“Bill?” Marzonoff was almost stammering with excitement.
“Bill Hickok. However, there are those who say he’s more infamous than famous. But not to his face. Uncle Bill is very careful of his good name.”
“Wild Bill Hickok,” the Russian repeated dazedly.
“And the Daltons and the Youngers are second cousins on my …” Delaney trailed off and Elspeth saw his shoulders begin to shake, though his expression was still bland. She was forced to smother a laugh herself.
Patrick Delaney’s voice was a little choked as he continued. “I think I’ll take a little snooze. All that walking has made me plumb weary.” He put on his stetson and tipped it over his eyes, ignoring Marzonoff’s obvious disappointment. “I’m afraid I’m not as rough and tough as my kinfolk.”
Elspeth didn’t know about his toughness but she was sure the young rascal could far outpace his “relatives” in sheer deviltry.
She settled back on the seat, shifting her gaze between the two young men opposite her. They were a strange blend of contrasts and similarities. The plump Russian was the older, she judged, close to her own age of twenty-two years. His fine city clothing should have given him the advantage of inner confidence over the auburn-haired cowboy, but such was not the case. Patrick’s tight denim trousers were shabby, his brown shirt and tan suede vest dusty, and his black stetson was sun-faded in spots. Yet his wide shoulders and narrow hips, the careless grace of his strong body, gave his attire an elegance Andre Marzonoff could never hope to bring to his clothing. Patrick’s speech was puzzling. His words sounded as educated and cultured as any of her father’s students, and yet they were flavored by a lazy and quite unusual drawl. This young Delaney was something of an enigma, she thought.
She glanced out the window. The Santa Catalina mountains were very beautiful but as stark and rugged as the rest of this wild country. How different they were from the mist-shrouded mountains of her native land. She shifted restlessly, suddenly tired of the scenery. She felt as if she had traveled years instead of weeks since she had left Edinburgh. She was growing terribly impatient now that she was so close to her objective. Her gaze returned to Patrick Delaney, and a tiny smile lifted the corners of her lips. She closed her own eyes and tried to relax.
The young cowboy was a complete scoundrel. Her father would have disapproved of both his attitude and his background, yet she was delighted to have his assistance when she arrived in Hell’s Bluff. Her smile brodened. Yes, she was perfectly delighted.
Read on for an excerpt from Adrienne Staff’s Spellbound
ONE
Slowly the clouds moved across the bright face of the full moon. Mysterious shadows cloaked the building where Jamie Payton tried to paint. For an instant it was as though the stage was purposely being dimmed; the scene was being set. Jamie felt a chill walk across her skin. She had the strangest feeling that something was about to happen, something unexplainable, something unforeseen. Something …
The lights went out. One minute Jamie was staring at her half-finished painting, brush in hand, and the next … total darkness.
“Damn!” She felt her way over to the wall near the door and flicked the light switch once, twice. Nothing. What was going on? Moving cautiously, she walked around the wall to the windows, covered with heavy oilcloth to keep out the distractions of the city while she painted. She slid a fingernail under the rim of a thumbtack, the cloth sprang up, and light poured in.
The street lamps were on outside and there were lights in the row of storefronts across the way. Jamie frowned. She opened the window, leaned out, and saw that lights were shining from the windows in her own building as well. Damn! Wouldn’t you know? Just when she thought she was finally getting somewhere with her painting, something bad had to happen. It was probably the wiring in her loft or a blown fuse. But why now? Why her?
Tugging her fingers through her uncombed hair, she turned back to the darkness of her own room. For a moment she stood there immobilized by a childhood sense of dread, feeling the old ghosts closing in. But she shook them off and moved quickly through the loft, pulling open one drawer after another in search of candles. Her elbow hit the corner of a box, the vase on top teetered, and an entire still life crashed to the floor.
Jamie screamed. She didn’t mean to; it just happened before she could control herself. Biting her lip, she bent and began picking glass shards off the worn wood floor. She was just reaching for another when there was a knock at the door.
