by Matt Braun
“Oh?”
“Those two aren’t through with you yet. The game has just started.”
“What game?”
“Why, the game to see who wins your favor. You’re the prize.”
Lillian sniffed. “I have no intention of being anyone’s prize.”
“We’ll see.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Lulu smiled. “Get ready for the whirlwind, sugar. It’s headed your way.”
CHAPTER 18
THE FONTAINES’ second night at the Tivoli was standing-room-only. The crowd spilled out of the theater into the barroom and onto the street. Everyone wanted to see the Colorado Nightingale.
Jake Tallant and Hank Warner were again seated at tables in the front row. Neither of them appeared in the least daunted by the unceremonious refusal of their gifts. Their eyes were glued to Lillian every moment she was onstage.
Bouquets of wildflowers from both men were delivered backstage following the show. There were cards with the flowers, the script tactfully phrased, requesting the honor of calling on Lillian. She was flattered by their perseverance but again declined the invitations. Still, she considered flowers a more appropriate gift than horses. She put them in a vase in her dressing room.
The next morning she awoke expecting some new enticement to appear at the hotel. She was oddly disappointed when nothing was delivered to the suite and no messages were left at the desk. There was something titillating about being courted by suitors who were not only handsome but also enormously wealthy. She wondered if she had offended them by her seeming lack of interest. She wondered even more why she cared.
Early that afternoon there was a knock at the door. Chester admitted a man who wore the dog collar of a minister and, in fact, introduced himself as the Reverend Buford Blackburn. He was portly, with a thatch of hair the color of a pumpkin and the ever-ready smile of a preacher. His manner indicated that he was the very soul of discretion.
Fontaine was seated in an easy chair, reading the paper. Lillian came out of her bedroom, curious as to who might be calling. Chester ushered the minister into the sitting room and performed the introductions. There was an awkward moment while everyone got themselves arranged, Fontaine and Blackburn in overstuffed chairs and Lillian and Chester on the sofa. Fontaine opened the conversation.
“Well now, Reverend, a man of God is always welcome in our humble abode. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I am here on a mission,” Blackburn ventured in an orotund voice. “One might say at the behest of Jacob Tallant and Henry Warner.”
“Indeed?” Fontaine arched an eyebrow. “I take it this has to do with my daughter.”
“Mr. Fontaine, I am the pastor of the First Methodist Church. Jake Tallant and Hank Warner are among my most loyal and devoted parishioners. They have asked me to act as their emissary.”
“In what regard?”
“A truce keeper,” Blackburn said with a small shrug. “Jake and Hank are fine, honorable men, true servants of Christ. Unfortunately, they are also the bitterest of enemies.”
“So we are told,” Fontaine allowed. “And what, precisely, is your mission with respect to Lillian?”
“These gentlemen hold your daughter in the highest esteem. They wish to call on her, and I am here to plead their case.”
“A jolly plot indeed, Reverend. Shakespeare might have written it himself.”
Blackburn smiled. “These are men of honorable intentions. In the most formal sense of the word, they wish to court your daughter.”
“I see,” Fontaine said. “Perhaps your remarks should be addressed to Lillian. She is, after all, the purpose of your mission.”
“Yes, of course.” Blackburn turned to her with a benign expression. “Miss Fontaine, let me assure you most earnestly that Mr. Tallant and Mr. Warner are sincere in their admiration of you. They wish only to be given the opportunity to call on you in person.”
Lillian felt like hugging herself. She was all the more flattered that the men had sent a minister as their emissary. Their persistence as well spoke to the matter of sincerity and a guileless, rather unaffected admiration. Yet she was still wary.
“May I be frank, Reverend?” She waited until he nodded. “I understand Mr. Tallant and Mr. Warner are involved in what’s known as a ‘range war.’ I have no interest in associating with violent men.”
“Your fears are unjustified, Miss Fontaine. The range war you speak of is being fought in a court of law. Nothing of a violent nature has occurred.”
