Paint the Wind

by Cathy Cash Spellman

  "Did you yourself marry?" Hart asked.

  For a moment, so intense a pain suffused Gokhlaya's face that Hart regretted his question and wondered if he had transgressed some unwritten law, but after a while the Apache spoke again.

  "Perhaps the greatest joy to me of my life was that after being admitted to the council of warriors I could marry the fair Alope, daughter of Noposo." Gokhlaya smiled a little, a strange, sad smile. "She was a slender, delicate girl—we had been lovers for a long time." The utter unselfconsciousness of this reply made Hart wonder if the sexual customs of this tribe might be very different from his own.

  "As soon as the council granted me the privilege to marry, I went to see her father. Perhaps our love was of no interest to him; perhaps he wanted to keep Alope with him, for she was a dutiful daughter. At any rate, he asked many ponies for her, more than any man had ever been asked before. I made no reply, but in a few days appeared before his tipi with a whole herd of ponies and took with me Alope. This was all the marriage ceremony necessary in our tribe.

  "Not far from my mother's tipi I made a new home. The tipi was made of buffalo hides and in it were bear robes, mountain lion hides, and other trophies of the chase, as well as my spears, bows, and arrows. Alope had many little decorations of beads and drawn work on buckskin, which she placed in our tipi. She also drew fine pictures on the walls. She was a good wife, but she was never strong.

  "We followed the traditions of our fathers and were happy. Three children came to us...." Gokhlaya paused at that moment and sorrow was clearly visible behind his eyes.

  "We will speak more another time," he said, his voice low and husky. Abruptly, he rose and left the wickiup. Hart hobbled to the doorway and saw the Apache standing on a little rise, just outside the ring of light from the campfire. His arms were crossed in front of him, his sturdy legs were set apart, as if to withstand the force of a hurricane. His head was raised to the night sky, like that of a wolf, howling up the moon, his silhouette so still against the moon's light, he might have been a statue.

  Later, after Hart had left Apacheria for the final time, he would paint Gokhlaya as he was that night, standing with all the majesty and power of a burden manly borne. Hart thought it a fine painting because it carried within it the spirit strength of a great warrior, and he was grieved when he heard that his work had been destroyed by vandals. But that was when the hatred for Indians had been stirred by the ruthless to fever pitch—and by then it was no longer simply a painting of his friend and brother Gokhlaya. For this warrior was known in the white man's world by a different name from his tribal one—long years before, the Mexicans had christened him in the heat of battle with the name he would bear through history. Geronimo.

  Chapter 80

  Jason Madigan had the means of staying in Leadville and Denver whenever he chose to do so, but he saw no need to outstay his welcome. Strings could be pulled from New York as well as anywhere, and plans could be set in motion when the time was right. Now that Chance had accepted his friendship and Fancy, however warily, had too, there was no need for undue haste; men like McAllister generally dug their own graves if you gave them time enough and a shovel. Meanwhile, Jason's private railroad car could transport him to his interests in Colorado whenever he wished, the telegraph kept information at his fingertips, and his underlings did as they were told no matter which state the orders came from.

  He enjoyed the time he spent in Colorado; it made him remember how much he liked the West—the entrepreneurial spirit, the hard men and the opportunities. He'd made his money in places like Leadville because he understood its mentality so viscerally; this was a world for the tough and the daring, it fit his personality like an Hermes glove.

  Jason bought a house for entertaining in Denver, and built a hunting lodge outside Leadville. As long as the silver held out and Fancy continued to interest him, it made sense to provide comfortable arrangements in the area.

  He'd failed to do away with his rival for Fancy's affections with his mine escapade, but he'd accomplished something better in the long run, for he'd become both a local hero and Chance's confidant. Madigan was a subtle man for all his bull-like exterior; had Chance died as he'd originally planned it, he would have taken on the status of martyr for Fancy, and it would have been nearly impossible to fight such a mythic rival's memory. As it was, Chance remained a man—one with flaws to exploit. If Jason played the game shrewdly, he could do far worse than kill Chance; he could discredit and bankrupt him, and no woman with Fancy's verve and intelligence would wish to be married to a bankrupt fool.