“Now what?” she groaned. She was tempted to ignore it, but whoever was out there was very persistent. Setting the broken glass down in a neat pile, she walked over, checked the chain lock, and opened the door a few inches.
“Yes?” she said, peering out into the corridor. The guy standing there looked familiar, a neighbor most likely.
“Hi. I’m Kent. From next door,” he added, confirming her guess. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but I heard a crash, and a scream.…” He shrugged. “I just wanted to check that everything’s okay.”
Jamie gave him a thin smile. “I’m fine. Thanks. That was nice of you, but I’m okay.”
He stood there.
“Really,” she insisted. “My lights went out and I bumped into some things I’d left lying around. I’m a painter and—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “Abstracts. You told me a year ago when we first met. And I’m the actor from next door, the one who used to play his music too loud.”
“Oh yes, of course I remember,” she lied, feeling really embarrassed now. He was trying to be neighborly. “Well, perhaps sometime you could come over and we could talk about our work.”
He smiled. “You said that also. But you didn’t show up at my New Year’s Eve party. Or my St. Patrick’s Day bash … green beer and all. I was hurt.”
Jamie stiffened. “I must have been busy. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He smiled. “I just thought we could be friends.”
“Yes. That’s nice. And thanks again for being the good Samaritan.”
“No problem. Hey—just call if you need any help.”
“Yes, I will. Thanks. Good night.”
She shut the door and leaned back against it, feeling oddly shaken. The truth was, she could have used a little help right now. But it was just as true that she couldn’t ask. Ever. Before she could stop herself, she was always saying, “No, thank you, I’m fine; I don’t need anything.” It was just the way she was.
Pain squeezed her heart. She wanted to be different. She longed to be different, to be open, warm, and responsive, to be the kind of person who was surrounded by friends. It would be wonderful to be the center of smiles and laughter, the giver and recipient of hugs.
Jamie’s throat tightened around forbidden tears. She pushed away from the door, away from her thoughts. “Now where the hell did I put those candles?”
Finally she had two lit and placed strategically in the dimness. Tomorrow she’d complain to her landlord. She’d have it out with him once and for all. He could either fix things so that she could paint without interruption or he could find himself another tenant. She’d move. She’d find another loft in Georgetown, or somewhere else in D.C. The classifieds probably had dozens of listings.
Reaching for an old newspaper, she knocked a week’s worth of mail onto the floor. When everything finally fluttered to a stop, there on top was a bill from the electric company, FINAL NOTICE typed across the envelope in bold print.
The electric company! Her hand flew to her mouth. The telephone company! Her rent! She’d forgotten to pay all her bills. She’d been so determined to finish this latest painting that she’d forgotten everything else. And for what? She still couldn’t get it right. She couldn’t achieve the power she wanted, the dynamic tension of form and shadow. She couldn’t capture the light, that perfect but elusive light she saw in her imagination. But she was damned if she was going to give up. Hurrying to the easel, she picked up her brush, dipped it in paint.…
At that instant a gust of wind blew in through the open windows and snuffed out her candles.
It was too much; she couldn’t stand it anymore. Problems were piling on top of problems: the poor sales at her first one-woman show, then this painting, and now the lights—
She was going to cry. She knew it, hating herself for it, fighting against it. And even as the tears gathered she heard her father’s cold voice with its chill disapproval, its utter disdain: “Look at you. Out of control. Are you crying? Are those tears? What are you, a baby? A failure? A loser?”
His ghost chased her from the loft.
Jamie took the stairs two at a time, grabbing at the banister for balance. She ran out the front door and into the loud, impersonal noise of the street with its car radios, college students, and flood of tourists. Above her head, the sky was filled with strange, leaden clouds that seemed to catch the noise and bounce it back down like an echo chamber. But even this was better than that voice.
