Painted by the Sun

by Elizabeth Grayson

  Once Owen had gathered up his belongings, Shea discovered she didn't like being by herself. She missed the rumble of someone moving about, the security of having another soul to turn to if she was lonely. The hours dragged. She slept fitfully, but didn't let on. The change in Owen, the calmness in him, the new steadiness of his hands, was worth her small discomforts.

  Shea glanced across the darkroom at Owen, then picked up the stack of prints to be hand-tinted. "I'll just go and get started on these," she told him and took them to the desk in the entry hall.

  She had finished seven of the prints from the stack and was beginning the eighth when Cam came by for Rand almost an hour later.

  "You're hard at work," he observed, pulling a chair up to the far side of the desk. He always managed to spend a bit of time with her when he came for Rand at the end of the day, and Shea had taken to straightening her skirts and repinning her hair in anticipation of his arrival.

  Things had changed between them since that day in his office. Their friendship had ripened, deepened in ways Shea wasn't sure she could explain. They'd revealed not just secrets, but parts of themselves they'd never shared with anyone else. It had made them each more aware of the other, more attuned somehow.

  "I am hard at work," Shea answered him, gesturing to the prints stacked up beside her. "I've enough work here to keep me busy until dawn. I'm not complaining, mind you, but I really don't know how we're going to keep up with the printing and the coloring and the framing, with the number of sittings we have scheduled before Christmas."

  "Is there anything Lily could do to help?"

  "Lily?" she asked, looking up from the gilt buttons she'd been painting onto one of the prints. "Is Lily lacking for things to keep her occupied out at the farm?"

  Cam shrugged. "She's been doing her Christmas baking, but it looks to me like she's already made enough fruitcakes to provision every man, woman, and child in Denver." A conspiratorial smile curled beneath the silky droop of his mustache. "Though she'll never admit it, I think she misses coming to town."

  Shea warmed with pleasure, both at the news and at the way Cam 's gaze lingered on her. The way a twinkle sparked up in those deep blue eyes. The way he seemed to be looking directly at her mouth.

  Shea licked her lips, then realized what she'd done and flushed to the hairline.

  Cam seemed highly amused by her maidenly blushes.

  "Does—does Lily really miss coming here?" she asked, sitting back in her chair. "Would she come in and help if I asked her?"

  "She volunteered the last time," Cam pointed out.

  "Then I'll write her a note."

  "Good," Cam said with a nod of satisfaction. "Good."

  Shea was just signing her name to the request for help, when Rand came thundering up the stairs and burst into the studio.

  Shea's heart swelled at the flushed, rumpled sight of her son, and it was all she could do to keep from going to him, admonishing him to button up his coat against the cold, and smoothing down his windblown hair.

  "Look at this!" he exclaimed as he charged toward them. He held up a flat copper disk. "Ty showed me how to put pennies on the train tracks so they'd get squashed flat!"

  "You weren't playing on the tracks, were you?" both Cam and Shea gasped simultaneously. They glanced at each other and burst out laughing.

  "You sound like my mother!" Rand complained, turning to Shea as if she had no right to correct him.

  But the boy's half-teasing words ripped into Shea like talons.

  The truth leaped into her throat. I am your mother! she longed to shout.

  Shea swallowed the truth, though the words burned all the way down. "You think I sound like your mother?" Shea managed to murmur. "Imagine that!"

  Cam had turned his attention to Rand. "Now, what's this I hear about you playing on the railroad tracks?"

  "We were careful," Rand cajoled.

  Shea knew no child was ever careful enough.

  "I know you like spending time with Ty," Cameron went on, his voice low and deliberate, "but Ty isn't always as careful as he could be. That's why I need to be able to count on you to be the responsible one when you're with him."

  Even as rattled as she was by what had gone on moments before, Shea noticed the way Cam talked to the boy, the way he spoke of his confidence in Rand's good judgment instead of admonishing him for his mistakes. Would she have been able to speak to him as patiently as Cam did if she knew Rand had put himself in danger?

