Paint the Hills Red

by Ron Schwab

  “What is it?”

  “She loves the artist! She loves you, and you love her and the little girl. Why, of course, she’s your child. And the woman must be your wife.” She looked at him, her eyes wide with astonishment. “I didn’t know you—”

  “The woman’s name was Larisa. And the little girl was Emily. I lost them four years ago. Diphtheria took Emily. The doctor thought Larisa died of the same thing. But I thought it was a broken heart. She didn’t have the will or strength to fight back like some might.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open old wounds.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve come to terms with it. . . . As much as you ever can, anyway. They’re a part of happy memories, but I try not to dwell on them, and I’ve learned not to live in the past.”

  They moved on, Dan caught unaware by the sensitivity and perceptiveness that had surfaced in Megan Grant. She was indeed a more complex woman than he had initially thought. She may have gleaned a great deal about his life from her study of Larisa’s portrait, but he had learned much from her reaction to it.

  “I’m curious about this one,” Megan said, leading him to one of the few nudes. “I haven’t decided if I like it, but it interests me.”

  Oh, God, she had picked Angela’s portrait. He considered it one of his better works for mood and detail, but he knew its commercial market lay more in a Western saloon than in an Eastern gallery. He felt awkward standing in front of the provocative nude with this young woman who was not so many years beyond girlhood.

  Unlike the portrait of Larisa and Emily, this one, he supposed, he would part with one day. But staring at it now, he called up fond memories of the delightful woman portrayed there. She looked back at him now, the lewd playful gleam in her ocean-blue eyes and knowing smile on her slightly parted lips. Raised up on one elbow, she rested her head with catlike laziness against her hand, patiently enticing her prey to move closer and within her grasp. Her rust red hair shone brightly against the green satin bedspread, and her milk-white skin enhanced the other colors, evoking a sense of bright color contrasts not often found in portraits. Her perfect sculptured breasts detailed to the tiny red scar above one nipple; the sweeping, provocative curves of her hips and thighs; the slender, tawny legs, one lifted discreetly to partially shield the matching foliage between her thighs. But any man would know what lay there. And even though, through familiarity, he should have been immune to Angela’s charms, she cast a spell upon him even now.

  They were silent for some moments, and Dan was reluctant to speak first. Megan appeared mesmerized by what she saw on the huge canvass, but this time he could not tell what she was thinking, whether she liked it or was repulsed by it. Certainly she was not bored.

  “I used to see a picture of a naked lady in the saloon in Medicine Hill when I’d go to get Sol and my dad after I finished shopping. She wasn’t anything like this. She was heavier and larger. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I think so. Sometimes we call it Rubenesque.”

  “Yes, I’ve read of Rubens,” Megan said. “But the painting in the saloon was so different. There was no detail, no individuality in the woman. She could have been anybody. Her eyes, for instance, they were just brown almonds: you didn’t know if they were laughing or sad or angry.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, that painting never really bothered me because I could never see the woman as anyone in particular. But this woman is different. She’s a real person. Somebody you knew. And you didn’t paint her from your imagination or a picture in a book, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Is she a . . . harlot?”

  “I suppose that’s what some people would call her, but I always thought of Angela as a companion and friend. She was a very dear friend of mine during a very difficult time.”

  “I see . . . or I’m trying to.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  “I don’t know why, but I like her. But I don’t know if I like the painting.”

  “Why not? Is it the nakedness that bothers you?”

  “Yes . . . yes, I suppose that’s it. I don’t feel comfortable with it, and still I don’t find it vulgar.”

  “I hope not. It wasn’t intended to be.”

  “I guess what I think doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m interested in what you think.”

  “Well, I really don’t know what I think. When I decide, I’ll tell you.”

  “Good. At least I can be confident you won’t spare me.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “I guess I haven’t so far, have I?”

  She could laugh at herself. He liked that in a person. At least their relationship had prospects of turning civil. She turned away from the painting.

