Nevada Nights

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  Rose entered carrying a silver tray laden with steaming soup and tea, along with warm biscuits and jam.

  While they ate, Quenton brightened. "I’m sorry, Cameron. There must be more pleasant things to talk about. Why don’t you tell me about your childhood in the convent?"

  While she sipped her tea, Cameron began describing Allumette Island and the sisters who had been her constant companions in her youth. Before long her unhappiness had disappeared like the morning mist, leaving her laughing and chatting comfortably.

  While Rose cleared away the remains of their lunch, Cameron hurried upstairs to change. Quenton again set Cameron’s pose, then moved to the easel.

  "I think I’ll be able to finish this today, Cameron. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t talk. There are so many little details I want to catch while the light is good."

  "All right." She withdrew into her mind, allowing herself to drift back to her beloved island and the women she would always remember with love and gratitude. The softness about her eyes and mouth told Quenton that her thoughts were happy ones.

  She watched his hands as he worked. He was so sure of himself. He painted boldly, without hesitation, as if he had already completed the portrait in his mind. As he mixed the colors on his palette, she studied his face. It was a handsome, boyish face, despite the occasional silver strand in his hair. His forehead was wide. She watched it furrow as he studied her face. Then he bent once more to the canvas. His eyes were the only thing he seemed to have inherited from the man in the upper bedroom. They were dark, almost black. But where William’s were fierce, hawklike, Quenton’s were surrounded by crinkles of smiles, as if everything he saw through them brought him joy. He held one brush in his teeth while he worked with another. She studied his row of even teeth and firm, perfectly etched lips. His skin was ruddy from years spent beneath Nevada’s scorching sun.

  Cameron found herself wondering, as she always did in his presence, why a man who seemed so at peace would need to drink himself to death. Or was Alex exaggerating? She thought again about the first time she had ever seen Quenton. His face had gone chalk white. He had stared at her as if he were seeing a ghost. And he had stumbled from the Delta Saloon. Alex had no need of exaggerating Quenton’s condition that night.

  "Do you need to stretch, Cameron?"

  His voice brought her out of her reverie.

  "Oh, yes. It would help."

  He wiped a brush on a rag. "I’m sorry. I tend to lose myself in my work and forget all about you. Walk around for a while."

  On a table, she fingered a sculpture of a mustang, its forelegs reared as if in battle. It reminded her of Colt. "Did you do this, Quenton?"

  He glanced up from the canvas. "Yes. I’ve tried my hand at sculpture. But I prefer painting."

  She moved about the room, stopping to study the framed paintings. All of them bore Quenton’s signature.

  "Tell me about Elizabeth."

  His head came up sharply. "Why?"

  "Because I sense that you loved her very much. And you still miss her."

  He nodded, staring into space. "She was much more than just my older sister. She was mother, confidante, best friend."

  "When did your mother die?"

  "Just after my birth. I never knew her. My earliest memories are of Elizabeth, holding me when I was afraid, teaching me, laughing with me. Very early on I realized that she was the only buffer between me and my father. His temper was famous. He could go into a black mood for days. Elizabeth said it was because he blamed the whole world for our mother’s death. But privately I’ve always thought he blamed me for it. Then it would be as if he had never been angry. He would bring us gifts, laugh with us. The tension would be gone—until the next time."

  Cameron followed Quenton’s gaze to the barren hills. This was a harsh land that seemed to breed harsh people.

  He turned. "Well, are you ready to pose again?"

  She nodded.

  He worked in silence, studying her, bending to the canvas, then looking up again to be certain he had captured a perfect image.

  When a shadow darkened the doorway, Cameron schooled herself to show no emotion. Her gaze flicked over Colt, walking soundlessly toward the easel. Then she fixed her gaze firmly on Quenton and forced herself not to waver.

  Quenton gave Colt a brief smile, then continued painting. "It’s going well, don’t you think?"

