by Len Levinson
He returned to the kitchen, where she sat on the rocking chair in the corner, smoking a cigarette nervously. He dropped to his knee beside the stove, stuffed in paper and kindling, added firewood, and lit a match.
Crackling sounds could be heard. Duane set the drafts expertly, then worked the pump at the sink, filling pails with water. She watched beneath heavy-lidded eyes, and saw muscles straining against his clothes. He's an undernourished Adonis, she considered. “When'd you get out of the monastery?”
“About two weeks ago. Got tired of the life.”
“Why'd you go to a monastery in the first place?”
“My folks were killed by Commanches when I was a baby, and that's where I ended up.”
I can't believe that some voracious woman hasn't grabbed him by now, she mused. He carried the pails to the stove and arranged them over the flames, as perspiration glistened on his tanned features.
“Washtub's in the closet,” she said.
He opened the door, pulled out the big tin tub, and set it on the floor near the stove. “You don't talk like the people around here,” he told her. “Where are you from?”
“South Carolina,” she replied, “but that was long ago—before the rebellion.”
Duane knew about the rebellion, although there'd been no fighting near the monastery in the clouds.
“Why'd you pick my house to rob” she asked, “out of all the others in this neighborhood?”
“I saw you sing earlier, and followed you home. I didn't intend to rob you, but then I got hungry, and figured you could afford it.” He forced himself to look at her face, and not hide his eyes in an obscure corner of the kitchen. “I thought you looked like the Madonna of La Salette.”
“A lot of people in this town consider me a fallen woman, if you know what that is.”
“I saw you at the Round-Up, and a feller told me that you're the girlfriend of the richest man in town.”
“What else did he say about me?” she asked crossly.
“We were too busy listening to you. You have a beautiful voice, and perfect pitch.”
“You can't put on those dirty clothes after you take a bath. I'll get you a sheet to wrap yourself in.”
She left the kitchen in a swirl of perfume, and he felt dismayed. She belongs to the richest man in town, and could never care for somebody like me.
The black carriage stopped in front of the Carrington Arms, and Jed Wilson jumped to the ground. He tied the horses’ reins to the hitching post, ducked underneath it, and landed on the sidewalk before the wide veranda.
It was mostly deserted now, along with surrounding sidewalks and alleys. Jed pulled out his pocket watch: nearly one in the morning. Mister Petigru'll jump all over my ass, he thought, but it's not my fault.
Jed was an ex-cowboy and former blacksmith now earning more money than ever as Vanessa Fontaine's stagecoach driver, bodyguard, and all-around errand boy. It was humiliating to take orders from a woman, but less demanding physically than roping and branding steers. Jed tended toward laziness and overindulgence in drink. He was pushing forty; time to settle down.
In the lobby, a drunkard sprawled on a chair, fast asleep, and another bedecked a sofa, his mouth open and his tongue hanging out, snoring loudly. Jed walked past the desk, and the clerk nodded to him. The carriage driver climbed to the third floor, and knocked on a door.
“About time you got here.” Edgar Petigru, richest man in town, stood in his dimly lit suite of rooms, wearing a black satin smoking jacket. He was average height, nearing fifty, with short salt-and-pepper hair parted on the side. “Where's Miss Fontaine?”
“She said she's sick, and can't come tonight.”
“Come on in.”
Jed entered the suite, and saw a bottle of champagne in a brass bucket full of ice, while candlelight illuminated little sandwiches and delicacies atop the dresser.
“Care for a drink?” Petigru asked.
“Don't mind if I do.”
Petigru indicated the bottles lined on a cabinet, and Jed poured three fingers of whiskey into a glass. Petigru reached into his pocket, took out a ten-dollar coin, and flipped it toward Jed, who caught it.
“Is she really sick?” Petigru asked.
“She looked fine to me.”
“Keep an eye on her, and report back in the morning.”
After Jed departed, Petigru wanted to throw the specially prepared food out the window. “Women,” he muttered. “Drive a man out of his mind.” He absent-mindedly munched a chicken sandwich, as he wondered what Vanessa was up to this time.