  “Let’s move on,” she said. “I have a feeling Angela’s laughing at me.”

  “She’s probably laughing at herself,” Dan said. “That was more like Angela.”

  As they finished meandering through the paintings, Megan said, “How can you paint here? It’s so crowded. And the house is so dingy. Don’t you need more light?”

  “Yes, that’s why you found me in the yard after I was shot. And that’s why I have to ignore some of the other ranch chores for now. I want to build a studio onto the house, one with more window space for natural light. It’s important that I get it done before the weather turns cold again. Then maybe I can make this part of the house more livable.”

  “We can probably spare some hands for a spell after roundup.”

  “That would help a lot for the heavy work. I plan to ride into Medicine Hill to find a carpenter to direct things. I have the plans sketched out, and I’ve already talked to the man at the saw mill about the lumber.”

  “It sounds like you are here to stay, Mr. McClure. I’m afraid I didn’t take you seriously at first.” She walked to the window and peeked out again. “The rain’s let up. I’d better start for home.”

  “But it’s still heavy,” he protested. “Maybe you should wait. You could get mired down in the mud someplace or get caught in a flash flood.”

  “I’ll steer clear of the creek, Mr. McClure, and I know this country. I’ll stay away from the mud holes.”

  “Don’t take me wrong, Miss Grant, but you could stay the night if you need to. We could improvise suitable accommodations.”

  “No. Sol will be worried sick if I don’t show up by nightfall. He’d have to ride over and be sure I was all right. At his age, I don’t like to see him out in this kind of weather.”

  “He’s more than just a foreman to you, isn’t he?”

  “I can’t remember when Sol wasn’t a part of my life. It was always like I had two fathers.”

  “He’s an interesting man. I’d like to paint him. Do you think I could convince him to sit for a portrait?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s not much good at sitting still for anything. If you really want to, you’d better let me persuade him. I usually get my own way.”

  “I want to, and I’d appreciate your help, Miss Grant.”

  “You’ve got it, but I want the first option to buy the painting. And Mr. McClure, if you prefer, you may call me Megan.”

  “If you’ll call me Dan.”

  “It’s a deal, Dan. And now, I really must go. Do you need your dressings changed before I leave?”

  “No, I can take care of it when I need to. And besides I’m on my own now, remember?” He hesitated. “Megan, there is something else I would like to ask.”

  “What is it?”

  “Would you consider sitting for a portrait?”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “I’m always looking for new Western subjects, and I see you as very Western.”

  “What kind of portrait?” she asked suspiciously.

  He blushed slightly when he caught the innuendo in her voice. “A respectable portrait. Probably wearing what you’re wearing right now.”

  “I do own a few dresses.”

  “
That’s not what I want for this portrait. Would you consider it?”

  “Not now. I’m still not too sure about you or your painting business. I don’t feel comfortable with the idea. Perhaps I’m afraid of what you might see in me. I’ll work on Sol for you. Then we’ll see about me.”

  “Then you’re not saying no.”

  “I’m not saying yes, either.” She reached for the saddlebags that were draped over the chair and pulled out an old army poncho. She slipped her head through the hole in the cloak, donned her hat and slung the saddle bags over her arm.

  “Megan, I have a suggestion,” Dan said. “Why don’t you leave your buckboard and team here and take one of my horses. You’ll get home faster and you won’t have to worry about the mud.”

  “I was going to ask you about that,” she said. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

  “Take the bald-faced gelding. He’s a strong horse.”

  “All right.” She headed toward the door and then stopped, turning and facing him. “Thanks for showing me your paintings, Dan. I’m glad it rained.”

  “Me too, and I hope we can be friends.”

  She nodded agreement, whirled and went out the door.

  He followed her out to the porch and stood there watching after her as she sloshed across the ranch yard toward the barn. He waited until she emerged from the barn astride the gray bald-face. She reined the horse toward the house, lifted her hand in farewell as she approached, tugged her hat over her forehead, and headed the horse at a gallop into the driving rain.