Jamie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and walked on, head down. It started to drizzle. Every store light, every car light, every traffic light flashing green/yellow/red was reflected on the wet canvas of the sidewalks. The lights streaked and spread. They flowed in elongated, mystical shapes. They arched into rainbows at the edges of curbs where oil and grease had been laid like wax crayon on gray paper. Colors and light, light and color— Why couldn’t she paint like this, with such random beauty, such freedom?
Drawing a shaky breath, Jamie tilted her face up to the rain. It made it easier to hide the tears.
She wandered along, turning right or left without thought. Night fell over the city and the stores closed. As the rain picked up, the streets emptied. But Jamie was reluctant to go home, home to the darkness, the silence, her own thoughts … and that awful voice.
Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, she took a sharp left down a narrow, dark street she’d never seen before. Suddenly everything looked unfamiliar. Yet she almost felt, in her confusion and despair, as if her feet had led her surely to this place. But why?
One light shone up ahead, spilling a welcoming pool of yellow warmth out onto the sidewalk. The sign on the window was old and faded, the paint worn away: MYST R UM. The window was full of the strangest things: antique toys, rhinestone earrings, a feather boa and a silk top hat, cut-glass vases, a shawl with red silk thread and ten-inch fringes. They were odd, mismatched items but beautiful to an artist’s eye. Already Jamie was picturing how she could stand a vase on one end of the shawl, its fringe hanging down off the table’s edge as sunlight splintered through the glass. She could use layer upon layer of paint to create a jeweled, almost enameled effect.
Abandoning herself to her imagination, Jamie entered the store’s dim interior. Chaos reigned. Things were stacked everywhere in a topsy-turvy jumble. This store is as out of control as my loft, she thought, and almost smiled. She drew her fingers along the dusty countertops, traced the facets on a tiny vase, peered into the ancient, beveled-glass cases, gathered into her hands dry, threadbare fabrics that rustled under her touch.
“Welcome.”
Jamie spun in surprise. She searched the recesses of the store for the source of the man’s voice, but jumped nonetheless as he stepped out of the shadows. He was a tiny old man with a mane of white hair and a knowing smile. “Good evening. I’m so glad you’ve come.”
She nodded. “I bet you don’t have many customers on a night like tonight.”
“It only takes one. The right one,” the man replied, a glint in his eye.
Taken aback, Jamie quickly shook her head. “Oh, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I don’t want anything.”
“Don’t you?” He held her eyes. “Oh, I think neither of us is going to be disappointed this evening. Come over here. Look what I have for you.”
She hesitated, frowning. Living in Georgetown, she was used to meeting the occasional odd character, but she had the strangest feeling about this man—
Squaring her shoulders, she strode across the store. “What is it you’d like to show me? I really don’t need any jewelry, and I don’t collect antiques.”
“Nevertheless, these are for you.” Reaching down into the dusty case, the man drew out an old, handpainted box. The hinge squeaked as he lifted the lid. Inside were two neat, perfect rows of paints, twelve tubes all tightly capped, all waiting to be used.
Without thinking, Jamie ran a fingertip along the top row, slowly, sensually, in wonder and delight. The tubes felt warm, alive, as if transmitting some strange energy. Biting her lip, she was already imagining how it would feel to squeeze the paint onto her palette, dip in the curved sable of her brush, draw that first magical stroke across a white and empty canvas.
Suddenly she yanked her hand back. “What makes you think I’d be interested in these?”
“Aren’t you?” The old man gave a Cheshire-cat smile.
“I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. But you didn’t answer my question.”
He shrugged, lowered his eyes, and busied himself with a tray of glass beads. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps instead you’d like to browse—”
“No, I’ll take the paints,” she answered, shutting the box top with trembling fingers. “Yes, I’ll take them. How much are they?”
“One dollar.”
“What?” She laughed, caught by surprise.
“One dollar. A special for the woman who says there’s nothing she wants … because she doesn’t know what it is she needs.”