Edgar Petigru had come West from New York City after the war, to make his fortune in cattle, land, and anything else he could turn into an honest or dishonest dollar. His grubstake came from his mother, who lived on Fifth Avenue.
It took him six months to reach Kansas, where he'd heard tales of vast wealth in Texas. Cattle herds had multiplied incredibly during the war, while the rest of the country was hungry for fresh meat. A steer that cost a few dollars in Texas could fetch twenty-four dollars at the railhead in Kansas.
It sounded like a hot proposition to Edgar, so he'd journeyed to Texas, discovered Titusville, and began buying land. The first thing he built was a saloon, and he'd slept in back with the kegs of beer. His second and third buildings also were saloons, and soon he was running girls in addition to selling whiskey. Money began pouring it, and he invested in the hotel. One deal led to another, and then he bought the Lazy Y Ranch from an old reprobate who'd never married, and wanted to return East, where his folks lived.
In New York City, Petigru would be considered well-off, but in Titusville, he was the leading citizen, with the mayor and deputy sheriff in his pocket, along with nearly everyone else in town. I can have anything I want, except the one thing I need most, he thought wistfully. He gazed at the daguerreotype on the table beside him, and it showed Vanessa Fontaine posing on a chair, legs crossed, a smile on her face. Before she'd arrived, with her old rebel ball gowns and broken-down luggage, Edgar had slept with a succession of dance hall girls, and had come to enjoy their company. But Vanessa could play the piano and sing, and wanted to know if he could use an entertainer. He asked if she'd mind taking her clothes off for the boys, and she'd slapped his face royally.
At the moment of contact, he'd realized that she was an exceptional woman. Gradually he drew the story out of her. She'd been the daughter of a wealthy South Carolina planter, and they'd lost everything in the war. Her father committed suicide, her brother was killed at the front, so was her fiancé, while her mother died shortly thereafter. The spoiled belle was forced to earn her living in the cruel postwar South during Reconstruction, where a former slave could become lieutenant governor.
She'd told Edgar that prior to the war, she'd taken piano lessons from a German professor who'd known Franz Liszt, and had sung in church choirs since she was little. All her life, people had been telling her that she had musical talent, and when the war ended, it was all that she had to sell. So she'd drifted West, singing old Confederate war songs in taverns, hotel drawing rooms, and saloons.
Petigru considered himself a connoisseur of women, and was surprised by such rare beauty on the frontier, where women aged quickly due to hard work and blistering sunlight. Back in New York, he'd seen actresses and heiresses from all over the world, and even had the pleasure of witnessing one of Jenny Lind's historic performances at the Castle Garden. He considered Vanessa Fontaine the equal of any woman he'd ever admired.
Their relationship had begun as employer and employee, but it wasn't long before he was madly and hopelessly in love with her. He paid her far more than the going rate, provided the coach, and even signed over the house to her, so she wouldn't have to feel insecure about having a roof over her head.
Everyone in town thought she was his women, but no one knew the truth. He loved her, but she didn't love him. He felt certain that one day she'd appreciate him, for he was a cultured person from the upper classes, like her. What else was
there for her to choose? A rowdy, drunken cowboy?
Duane lay in the tub, warm water washing over him. He felt soothed, his belly full, and a gorgeous woman sat in the next room.
Her voice came to him. “Have you fallen asleep?”
He dried himself and wrapped the sheet around him. Holding it like a robe, he walked barefooted to the dining room. She sat at the table, with slices of cold meat, cheese, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. “Have something to eat,” she said.
He proceeded to consume sandwiches hungrily, as she observed him through guarded eyes. Not fully grown, probably a six-footer in another year or two. His skin is smoother than mine, his nose straighter, and his face is flawless, except for the bruises, she observe.
“You've been in a fight?” she asked.
He nodded, chewing a mouthful of food. “I lost, but a fellow said I could've won if I stayed after my man.”
“What'd you fight about?”
“Somebody pushed me.”
She reached under her skirt, pulled out the derringer, and dropped it onto the table. “You should carry one of these.”