  7

  MEGAN DID NOT see the shadowy form of the rider as he slipped out of the cedar grove and fell in behind her. Her sure-footed gelding picked its way up the narrow trail that snaked up the slope and led over the rocky ridge that formed a natural boundary line between much of the west side of Dan McClure’s sections and the Bar G ranch. The trail was easy to negotiate under normal conditions, but tonight it was muddy and slippery and a misstep could send horse and rider plummeting down the hillside: an almost certain broken leg for the horse, probably worse for the rider if she did not fall clear.

  Megan squinted her eyes against the rain that pummeled her face and shivered as the water-drenched garments that clung to her skin began to soak a chill into her bones. She should have stayed the night at Dan McClure’s, and the thought that they could be sharing the warmth of an ash fire right now made her curse her foolishness for venturing into the storm.

  No sooner had she left Dan’s house than the rain had erupted again in torrents, and between fighting the mud and the wind and the thunder-skittishness of the bald-face, she had progressed toward home at a snail’s pace. It would be nearly sundown if she could see the sun, and the darkness made her ride gloomier as well as more treacherous. She struggled to concentrate on the long, nearly invisible trail ahead of her, but her thoughts kept turning to Dan McClure. Until this afternoon, she had been dubious about his work and had looked somewhat contemptuously upon a man who would waste his energy on such an impractical pursuit. There was so little tangible to what he did, and the men she had been surrounded by all her life were physical men. She had judged a man’s worth on how fast he drew a gun and his accuracy with his rifle, how well he could rope a calf, how many hours he could sit in a saddle. Their goals were sensible ones: roping more cattle, upgrading the quality of the horse herd, and buying more acres. Dan McClure did not fit that mold, and she had been wary of him because of it.

  She was not certain what to think of him now, but she saw him in a different light, for the paintings and the peculiar reverence with which he had talked about them left her confounded. As she had studied his paintings with more than a causal eye, she felt as she moved from one to another that she was stripping him naked piece by piece, seeing more of Dan McClure than she wanted to see of any man, learning more about the people and things that had shaped his life than she wanted to know.

  She knew little about art and was helpless to explain why the paintings at the McClure house had come alive for her, told their story so explicitly and overpowered her emotionally with their impact. She did not have the education or the insight to react that way, she told herself. Yes, she knew Dan McClure now, better than many women might know a man in a lifetime of living with him. This intimate knowledge of him, at once attracted her and repelled her, comforted and frightened her.

  As the gelding approached the crest of the hill, she nudged him forward, and as they climbed onto the solid footing of the rocky ridge, a bolt of lightning flashed and illuminated the hills for a paralyzing instant. The horse reared, and as Megan yanked at the reins to bring him under control, she caught a glimpse of the rider not more than fifty feet down the trail. The sombrero. The white stallion. It was one of Dunkirk’s men. The one they called the Pistolero.

  Reflexively, she grabbed for her rifle before she remembered she had borrowed Dan’s saddle and had left the Winchester under the seat of the buckboard. A damn greenhorn stunt. She wheeled the horse to her right when the rider’s pistol cracked and drove a bullet into the gelding’s neck. The horse stumbled to its knees and pitched her over its head, and she somersaulted helplessly over the ridge before slamming back-down on the rain-slicked slope. Winded, she tried to get up, but her feet slipped out from under her and she vaulted forward again, first rolling and then sliding down the incline past the gunman who leveled two hurried shots at her as she tumbled by.

  The base of a sturdy ponderosa stopped her downward slide abruptly, and she lay there sprawled against the tree for a moment, dazed and hurting before she looked back up the slope. The rider had ascended the ridge and dismounted. Her instinct was to get up and run, but she froze when she realized that he could not see her through the curtain of rain and pine.