  This was Cameron at his best, as a man and as a father. This was the calm, reasonable soul everyone turned to and counted on—even her. She saw how his eyes warmed as he talked to the boy, saw how he curled his fingers around Rand's shoulder, drawing him closer to show him how precious he was, even as Cam was correcting him.

  Her chest constricted as she realized how precious Cam himself had become to her. How she'd begun to listen for his tread on the stairs, how he could warm her with a look or a word. How much time she spent when she was alone remembering what it had been like to kiss him.

  She found herself watching him as he spoke, watching his mouth form the words and knowing the tart, fresh taste of him. Seeing the breadth of those shoulders and that chest, and knowing what it was like to lean into him. Remembering the surge of desire that had rushed between them.

  She hastily lowered her eyes to her work. It was ridiculous for her to be thinking about such things, especially when there had been nothing between them since that night in the kitchen but a little harmless flirtation.

  "...so I expect you to look out for Ty as well as yourself," Cam was saying. "Do you understand me, Rand?"

  "Yes, sir," the boy answered, then held up the flattened penny again. "But isn't this amazing, even if I'm not supposed to make one again?"

  Cam shook his head. "I suppose it is. But maybe we'd better not mention the penny and playing in the train yard to your aunt Lily. You know how she is."

  "Won't Aunt Lily have supper ready soon?" the boy asked, his thoughts jumping to more practical matters. "I'm so hungry I could eat a horse!"

  "I'll have to warn Jasper," Cam answered drolly, adjusting his hat.

  Shea handed the note across to him. "Encourage Lily to come," she admonished him.

  "Oh, I will," he promised. "I'll do my best to get her here in the morning."

  * * *

  Shea was whisking the night's dusting of snow off the steps the following morning when Cameron and Lily pulled up in the carriage.

  "Lovely day, Mrs. Waterston," Cam called out, flashing a smile at her again as he rounded the carriage to help his sister alight.

  Shea couldn't seem to help the warm rush of exhilaration that tumbled through her as she smiled back. "And good morning to you, Judge Gallimore."

  Cam looked especially fine today in his tan, leather-collared duster and flat-crowned hat, more like a cowboy than a judge, more rough-hewn and compelling than usual. He flustered her a little and made her glad she'd taken special care with her hair and dress this morning. Once he'd helped Lily down, he waved and climbed back into the carriage. Somehow Shea couldn't help watching him down the street.

  Lily was just starting up the stairs when someone called out to her.

  "Miss Gallimore?" Mr. Nicholson, who owned the hardware store next door, came rushing up the alley. "Is that you, Miss Gallimore?"

  Lily paused, easing ever so slightly back toward the wall of the building as Nicholson approached. "Yes?" she answered. Shea started protectively down the steps.

  "It's me, Miss Gallimore," the man said, stopping at the bottom and tugging off his hat. "It's Abe Nicholson. I don't want to trouble you, ma'am. I just wanted to say how much the flowers and the note you sent when we lost our Amy meant to the wife and me. Yellow roses were always Amy's favorites."

  Lily stared at Nicholson, and at first Shea thought she wasn't going to reply. Then she bent and hesitantly pressed her slim, gloved fingers to where his hand lay against the banister. "I'd just read in the newspaper
about Amy winning that prize at school, so I could barely believe it when Dr. Farley told me about you losing her."

  "Yes, ma'am. Amy was the light of our lives all right." Nicholson's voice wavered a little as he spoke. "Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for your thoughtfulness."

  "I—I'm glad the roses were a comfort."

  With that, Nicholson turned back to his work, and Lily hastened up the stairs to the landing. Shea saw how unsettled she was as she brushed past, and followed her inside.

  "Did Mr. Nicholson upset you, Lily?" she asked.

  "No!" Lily denied hotly, hurriedly unpinning and tugging off her hat. She stood for a moment stroking the thick black veil. "I—I guess I didn't think anyone would know me in this."

  Shea stepped closer and slid an arm around the taller woman's waist. "That veil hides your face, Lily," she offered gently. "It doesn't make you invisible. Besides, you knew who Mr. Nicholson was."

