fact that he had married Jenn. But he would keep him in mind, because he did want Younger and Powers punished for what they did to the Mendozas. If he found that he would not be able to deliver that vengeance, he would tell him later. For now he only shrugged. “Maybe I know too much about Powers’s activities—or—” He shrugged. “Maybe she’s wrong.”
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 17