  "I've advised McAllister to put his money into certain places that might interest you," Madigan told Henderson as the two sat in Jason's library.

  "You haven't made yourself an 'official partner' in any of his enterprises?" asked Henderson casually. He was a portly man, a fact he thought essential to his profession; never trust a hungry banker, he would say whenever his corpulence became a topic— weight, wealth, and power seemed to bed so comfortably together.

  "Certainly not. I've made myself an advisor of sorts to McAllister... and a friend, of course."

  "What exactly do you have in mind that might be of interest to me, Jason?"

  "Nothing whatsoever, at the moment, John, as it happens. I simply want you to know I'm keeping a weather eye on things here in Leadville and Denver. McAllister has damnably good luck and he's amassing a great fortune without knowing a thing about handling it."

  "So, you're helping him."

  "I'm advising him."

  "You wouldn't be receiving any sort of compensation for this advisory status... say, a commission from a bank, would you?" . Jason rolled the stem of the small glass around in his fingers for a moment before replying, and waited for the bait to be taken. "That is none of your affair," he said finally, holding Henderson's eyes with his own.

  "It could be, if you were willing to steer his holdings toward my Fiduciary Bank. I would think it only proper for a man who brought in such an investor to be compensated for doing so."

  Jason appeared to think this through. "Money wouldn't move me in that direction, John. But I would take it as a sensible gesture on the part of any bank I steered McAllister to, if they were to keep me abreast of certain matters, generally held confidential."

  Henderson nodded; it was comforting to know he'd read the man right. "Considering your advisory capacity to Mr. McAllister, I'd say such action would be no more than expected."

  Each man smiled just a trifle, content in the sure knowledge that, henceforward, both would profit from Chance's good or bad fortune. John Henderson accepted the glass Jason offered him. They had more to talk about than Chance McAllister, now that Madigan's Flume and Smelting Works was growing to be one of the biggest businesses in Leadville, to say nothing of his railroad interests, his timber rights, and his impeccable banking connections with New York and Chicago. Jason felt more than content with the way the discussion had proceeded with Henderson.

  Madigan had taken the time and trouble to assess the situation between Chance and Fancy, and had come to certain conclusions. It was easy enough to understand the attraction between the two —they were much alike, too much for lasting comfort. McAllister was actually rather an interesting fellow, handsome as a matinee idol but manly for all of that—the sort who appealed to women and men alike. He was an extraordinarily gifted gambler and Jason was no slouch himself in that quarter, so his admiration was genuine. However, it was apparent that unlike himself, Chance did not know when to quit. If he won a thousand, he bet two, and he was always seduced by the flamboyant gesture; Chance had astonishing luck and he trusted it implicitly. His oratorical skills were exemplary, his memory phenomenal, and his charm undeniable, all in all, a quite formidable array of assets.

  It had taken Jason a good deal of concentrated effort to understand fully the weaknesses in the man, enough to use them judiciously. His hamartias, as the Greeks would say, the fatal flaws. Madigan catalogued them once again in his min
d: Chance McAllister was not ruthless by nature, a major handicap in business... it wasn't only luck he trusted, he trusted other men... he would risk everything on one flamboyant throw of the dice... he had a roving eye and hearty appetites... he did not know how to spurn a woman's advances in front of other men, without losing face... he was prone to profligacy... he let hirelings and advisors run his businesses. Most dangerous of all, and most useful to Jason, he didn't fully understand his wife's complex nature. He had no real idea, in fact, of what an ally she could have been, so he treated her as other men treated other wives—a foolhardy error that could only cause eventual disaster.

  Jason would bide his time and wait until Chance's own self-destructive tendencies played into his plans. Not forever, of course —he'd grease the skids a bit before long, but he would do so carefully, for Fancy must never suspect he bore her husband anything other than goodwill.

  It had taken time after the strike and the cave-in for Chance to reestablish his connections with the power brokers, but his heroics during the disaster had made him so popular with the local citizenry the pols couldn't afford to ignore him permanently. He was also a friend of Jason Madigan's, whose power seemed to reach into nearly every corner of the mining industry, so within a matter of months after Chance's recovery, all had returned to normal.