  Colt nodded, studying the canvas. "Very well." He lifted his head to study the beautiful woman sitting like a statue. "I didn’t think it could be done, Quenton, but you’ve actually captured her. The essence of her. The vitality, the energy, the inner strength." His voice thickened. "The passion and fire beneath the fragile beauty."

  Cameron’s gaze locked with Colt’s. Quenton raised his head and watched them, but they were unaware of anything except each other.

  Her chin lifted in defiance. Why was he trying to charm her after a secret rendezvous with Nina? Did he think her so naive that he could flatter his way into her heart? Was his ego so large that he needed the affection of more than one woman? Little Sister Adele’s words echoed again in her mind. "Oh, Cammy, don’t ever pin your hopes and dreams on a man. For he’ll be a thief and steal your most precious possession of all—your hopes, your dreams, your very future. Remember, Cammy, don’t ever trust your life to the whims of a man."

  Quenton watched Cameron’s eyes darken with anger. Her lips thinned. The hands at her sides clenched into tight little fists. He glanced at Colt. His expression was closed. It was as if a shutter had passed over his eyes, blotting out all sight of her. He turned on his heel and was gone.

  Within the hour Quenton stepped back from the easel. "I’m finished, Cameron. If you’d like to see your portrait, you may now."

  She stood, stretched her cramped muscles, and hurried to view the canvas. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. No words escaped her lips.

  Was this how she looked, or just how Quenton saw her? The red-gold hair cascaded across one shoulder and spilled over a breast. The green of the emerald was reflected in her eyes. Her chin was lifted in a haughty, defiant pose. Her lips were parted in invitation.

  She studied the woman on the canvas, feeling her heartbeat quicken. "Is that really me, Quenton?"

  He smiled gently. "I told you I had found the most beautiful model in the country." He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them. "Thank you, Cameron McCormick. This is my crowning achievement."

  She could only stare wordlessly at the stranger in the portrait. There was no trace of the child she had been. In her place was a woman, with all her dignity, her modesty and vanity, and her vulnerability.

  Quenton’s voice was soft. "Your strength is here." He pointed to the head in the portrait. "There is a certain way you hold yourself. An aloof pose, as if to defy the fates. And here." He pointed to her chin, thrust slightly forward. "And especially here." He touched the eyes of the portrait. "You meet everyone directly, as if in challenge."

  She continued staring at the canvas, seeing herself through the artist’s eyes.

  "There is aristocracy here." He pointed to the high cheekbones. "And here"—he touched the lips—"I see sensuality. The full lower lip. The slightly parted invitation to the one man strong enough to dare."

  He turned his full attention to the woman beside him. "Cameron McCormick, you are a challenging, exciting, explosive, passionate woman. And I sense that you are going to give some poor man the most frustrating but rewarding time of his life."

  He smiled down at her, and she stood on tiptoe to brush her lips over his cheek.

  "Now that the portrait is finished, I’ll miss our time together. It’s been so good to have someone to talk to, and to listen to as well. I feel a kinship with you, Quenton. May I come over from time to time, just to visit, or maybe to argue with your father?" He threw back his head and laughed. "I’d like that. And I know my father would relish the chance to lock horns with you. Our door is always open to you, Cameron."

  She touche
d the skirt of the green gown. "I’ll take off Elizabeth’s dress now." In a swish of satin, she hurried from the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cameron was elated at the completion of the portrait. Feeling far too excited to return to the gloom of her family house, she headed her horse toward the crumbling cottage.

  Each time she came here, she read another small portion of someone’s private life. The girl who had kept that diary had poured out her soul on those pages. And Cameron, lacking anyone in whom she could confide, understood her longings. That girl, probably long since gone from the region, was becoming her best friend.

  Tethering her horse in the shade of the cottage, she stepped inside and eagerly reached for the yellowed pages, hidden inside the wall of loose bricks.

  She sat in the old rocker and turned the pages until she came to a portion of the diary that she hadn’t as yet read.