“Everyone I’ve spoken with believes they might shoot one another on a moment’s notice. You said yourself they are the bitterest enemies.”
“And so they are,” Blackburn conceded. “But these men are good Christians, and despite their differences, neither of them has resorted to violence. I have utmost confidence they will settle the matter in a peaceful fashion.”
Lillian considered a moment. “Very well,” she said at length. “You may tell them I will be most happy to have them call on me. You might also tell them of my aversion to violent men.”
“I shall faithfully follow your wishes, Miss Fontaine.”
“How will I decide which one to see first?”
“Oh, yes, that is a problem,” Blackburn confessed. “Neither of them would want to feel slighted.”
“That’s simple enough,” Chester broke in with an amused laugh. “Draw straws for the lucky man.”
“Bully!” Blackburn exclaimed in quick agreement. “Certainly no one could object to a random draw.”
Fontaine thought the Bard would have written it as a farce. Lillian went along, even though she felt somewhat the object of a lottery. Rev. Buford Blackburn, intent on his mission, would have agreed to anything short of blasphemy. A cleaning maid provided the broom straws.
Jake Tallant, his luck running strong, won the draw.
Lillian bought a new dress for the occasion. She was a perfect size 4, and the clerk at Mendel’s Mercantile was delighted with her patronage. By now, she was something of a celebrity, and virtually every man in Pueblo knew her on sight. Her visit to the store caused a minor sensation.
The fabric of the dress was sateen, snugly fitted to complement her figure. Her black pearls against the dove gray material made the outfit all the more spectacular. Her hair was upswept and she wore a hat adorned with feathers the color of her dress. She looked stunning.
Tallant called for her at six o’clock. The plan was to have an early get-acquainted dinner and deliver her to the theater in time for the eight o’clock curtain. Fontaine and Chester greeted the rancher with cordiality and made small talk until Lillian swept into the sitting room. Her entrance, Fontaine wryly noted, was staged for maximum effect.
The restaurant Tallant chose was the finest in Pueblo. With impeccable service and an atmosphere of decorum, it was where men of influence and wealth took their wives for a night out. The tables were covered with linen, appointed with crystal and silver and the finest china. The owner greeted Tallant effusively, bowing to Lillian, and personally escorted them to their table. A waiter materialized with menus.
Lillian was charmed by all the attention. Tallant was a man of impressive bearing with a leonine head of dark hair, somewhere in his early thirties. His features were angular, set off by a sweeping mustache, and he wore a tailored charcoal suit with a patterned cravat. His manner was soft-spoken, though commanding, and he was gentlemanly in an old-world sort of way. She thought he was even more handsome up close.
Over dinner, he tried to draw her out about her life in the theater. She entertained him with a brief but amusing account of her adventures in the West. Ever so deftly, she then turned the conversation to his life and interests. He quietly explained that he was a widower and that his wife, a woman of Mexican heritage, had died of influenza just over a year ago. He had two children, a son and a daughter, ages nine and ten.
“How wonderful you had children,” Lillian said, trying for a cheerful tone. “Y
ou have something of your wife in them. I’m sure they’re adorable.”
“Yeah, they’re a pair,” Tallant said proudly. “I’d like you to meet them sometime. Maybe you could come to Sunday dinner.”
“I think that would be very nice.”
“Don’t let Hank Warner sour you on the idea. He won’t have anything good to say about me.”
“Oh?” Lillian was momentarily flustered by his directness. “You apparently know I’m having dinner with Mr. Warner tomorrow night.”
“Reverend Blackburn told me,” Tallant said with a faint smile. “He’s keeping us both informed.”
“Yes, I can understand that he would. He’s very concerned about the difficulty between you and Mr. Warner.”
“Well, that’s a long story. Not a pretty one, either.”
Lillian sensed he was dying to tell his version. She thought he’d raised Hank Warner’s name for that very reason. Tonight was his night to impress on her the justness of his cause and the strength of his character. With only a little coaxing, she got him talking. She found it a fascinating story.