He picked it up, and it was warm with her body heat, exuding her flowery fragrance. “I've never smelled ladies’ perfume before.”
“Get used to it, because I wear it all the time.”
This toy can kill a man, he mused. The over-and-under barrels were gold-plated, and the grip inlaid with dark wood. He aimed it at a blue and white porcelain vase full of flowers.
“Don't pull the trigger,” she warned.
He tested its weight in his hand, as she continued to observe him carefully. A typical man, they all love guns, and give them half a chance, they'll start a war on you, she thought. She leaned forward, took the gun out of his hand, raised the side of her dress, and deposited the weapon into its black leather holster.
I can't have a boy like this around here, she realized. Sooner or later we'll end in bed, and God only knows where that'll lead. He needs a momma, so I guess that's what I'll have to be for a while. “If you're going to find a job,” she said, “you've got to start early in the morning.
He stood at attention, thrust out his chest, and intoned, “I'd like to thank you, Miss Fontaine, for helping me out, and not calling the deputy. You can be sure that I'll—”
She interrupted him. “If there's anything I can't stand, it's a lecture. Go to bed, because I've got things to think about.”
Like a mummy in a white sheet, Duane moved down the dark corridor, came to the guest room, lit the lamp, and saw a bed four times as wide as his cot in the monastery, covered with a striped Indian blanket. He puffed up the pillow, turned off the lamp, dropped to his knees, and clasped his hands together.
“Dear Jesus, please shower your blessings upon that woman out there, and please help me keep my hands off her, so that I won't violate any of your commandments. And thank you for sending such a wonderful person into my life, to save me from starvation.” Then he mumbled an Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be, crossed himself, and crawled into the bed.
It was filled with the heady aroma of her perfume, almost as though she were under the covers with him, but when he reached for her, he was alone. The bed was softer than his straw cot at the monastery, as though he were floating on air. The guest bedroom seemed incredibly luxurious, unlike his plain cell, his only adornment a crucifix nailed to the wall.
I thought I was going to sleep outdoors, but now I'm living like a rich person. In the secular world, you can be robbed, see a killing, get the hell beat out you, and end up living with the most beautiful woman in the world, all in the same day, he told himself.
In the living room, Vanessa sat in her rocking chair, a glass of wine in her hand. It was silent down the hall, and she supposed that her guest had fallen asleep. I wonder what he'd do if I took off my clothes and crawled into bed with him?
He'd probably jump three feet into the air, she thought, and her lips creased in a smile. He wants to be a man, but looks like he's uncomfortable in his skin. She shook her head ruefully, because she knew that she couldn't seduce a mere boy. I've done some bad things in my day, but not that, she mused.
She turned toward the stand, and looked at a daguerreotype in a silver frame. It showed a young man with the twin bars of a captain on his shoulder, a faint blond mustache, and deep-set burning eyes. They'd been engaged to marry, but he'd died at Gettysburg, in the biggest cavalry battle of the war. And now I'm living on the charity of a Yankee businessman. I've fallen a long way, she thought sadly.
Often, in the dark of night, she recalled the old family plantation, gala balls, hunts, dashing young men on their splendid horses. Now most of those laughing cavaliers were reposing beneath the soil of Virginia, while she was a high-class prostitute in the eyes of the world.
She'd slept with a man here or there, to fill her belly and move onto the next rung of the ladder. It was either that or put a bullet through her brain, and many times she'd given that special consideration, because the price of life had seemed awfully high.
She'd slept with a gambler, a banker twice her age, and a man who claimed to own a railroad, but she found out three days later that he'd lied. Once, out of loneliness, she'd slept with a piano player who was more friend than lover, and it wasn't something that she was proud of.
She'd shown up in Titusville on her last legs, but fortunately Edgar Petigru had helped her, and thus far she'd been able to keep him at bay. But he'd fallen in love with her, had asked her to marry him, and she was planning to go ahead with it. It was better than worrying about what would happen when she lost her looks and voice.
Vanessa fully intended to submit to Petigru, so that she'd never have to worry about money again. He was a smart businessman, and shared her love for music and art. She felt nothing for him, but had decided long ago, after Beauregard had been killed, that she could never love another man.