  The pistolero—Mendosa, she thought his name was—paced the ridge, his gray silhouette blurry against an almost equally gray sky, like a sentry walking his post on the parapet of a fort. A silent spider web of lightning suddenly lit up the sky again, and he spotted her. His holstered six-gun sprung into his hand. She dodged away just as the bullet thudded against the tree, spitting wood. She dived behind the tree then surrendered to the slippery footing, continuing her downhill journey, riding the steep, rugged slope like a log down a sluice. Finally, as the incline tapered off, she struggled to her feet and paused to catch her breath. She had been too close to the Pistolero. He would know that she had recognized him, and he would not abandon the hunt. He would be working his way down the trail now, knowing she could not scale the greasy slope, confident she would have to stay with the low country. She was on Dan McClure’s side of the ridge. She had only to make it to Dan’s place not more than a mile away, but a long, and painstakingly slow mile.

  She nearly made it to Dan’s house when she spied the rider again. He had outsmarted her, guessing where she would be headed, and he was now positioned at one corner of the corral, perhaps one hundred feet from the front porch of the house. He had a rifle cradled in his arms now and was waiting. She could make it very easy for him if she would oblige and make a dash for Dan’s door. He would bring her down with a single shot and when Dan opened the door to check out the commotion, the Pistolero would finish the job he had probably botched last time.

  There was no way she could reach the house undetected, and the Pistolero had her scent now. There was not a chance he would ride away without making a move. If she tried to wait him out, he would eventually approach the house, perhaps murder Dan. No, one way or another, she would have to bring the pot to a boil.

  She crouched down, surveying the scene before her. She dropped to her belly and began to worm her way through the ponderosa break that sheltered the north and west approach to the ranch buildings. She stopped at the edge of the clearing and studied the terrain again. She had a perfect sighting on Mendosa leaning against the corral fence not more than a hundred feet southeast. If she had her Winchester, rain or no rain, she could bring him down with a single shot. But she did not have it.

  The house was abo
ut fifty feet due east from where she lay, and it fronted to the south where its only windows were set. She could not get to the house without revealing herself to Mendosa.

  What if she called out? Would Dan hear her? With the hammering of the rain against the house, it seemed unlikely. If she could lure the gunman away somehow and then circle around and make a dash for the house. Yes, that was her best bet, her only bet if she was not going to run out on Dan McClure, and she had already decided she was not.

  She lifted herself up slowly from the ground and inched in behind the thick ponderosa so she was at least partially hidden from Mendosa. She stood there shivering, colder than she could remember even in the depths of a Pine Ridge winter. Her clothes were soupy wet and her arms and the front of her poncho slimy with mud. A wave of nausea swept over her and she knew her strength was ebbing.

  “Mendosa!” she called. “I’m over here.” She peeked around the tree trunk and saw his head jerk upright, probing the air like a bird dog trying to pick up the scent. He had heard her, but he did not see her. “I’ve got a bead on you, Mendosa. Drop your gun!” she said, knowing even as she said it that her ruse was doomed to failure.

  He swung toward her, his rifle poised in steady hands, and she knew that he had her position in focus. He took several tentative steps in her direction and then stopped, watching and waiting.

  She whirled and broke for the timber, clambering for higher, rockier ground, hoping that the gunman’s greater bulk would make him less sure-footed. She slipped and tumbled to her knees, and as she caught her breath, she glanced back over her shoulder. The big man had narrowed the gap between them. It would take a miracle for her to escape him now. But she raised herself up and lurched forward, digging her booted heels into the mushy earth as she angled up the rise. Searing pain shot through her chest with each breath, and her temples throbbed until she thought her head would burst. She weaved through the maze of ponderosa, crashing against an unyielding tree trunk, pushing away and staggering on. She hesitated as she maneuvered around a sandstone outcropping that blocked her path, and it was then that her ears caught the sucking of the mud behind her, and she could sense that he was charging like a grizzly for its kill. Even before she felt the thick branch of an arm close across her neck, she knew it was over, that he had her, and she had come face to face with death.