All land north of the Rio Grande had been ceded to the United States following the 1846 war with Mexico. By the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the U.S. government agreed to respect the holdings of Mexican landowners. Yet the title to all property in the ceded zone had evolved from ancient land grants; the issue of who owned what was clouded by a convoluted maze of documents. To compound the problem, many of the grants overlapped one another.
Nowhere was the issue more confused than in Southern Colorado. Some Mexican landowners claimed that their holdings spilled over the New Mexico line into the southern reaches of the Rockies. At various times, land grants had been awarded by the king of Spain, the Republic of Mexico, and provincial governors who haphazardly drew a line on a map. Ownership was often nine points physical possession and one point law. For generations, the force to back the claim overrode legal technicalities.
“Maria, my wife, was the last of her line,” Tallant explained. “The land had been in her family for over a hundred years, and when we were married, it became our land. No one disputed that until Warner filed his lawsuit.”
“Good heavens,” Lillian sympathized. “Are you saying his lawsuit is frivolous?”
“Well, he contends that the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo didn’t cover land grants in Colorado. Nobody ever questioned it before, so why now? He’s just greedy, that’s all.”
“Does he have any chance of winning?”
“Not according to my lawyers,” Tallant said. “They think he’s plumb loco.”
“And if they’re wrong?” Lillian asked “What would you do then?”
“I won’t be thrown off the land my wife’s ancestors worked to build. Not by some scoundrel like Hank Warner.”
“Yes, that would be terrible.”
Lillian felt sorry for him. From what she’d just heard, there was every reason for bad blood between the two men. She halfway hoped Warner wouldn’t appear at the theater for tonight’s performance. But that was wishful thinking.
She knew he would be seated front and center.
Lillian was prepared to dislike Henry Warner. All she’d heard last night led her to believe he was an out-and-out rogue. But to her surprise, he was a very engaging rogue.
Warner was lithe and muscular, with sandy hair and a neatly groomed mustache. He was so personable that he charmed her father and Chester in a matter of moments. His magnetism all but took her breath.
They went to the restaurant where she’d dined last night. The owner was equally effusive in his greeting of Warner and made a production of escorting them to their table. The waiter was the same as last night, and he gave Lillian a conspiratorial smile. She hardly knew what to think.
Warner took charge. He ordered braised squab with wild rice for both of them. Then he selected a delicate white wine with a marvelous bouquet. When they clinked glasses, Lillian only sipped, but the taste was like some heady nectar. His vivid blue eyes pinned her like a butterfly to a board.
“Before anything else,” he said in a deep voice, “I want to say you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I intend to marry you.”
Lillian was aghast. “Mr. Warner, you’re frightening me.”
“Call me Hank,” he said jovially. “And no, Lillian—you prefer that to Lilly, don’t you?—no, Lillian, I’m not frightening you. Am I?”
“How did you know I prefer Lillian?”
“Nate Varnum told me everything about you. I think he’s in love with you himself.”
“I somehow doubt that,” Lillian said. “Do you always sweep the ladies off their feet?”
Warner chuckled, a low rumble. “As they say, the race goes to the swiftest. Jake Tallant probably convinced you I’m an immoral bounder.” He paused, looking deep into her eyes. “Get to know me and you’ll know better. I never toy with a lady’s affections—especially yours.”
Lillian tried to deflect his onslaught. “What Mr. Tallant and I discussed was your lawsuit. He is very disturbed you’re attempting to take his ranch.”
The remark seemed to amuse Warner. He wagged his head with a satiric smile. “Did Jake tell you about his wife?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. He said the land had been in her family for generations.”
“Did he tell you that I was in love with her, too?”
“No.” Lillian was visibly startled. “You were in love with another man’s wife?”
“A long time ago.” Warner hesitated, sipping his wine. “Jake and me were both courting Maria back in ’61. Her folks were still alive then. Best people you’d ever hope to meet.”