  January 24, 1856

  We never meant it to become this obsession. Our first meeting, when my horse reared up and nearly crushed him as we crested a hill, was shocking for us both. I thought I knew everyone in our small village. This man was a stranger. The most handsome stranger I’d ever seen. After his first moment of surprise, he’d caught the reins, nearly unseating me from my mount. In our confusion, we both simply stared. After a long, breathless moment, I jerked the reins from his hands and galloped away.

  I began unconsciously to look for him on my daily rides. And I sensed he was looking for me. Each time we came upon one another, we would stare wordlessly, nod, and continue on our way. Until the day my horse threw me in a thicket. He helped me up. The moment he touched me, I was on fire. For a long time, we simply stared. Then, still without a word, he wrapped me in his arms and kissed me. I shall never forget that kiss as long as I live. For the first time in my life, I was truly alive. My blood thundered in my temples. My mind left me. I couldn’t think. Could not protest. My heart—sang. After that, he went off to retrieve my horse. We exchanged first names. He told me I had a beautiful, regal name. And diary, before we rode off in separate directions—we agreed to meet again. How could I know what this man would mean in my life? Who would have believed that I would allow myself to get caught in such a web of passion? Only with him did I feel truly—whole.

  Many pages later, Cameron gasped as she read:

  July 30, 1856

  I did not mean to break my father’s heart. For he will never forgive me. I have fallen hopelessly in love with his enemy. I did not know. And he did not even dream that my last name would cause such dismay. My child—our child—will forever remind my father of his disgrace.

  My lover swears he loves only me. His wife is wife in name only. We plan to leave here and make a new life for ourselves far from my father’s long arm of vengeance.

  Cameron read long passages telling of the intricate plotting to meet without being seen by the townspeople. When she read the description of the vacant cottage where they held their love trysts, she gasped in recognition. It was this very cottage.

  September 2, 1856

  I knew about this little cottage. Knew that it stood empty. It was our safe retreat from the world. Here we could pretend, for a little while, that we were truly married, and this place, so filled with love, was ours.

  For the next several pages, the neat handwriting became almost a scrawl, as if written in haste. It told of a sudden shift in their plans. The writer had become too ill to travel. And so the lovers agreed to hide her condition and to flee to this cottage when her time was near. After she delivered the baby and regained her strength, they planned to leave to make a fresh start.

  The anonymous author wrote long paragraphs, proclaiming her love, and longer passages regarding her terrible fear that she had left her baby brother at the mercy of a domineering, bitter, hate-filled father.

  Cameron came to the last page of the diary. With pounding heart, she carefully read the barely legible words, written in a faint scrawl.

  December 12, 1856

  Diary, from the moment I first saw him, so handsome and proud, I was lost. When finally I learned who he was, it was too late. I had crossed the line of reason into a passion so intense it consumed me with its fire. I leave this world with but one regret. Never again will I feel the warmth of his strong embrace. The child born of our love will grow to be doubly strong, brave, proud—for the blood of two headstrong fools flows through her veins.

  John. Oh, John! I love you so.

  Cameron gasped at the signature initials. E.L. Elizabeth Lampton.

  She stood, dropping all the pages of the diary. She stared, unseeing, as they spilled on the earthen floor. Frantically she paced the small room. Hadn’t she unconsciously known, almost from the beginning?

  Baby brother was Quenton, the shy, sweet dreamer who would never be able to please his father. The black-tempered father was William Lampton, a man consumed by a need to avenge losing five hundred acres of his prized land to a gambler. John, the mysterious lover, her father’s sworn enemy, was Big John McCormick.

  And the child born of that love . . .

  Cameron picked up the pages of the diary and stuffed them down into the pocket of her gown. Frantically pushing the gelding to his limits, she urged him across the hills toward the Lampton house.