  Besides, there was a staggering amount for the legislature to cope with in the burgeoning state, and Chance's popularity was a useful tool, so the party saw that his political career took an upward turn again. A new street railway was being constructed, fire companies had to be fielded and equipped, the growing number of freight companies had to be regulated, as did the constant battles among warring railroads. A water system and reservoirs were being constructed, even a light-and-power company was bringing electricity to Denver and to Leadville.

  Beyond all this local fervor, there was the growing power of the Silver Alliance, which necessitated frequent trips around the state, to other silver mining territories, and to Washington. About the only area of business Chance McAllister didn't find much time for was the running of the Fancy Penny and the Last Chance. Fortunately, Jason had offered discreet suggestions to Chance on how to direct the financial empire being generated by the mine revenues, and Caz was on site to oversee day-to-day operations.

  It was a great pity that Caz disliked Madigan so instinctively— the two men seemed to come to blows on nearly every major question, but at least, thanks to both their efforts, the money kept pouring out of the ground. Jason lived in New York and visited only occasionally, so Caz eventually decided that although the man's input was pernicious, it wasn't ever-present—and more important, there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

  Besides, no matter how his profligate nature seemed to bode ill for success, Chance was winning at every throw of the dice. Ever since he and Fancy had gotten back together, Chance's good fortune had been phenomenal. It was damned hard to convince a man he was doing things wrong, when they always turned out right.

  Caz would have welcomed an opportunity to talk with Hart or Bandana; he missed them sorely. He missed Chance, too, for he was accessible now only to powerful men, not to merely good ones, and Chance had been his friend, a long, long time ago.

  Chapter 81

  Chance, high-spirited as a young stallion, hurried Fancy with her dressing. The morning was clear, warm, and promising in Denver, where he'd brought her to stay at the elegant Windsor Hotel—the surprise he'd planned for her would make up for his mistakes of the past. They'd mended the tatters of their marriage after the mine disaster, and he'd realized, perhaps for the first time, how inextricably entwined her happiness was with his own. Nothing would ever go wrong between them again because he wouldn't let it. All Fancy'd ever really wanted was security, and this incredibly substantial surprise would give her all the security any woman could desire.

  Titillated by her husband's exuberance, Fancy dressed in her newest Paris suit, fawn-colored silk with mahogany passementerie; it made her look healthy and bursting with life. She'd been so worn after nursing the boys that she knew it pleased Chance to see her hale again. The relief of knowing their love was safe again had put the color back in her cheeks; Chance was hers and the world had changed once more for the better.

  Fancy tied a jaunty new bonnet under her chin, surveyed her reflection with satisfaction, and left the hotel, anticipating a splendid day.

  Denver was such an exciting city, dazzling with the trappings of high society. What fun it was to leave the children and Leadville behind for a romantic rendezvous in such a showy town. Fancy ticked off the shops she intended to buy from; Joslin's, and Daniels & Fisher were first on the list. She was reborn and headlong in love.

  "Tell me where we're going," she prompted excitedly, as the carriage horses pranced through the bustling thoroughfares, but Chance was brimming over with anecdotes from the political dinner he'd attended the night before, and only smiled in that teasing way he had.

  The carriage stopped on Lincoln Street in front of an immense stone mansion. Standing beyond imposing gates, it was of white limestone, built in a formidable combination of Romanesque, Renaissance, and Gothic architecture; it looked as if it might endure for a thousand years.

  "Chance!" Fancy pouted. "You didn't say we were going visiting. You promised we were going to spend the day alone together." The pouty disappointment in her voice nattered her husband. Chance tapped on the panel separating them from the driver, and Fancy, bewildered, let him lift her to the ground. The great wrought-iron gates loomed above her; beyond the gates, a flight of granite steps led to a piazza-size landing, then another longer flight extended to the entrance of the house, where an ornate crested portico was held aloft by twenty-foot white marble pillars.

  "It's your present, sugar," he said, grinning, as he unlocked the gate. "So you'll never have to worry about being poor again."

  Seldom at a loss for words, Fancy realized that her mouth was open but no sound had escaped it. She lifted her skirts with both hands and ran up the first flight of steps without looking back. Chance bounded up the steps to her side; unexpectedly, he scooped her into his arms and pressed her close, laughing with the pleasure of her delight. "I love you, Fancy. Nothing will ever come between us again." Then he carried her up the last few steps and into the house as if she were a bride.