“And she married Mr. Tallant … Jake.”
“Well, don’t you see, I wasn’t the lighthearted rascal that I am now. Jake beat me out.”
Lillian suddenly realized it was all an act. Beneath the glib manner, there was nothing lighthearted about Henry Warner. She felt an outrush of sympathy.
“And having lost Maria, you never married?”
“Never saw her match,” Warner said with a debonair grin. “Leastways, not till the night I saw you. I’m liable to propose any moment now.”
The waiter appeared with a serving tray. He set their plates before them, succulent squab on beds of brown rice. Their conversation momentarily dwindled off as they took cutlery in hand and began dissecting the plump birds. Lillian savored her first bite.
“It’s wonderful!” she marveled. “I’ve never had squab before.”
“Stick with me and I’ll show you a whole new world. How’d you like to go to Paris on our honeymoon?”
“I do believe you’re an incorrigible flirt.”
“A gentleman never lies,” Warner said with a contagious smile. “You’re the girl for me and no two ways about. I’m plumb smitten.”
Lillian was silent for a moment. “May I ask you a personal question?”
“Darlin’, for you, I’m an open book.”
“Why did you wait until Maria died to sue Jake Tallant?”
Warner stopped eating. “You’re a regular little firecracker. Don’t miss much, do you?”
“I don’t mean to pry,” Lillian said with guileful innocence. “I was just curious.”
“Well, what with you and me practically at the altar, I’ve got no secrets. I waited because I’d never have done anything to hurt Maria.”
“What does that have to do with Jake’s ranch?”
“Couple of things,” Warner said, more serious now. “For openers, the river corkscrews all through our boundary lines. We’ve been fightin’ over water rights for years.”
Lillian looked at him. “But that isn’t the main issue … is it?”
“No, it’s not. There’s an old Spanish land grant handed down through Maria. Did Jake tell you about it?”
“Yes, last night.”
“Thing is, it’ll never stand up in court. Jake knows it and I know it. He’s just burned I opened his can of worms.”
/>
“Do you really want his ranch that badly?”
Warner grinned. “I don’t want his ranch at all. I’ve got enough land of my own.”
“I—” Lillian was shocked. “Why have you sued him, then?”
“Take a guess.”
“Maria?”
“None other,” Warner acknowledged. “Jake stole her away from me. Laughed about it for ten years to anybody that’d listen. I figure to have the last laugh.”
Lillian thought she had never heard of anything so vindictive. But then, on second thought, she knew she’d heard a deeper truth. Henry Warner was a victim of the most powerful emotion imaginable. He had lived with a broken heart until the day Maria Tallant died. She felt his sorrow beneath the veneer of devil-may-care nonchalance.
“Do you still love her … even now?”
“No, ma’am,” Warner said with a bold smile. “You are the light of my life. I hear the wedding bells ringing!”
Lillian wondered if he saw in her the ghost of a dead woman. She hoped not.
CHAPTER 19
LILLIAN’S DRESSING room was scarcely more than a cubicle. She was stripped to her chemise, seated before a tiny mirror lighted by small coal-oil lamps. She began applying kohl to her eyelids.
Following dinner, Hank Warner had dropped her off at the stage-door entrance. Her first number was usually around eight-thirty, after the juggler, the fire-eater, and a comic who told risqué jokes. That gave her an hour or so to finish her makeup.
Decent women never wore makeup in public. Lillian wished social conventions were different; she thought pinching one’s cheeks to give them color was prudish and outmoded. She liked the way kohl enhanced her eyes and how nicely rouge accentuated her features. Still, she had to limit herself to nightly appearances onstage. Only prostitutes wore makeup on the street.
There was a light rap at the door. She slipped into a smock she’d bought to cover herself backstage. She was proud of her figure but cautious around stagehands and male performers of any variety. Her mother had taught her that a girl’s physical assets, if kept a mystery, were all the more a temptation. She tightened the belt on the smock. “Come in!” she called out. “I’m decent.”