“Now wait just a minute—”
“Take them,” he interrupted imperiously, then bobbed his head up and down, becoming again just a smiling old man. “Take them. You’d be doing me a favor. Now they’re fresh and bright, but they’ll just sit here on the shelf and dry up, all their possibilities gone to waste. Certainly you can make better use of them than that.”
“Yes,” Jamie said softly, eager to hold them in her hands. “But can’t I pay you a fair price? I feel like I’m cheating you.”
“No, my dear, you are pleasing me. Think of them as being meant for you.”
He was working as he spoke, wrapping the box in brown paper, tying it with twine. He handed it to her, and again she caught that glint of mischief and mystery in his eyes.
Jamie felt her cheeks flush. Holding the package to her chest, she handed him the dollar, then hurried to the door. “Thank you,” she whispered with a quick glance back over her shoulder. “Thanks.” Then she stepped out into the rain.
One stop at the store on the corner for more candles and she was back at the loft.
Fitting the key into the lock, she pushed the door open into darkness.
“Let there be light!” she quipped, striking a match.
Around her, piles and stacks and walls full of canvases took shadowy form. She set a candle on the windowsill, one on the kitchen table, one on her night table. Then she sat down and unwrapped the package.
The box itself was old, the wood worn to a smooth, polished veneer; the painting on the lid was faded and dim. But inside, the twelve perfect tubes of paint lay fresh and shining, each wrapped in shiny white paper, foreign words labeling them in a tiny, perfect hand. She couldn’t read their message, but that didn’t matter. One twist of their tops and the paint would spill out: ocher, burnt umber, cerise, cadmium yellow, saffron, Prussian blue, lamp black, white … each one more beautiful than anything real. As beautiful as dreams and wishes.
Her heart pounding with anticipation, Jamie put a fresh canvas on the easel. She would start now, right now. She wouldn’t waste a moment, not a second. This time she’d get it right. She would.
As she opened the paints light and shadow flickered in her imagination; images she had never considered came together. Rather than planning a design, she could feel it emerging, gathering form and power, racing from her brain to her fingertips like some irrepressible impulse.
Brush in hand, she made one sure stroke. Another. Letting the paint take her, she seemed almost to
dream the form, the images of the painting she’d make. It was like entering into a trance: letting go of reality and slipping into another state, another consciousness … moving deeper and deeper toward some mysterious destination. Her hand moved of its own will. Colors appeared. Shapes blurred and shifted. The paint flowed, caressing the rough texture of the canvas. The canvas warmed, coming to life beneath the kiss of brush and paint.
And then a yawn shook her, and another right behind it. Glancing at the clock, Jamie couldn’t believe what time it was! She’d been painting for hours without stopping, almost without breathing. Suddenly she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Her eyelids were heavy; even her eyelashes felt tired. She cleaned her brushes, blew out the candles, and fell into bed. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, her sleep was free of nightmares.
The next evening, far across town, Edward Rockford stood in his bedroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Something seemed to hold him there against his will. He knew it was crazy but he had the strangest feeling that a shadow, an image, had flickered there behind his own, within his own.
“Damn.” The muttered curse escaped through clenched teeth. His jaw ached with tension. Scowling, he shook his head to clear his thoughts, but they remained as dark and brooding as they had been for months, for years. It seemed like forever.
And tonight? He did not want to be going out tonight. He didn’t think he could endure another meaningless society event, another stifling room filled with chattering people. Just thinking of it made him tug at the knot of his tie, the top button of his starched shirt. His dark eyes flashed with anger and frustration. There would be no companionship there, nothing of any substance. It would merely be another evening spent among strangers, filled with hollow laughter and shallow talk. It was driving him crazy. Crazy! He could feel his passion, his true self, stretch and circle in its cage, pace the narrow limits, strain against its confines. He could feel its claws pierce his heart, his soul.
Because of You: A Loveswept Contemporary Military Romance Page 27