  Immense oval-topped windows flooded light into the entrance hall; carvings, gildings, and inlays covered the ceiling, except for an area on which clouds and firmament had been painted. Stained-glass panels atop each window spilt colors onto the polished pink marble of the foyer floor.

  Fancy turned, at a loss for adequate words, and took her husband's hand in her own; like two children let loose in the most beautiful playground in the world, they walked from room to room. Sunlight bathed the pearl-gray drawing room in silvered shimmers... thousands of leather-bound volumes with gilded titles lined the shelves of the two-story library... the dining room could seat fifty comfortably... the oval ballroom would cast the light from its glittering chandeliers on two hundred privileged guests. The nursery was equipped to accommodate an army of children; the servants' quarters, which branched out from nursery and schoolroom, could easily domicile the huge staff needed to maintain such a dwelling.

  Four parlor- and chambermaids would be required, Fancy calculated absently as she moved among the rooms. A French laundress, a linen woman for washing and ironing the towels, tablecloths, and sheets; a girl for packing and unpacking the luggage of guests and family... How extraordinary that she remembered how such a gracious household should be run! Six girls for scrubbing and polishing, under the guidance of a butler, preferably English. He would also oversee the four footmen and the men who would handle heavy chores. A coachman, four grooms, and stablemen would be needed. As would a chef, sous-chef, and scullions. Each family member would require a valet or personal maid; the children would need nursery staff. Fancy must have a secretary; Aurora and Blackjack would each have to have tutors and govern
esses... She felt breathless with the thrill of overwhelming abundance... surely even her bottomless need could be satiated by such a dwelling.

  "Show me our bedroom, darling," she whispered, and they ascended the marble staircase to the bedroom floor, hand in hand. Chance smiled knowingly as he turned the scrolled golden knob and pushed back the double doors, for he'd imagined Fancy's face on seeing its splendor, from the moment he'd been shown the house. A massive four-poster stood with a puddle of sunlight spilling over it; two huge armoires, left behind by the previous owners, loomed like immense sentinels on either side of the room, but the custom-made bed, bigger than any Fancy had ever imagined, dominated the room.

  She climbed the two mahogany steps to the mattress and bounced like a playful child on the resilient softness, until the expression of sheer joy on her face made Chance laugh aloud. She reached out to him and he moved to the bedside to pull her close enough to embrace.

  Fancy buried her head in her husband's chest, then looked up into his face. "Make love to me, Chance. Right this minute, in this incredible bed." He chuckled softly and shook his head; it wasn't merely her joy that was seductive... he tugged off his coat, unbuttoned vest, shirt, and trousers, never taking his eyes from his wife's.

  Fancy undid her own jacket, feeling like she owned the world.

  Her heart pounded madly in her chest, it might have been their first seduction.

  Chance traced the flesh of her throat as he touched his lips to hers; he saw the flesh of her bare breasts respond and tighten; a smile turned up the corners of his mouth just a little, as he moved the sheer fabric aside and bent his mouth to taste them. She arched herself, stretching like a lazy cat, sucking in the exquisite feelings with every nerve ending. She kissed his face and neck, nibbled at his ear, heard him laugh with pleasure at her responsiveness. She leaned far back on the bed, expecting him to cover her body with his own, but instead his hands went around her waist, unexpectedly, and she felt herself lifted skillfully. Chance raised her body up to impale it on his risen flesh and Fancy gasped with surprise. She buried her hands in her husband's hair and pulled his mouth to her own lustily. She was his, and he was hers. They had never quarreled, injured, misunderstood each other— for they were one in this primal urgent place that they alone could find together. Never had man and woman known each other as their bodies knew... restive, restless, insatiable bodies, too wild for others, too irreverent and irrepressible. Her limbs entwined him, her loins extracted exquisite payment for their desires, her mind reeled and her senses with it, as she tightened herself about him, daring him to pull free as they tumbled to the bed together. This was their connection—their endless exquisite, damning connection. Flesh to flesh, spirit to spirit, they soared and slipped and bucked and burst together into a place no one else could ever go.