Although she'd slept with others, it hadn't been like Beau. That was love, and Edgar Petigru something else entirely. She hadn't been with a man for pure fun since 1863, but now toyed lazily with the idea. I guess I'm not dead inside after all, she reflected. I should never've let that boy stay here, but it's too late now.
She felt sleepy from so much worry and concern. Leaving the dirty glasses for the maid, she picked up the lantern, headed down the corridor, as rays of moonlight fell like spears all around her. She slowed as she approached the guest room, blew out the lantern, tiptoed to the door, and opened it silently.
The room was dark, but she could perceive Duane's outline against the white sheets, sprawled on his back, his arms like Jesus on the cross. The covers had fallen off him, and she felt a mad urge to bury her teeth in his shoulder. A shiver passed through her, and she stepped back quickly. I don't need this complication, on top of my other complications, she chided herself.
Vanessa entered her bedroom, closed the door, and drew the drapes together. A town like this, a face like that—everyone'll be talking about him spending the night here. She relit the lamp, undressed in front of the mirror, and viewed herself critically. Every night she noticed a new wrinkle, sag, or bulge. If I don't get married soon, I may never be able to attract a man, she reminded herself.
She blew out the candle, crawled into bed, and hugged her pillow, thinking of the young man in the guest room. Somebody's got to look out for him, she tried to tell herself. Southern hospitality didn't end the night they burned Old Dixie down. I'm not Petigru's slave, or anybody else's. If I can't help a young man in need, what kind of world is this?
But she knew that she was lying. If he were a hunchback or midget she would've sent him away with a loaf of bread and a few dollars. I've got to stop thinking about him, she said silently, as she wrapped her long legs around her bedclothes. I'm going to get myself into deep trouble, if I don't settle down.
CHAPTER 3
DUANE OPENED HIS EYES, AND DIDN'T know whether he was in his cell at the monastery, a stagecoach stop, or a hotel room? French perfume arose f
rom the pillow, and he visualized Vanessa Fontaine sipping wine in the darkness of her parlor. He felt electrified, as he contemplated her long, lean body, and breasts that could fill a man's hands.
Sunlight leaked through the drapes of the guest room. He had no idea of the time, but was mildly hungry. Somehow he couldn't get out of the warm comfortable bed. He bounced languidly a few times, and smiled at the continuing motion.
Now he understood thin straw mattresses in the monastery. A soft feather bed tempted a man to indolence and sins of the flesh. He thought of Vanessa sleeping beneath the same roof, entwined in her nightgown and Civil War dreams. I've got to move out of here, he prompted himself, otherwise I'm liable to do something unbelievably bad.
He exerted his remaining willpower, and sat up. Unfamiliar clothing was draped over the chair beside him. Black jeans, red shirt, yellow bandanna, and black leather belt with big brass buckle. Quickly, he dressed before the mirror, anxious to see how he looked. Everything fit too big, but he gave the general appearance of a cowboy, except he'd never seen a cowboy wearing sandals.
The house was filled with the aroma of fresh coffee. In the kitchen, a large-busted, middle-aged Negro woman worked at the stove.
“I guess you're the new house guest,” she said. “Have a seat in the dining room. Are the clothes all right?”
“Best clothes I ever had,” he admitted.
“I picked them out myself. My name's Annabelle.”
“Duane Braddock.”
“You're so pretty, you should've been born a girl.”
Duane pondered her remark, as he padded toward the dining room. I should've been born a girl? He found The Titusville Tribune on the kitchen table, and the headline said:
SOUTHERN PACIFIC RAILROAD
SELECTS TITUSVILLE FOR NEW TERMINAL
Duane read the story with mounting interest. According to unnamed authoritative sources, a major railroad would be coming to Titusville soon, bringing prosperity to everyone in the region. Potential investors were advised to buy land and build businesses without delay, before prices soared. There were statements from the mayor, president of the town council, and numerous civic leaders. This sounds like a city on the move, Duane thought. I'm in the right place at the right time. If only I had money to invest.