  "I had read about Amy in the newspapers, and when Emmet told me she'd died, I..." A flush came up in Lily's cheeks. "Sending a note and a few of my roses seemed the least I could do."

  "You keep up with lots of people here in Denver through newspapers, don't you?" Shea asked softly.

  "And through Emmet and Cam."

  Shea nodded thoughtfully. "And are those folks real to you, Lily, even though you've never set eyes on them?"

  "Of course they're real."

  "And you send those real folks notes and flowers and crocks of soup," Shea went on drawing Lily closer. "You knit their children booties and remember the old people at Christmas. Isn't that right?"

  "Yes, Shea, I do. What is it you're getting at?"

  "I think you need to realize that with sending those notes and gifts you've made yourself real to them, too. They're grateful for what you've done—and they're curious."

  "You mean they all know who I am?" Shea heard the distress in Lily's voice, and the dawning of wonder.

  "You've been as good a neighbor to these people here as anyone could, and I think all they want is to be neighborly back."

  Shea could see that the idea had shaken Lily's perception of herself, see it in the way she dipped her head and pursed her lips. Shea pressed her cheek to Lily's unblemished one and gave her an affectionate little squeeze. Then she deliberately went on about her work, giving Lily time to think things through.

  A few minutes later, when Shea looked from the print she was coloring, she saw that Lily had joined her.

  "I can't imagine what I can do," Lily said. "I don't know the first thing about photography."

  "You learned watercolor painting when you were in school, didn't you?" When Lily said she had, Shea continued. "Then you can do this. Just let me show you what I need."

  In preparation for Lily's arrival, Shea had set up a table in the bedroom and laid out her retouching pencils and brushes and paints. In a few minutes of instruction, she showed Lily how to selectively and delicately add color to the photographs. She stood over her as Lily tried her hand at her first print. It was nearly done when people began to arrive in the entry.

  "That must be Mrs. Fenwick and her girls come for their sitting," Shea told her and turned toward the door. "Just keep working. I've made notations on the back of the prints if there are certain colors you should use."

  "You'll come and see that I'm doing this right, won't you?" Lily asked, still sounding uncertain.

  "You'll be fine," Shea assured her and bustled out to greet the Fenwicks.

  It was almost noon when Shea got back to the front room, and by then Lily had tinted an entire bed full of photographs.

  "It wasn't all that difficult once I got the hang of it," she confided.

  Lily had a good eye. The results of her hand-coloring were subtle and flattering to the sitters. "You're doing nearly as well as photographers who've been hand-retouching prints for years," Shea told her, then settled on the corner of the bed and began to fit the finished photographs into their pressboard frames. "Owen will have another stack of prints ready this afternoon, if you're willing to tackle them."

  "Oh, I imagine I can give it a try," Lily said.

  As Shea worked, Lily turned to her. "Shea..."

  Something in the tone of Lily's voice made Shea look up.

  "You've done such a wonderful job photographing everyone, especially the women..." Lily hesitated. "...that—that I was wondering how you managed to make even the matrons look so lovely."

  "Well," Shea began, "some of it is the light. Part of it is posing a person properly to show her at her best, and putting her at ease in front of the camera."

  "I see," Lily murmured, staring down at her watercolor-speckled fingers.

  Shea reached across to her. "Lily? Is there something you wanted?"

  Lily raised her head; her eyes were brimming with uncertainty. "I—I wondered if you could take my photograph. I wondered if you could show me at my best."

  Shea shifted closer and let her practiced gaze run over Lily's face. "We can pose you so the scars are away from the camera," she answered. "But they'd still show here at your brow." She feathered the tips of her fingers over Lily's withered flesh, pleased when she didn't pull away. "And here at the corner of your mouth."

  "You can't make me look the way I did when I was sixteen?" Shea could hear the heartbreak in Lily's voice, the yearning to turn back time.

  Shea closed her hands around Lily's fingers, holding them firmly in her own. "Photography may bend the truth, but it can't lie," she offered very softly. "I can use my skills to show you in the most flattering way, but no photographer can change what's there."