  By the time she reached the front yard, the horse was lathered and flecked with foam from his run. Colt walked down the front steps just as Cameron dropped the reins and ran past him. Seeing the condition of her mount, he was tempted to towel him dry. But noting the look of concern on her face, he whirled and followed her first.

  The elderly servant woman was standing at the head of the stairs.

  "Where is Quenton?"

  The old woman read the determination in Cameron’s tightly compressed lips.

  She motioned toward the corner bedroom. "With his father."

  Without ceremony, she threw open the door of the bedroom and strode across the room. The old man lay in his bed, his eyes glistening with tears. Quenton sat beside him, holding his hand. Standing on easels at the foot of the bed were two portraits. One was the recently completed picture of Cameron. The other could have been her twin.

  Cameron could only stare. Except for her heavy breathing from the strenuous ride, she made no sound. She was shocked into silence.

  The other woman’s hair had more red than gold. Her eyes were the same shade of green. She was wearing the satin gown and the emerald at her throat. The head was lifted in a proud pose, her chin jutting at a challenging angle.

  After what seemed an eternity, Cameron turned to face the two men. "This is a portrait of Elizabeth."

  Quenton nodded.

  "My mother." She saw the old man’s face blanch, then crumple.

  Cameron remembered the snip of red hair in the little metal box along with her birth records. She directed her words to Quenton. "You knew. You both knew. And you didn’t tell me."

  He patted his father’s hand, then stood. "I knew, Cameron. That first night, in the Delta Saloon, I thought Elizabeth had come back from the grave."

  "But why—"

  He held up a hand. "Let me finish. When Alex introduced you as a member of the family, Big John McCormick’s daughter, I suddenly knew so much more than I wanted to."

  "But you never let on. Were you ever going to tell me?"

  "I realized there was no easy way to break the news to you. I thought, if I could induce you to meet my father and you could get to know us slowly, you might not regard your heritage with such distaste." He hesitated, and she found some of her anger dissipating. "We have not prospered as the McCormicks have. We have little to offer you—except love."

  For the first time, she allowed herself to meet the old man’s eyes. "And you, William Lampton? How can you claim to offer love to your daughter’s child when I am also the daughter of your enemy, John McCormick?"

  With a trembling hand he wiped the tears that brimmed and trickled down his cheek. "I have never forgiven him for taking for himself what was
mine. If I could convince myself that he forced himself on her, then I could hate him still. But although I never allowed myself to admit it, I saw how Elizabeth changed. The spring in her step. The flush in her cheeks. The way she rushed on the wind to some secret rendezvous. I suppose I knew even then, in my heart of hearts, that my daughter was in love. Only love can effect such drastic changes in a woman. And such an impulsive, headstrong woman! There was no stopping her." William Lampton sighed from deep within. "No, Cameron. I can no longer hate Big John McCormick. His only sin was in being alive and being so much bigger than life, so strong, so compelling a figure, that he was the only man who could have ever captured my daughter’s heart. I suppose I always really knew it. But I was too blinded by hatred to see. I would not accept that. I couldn’t even think it in the darkest hour of the night. There was no way I could have said this aloud eighteen years ago. Elizabeth had fallen madly, uncontrollably, wildly in love with the man who had won five hundred acres of my prized land in a card game. The man I had vowed to destroy. Big John McCormick."

  With gleaming, tear-bright eyes, he whispered, "Look at her. And just look at you, Cameron. The beautiful product of that love." His finger pointed to the two portraits. "How could I not love you?"

  Cameron saw the question in Quenton’s eyes. With hesitant steps, she moved toward the bed. The old man held his arms wide. With a burst of emotion, she fell into his embrace.

  "Oh," he sighed against her temple. "Cameron, you are so like her."

  Her heart caught in her throat. She recalled her own father’s similar words when he had first seen her.

  "And I loved her so."

  "We both did," Quenton sighed, slipping his arms around both his father and Cameron.

  Rose and Colt stood in the doorway, watching the reunion.