  "I'd just—hoped," Lily said on a soul-deep sigh.

  "I can make an exposure this afternoon," Shea suggested, "and then we'll see—"

  "No," Lily said, withdrawing her hands from Shea's. "No, it was just a thought. Nothing for you to be concerned about."

  But Shea was concerned. Lily was on Shea's mind when she climbed into bed hours later. She couldn't help but think Lily's questions about taking a photograph were a good thing, just as her coming into town had been, just as her interest in the other residents of Denver obviously was. She was reaching, exploring, trying to find a new place for herself.

  What else could Shea do to encourage Lily, to open the world to her a little at a time? she wondered as she nestled into her pillows. Perhaps she could ask Lily to accompany her to the freight office to pick up her supplies. Perhaps she could encourage Lily to attend the Christmas program at Rand's school. She closed her eyes. Emmet would be so pleased when he heard about this.

  Shea didn't know how long she'd been asleep. She didn't know what it was that awakened her. All she knew was that she came to consciousness with her heart thudding in her ears and an undefinable menace pressing down on her.

  She lay utterly still, straining to catch the slightest sound, her ears ringing with the effort. The embers glowing in the stove gave off just enough light to assure her that she was alone in the room. But just beyond the half-open door, the entry hall lay black as the bottom of a pit. Prickles danced across her skin.

  If only Owen were here, Shea found herself thinking, knowing Owen would be no help at all.

  As the wind gusted up the alley, the door at the top of the stairs seemed to rattle. She hadn't ever noticed it did that. She hadn't noticed that the sign beneath her window creaked, or that she could hear train whistles from over near the river.

  The door to the studio rattled again, louder this time. Almost as if someone was trying it. Shea froze, the air trapped in her lungs and her heart thundering. Then, with a muffled curse, she rustled her way out of bed. Her bare toes curled when her feet hit the icy floor, and she scampered toward the corner where she'd kept her rifle.

  Her fingers closed around the stock. She ratcheted a round into the chamber. Feeling better with the gun in her hands, she crept out into the entry hall. Her gaze swept the room and the studio beyond it. The brightness of the winter sky shone through the skylight. Snow was dusting d
own in huge feathery flakes.

  The door rattled again. She thought she heard the handle turn. A wave of malevolence broke over her.

  She wheeled toward the sound, pointing her rifle, ready to fire. Her nerves sang with tension. Her heart battered around inside her chest. She stood there waiting, waiting. Waiting.

  She stood there for a very long time, her eyes trained on the stout wooden panel. She heard the wind moaning up the alley and faraway laughter from up the street. Her muscles quivered with tension.

  At last she lowered the rifle and went to press her ear to the door. She couldn't hear anything. The sense of malevolence had faded a little. She should open the door to make sure there was no one outside, but she couldn't bring herself to do that.

  Shea crept back into the bedroom and set the rifle where she could reach it. She crawled into bed and pulled the covers up around her ears. It was then the shivers took her, shivers of cold and reaction and relief. She'd only imagined that someone was there, she told herself. She was foolish to get so wrought up over nothing. Still, it was almost dawn when she finally drifted off to sleep.

  She awoke not much more than an hour later, tired and out of sorts, carrying the weight of her sleeplessness around with her. She got up and stoked the fires. She washed and dressed. She put the kettle on to boil.

  Just before seven o'clock she went out to sweep the steps and found footprints on the landing. They were big and deep, stamped into the freshly fallen snow. A chill of fear slid down Shea's back.

  Chapter 11

  Could anyone have a happy Christmas in such a place? Shea wondered as she rapped on the battered, gap-toothed door of Ty and his father's little cabin. For as much as Ty had been avoiding the studio, avoiding her, Shea hadn't been able to let the holiday pass without seeing him. She wanted to be sure Ty had a gift to mark the day, and she couldn't convince herself that Sam Morran would even remember it was Christmas. So here she stood shivering on their doorstep, hoping Ty was alone inside the cabin.