Jake rubbed his hand across the back of his head. “Who’s this from?”
Lou skimmed the paper. “Mr. Frederic Remington. And there’s a letter here for you, too.”
“Remmy.” Jake’s mouth curved in a smile and he gave a shrug as he took the envelope and tore it open.
“What’s it say, Bruiser?” Milt asked. “Read it out loud.”
Jake held the paper at arm’s length while he read the handwriting. “ ‘Both of us were wrong. Art is physical and emotional. Your body is the inspiration, but my mind brings the idea to life. This is for all the hours of conversation in New York.’ ” Looking up, Jake said, “You have a crowbar, Lou?”
“I got one, Bruiser!” Milton stepped forward, along with other members of the Barbell Club, all armed with crowbars and hammers.
The men set to work, wrenching out nails and hammering the crate’s sides apart. They had to stand on the wagon and hoist several men to the top of the crate to pry the lid loose. The noise reverberated through the tightly knit circle of onlookers.
“I wonder what it is.” Edwina clutched Truvy’s shoulder. “This is so exciting. Where’s Tom?” She looked around the crowd. “He’s missing this. The whole town is here.”
Perhaps not quite, but the majority of citizens.
Truvy was as excited about the contents of that crate as the rest of them. Who in the world was Frederic Remington from New York? It became increasingly difficult to remain outwardly calm, but Truvy affected a demure air.
Then all at once, the men backed away and the crate’s sides fell down in unison. Truvy’s demureness was instantly flattened—like the cedar boards strewn on the ground.
Edwina’s fingers gripped into her flesh, and both ladies gasped audibly—as did everyone in the crowd. Shock zipped through the mass, and in its wake came total and deafening silence. All eyes converged on one thing: a life-size likeness of Jake Brewster astride a life-size rearing stallion. The artistic details were flawless and represented undeniable talent. But it wasn’t the horse’s wild mane and long tail or the bulky leg muscles and veins popping out all over his hide that drew the crowd into stunned quiet.
It was the fact the man on that horse was stark naked.
Every sinewy muscle on him was depicted in perfect detail. The swell of his chest, the width of his shoulders and the definition of his upper body and lean legs, his feet in the stirrups. Reins were wrapped around one hand, and his other arm flailed out to help him keep his balance on the bucking bronco. The swell of the saddle met him at the crotch, his private area nondescript in the formed bronze. The artist had had some modesty. But not much.
“Oh . . . my . . .” Edwina whispered. “Oh . . . my.”
Shock reverberated inside Truvy like the electric impulses of telegraph transmissions. She had no words.
The police had plenty.
With swagger to their steps, Chief Officer Algie Conlin and Deputy Pike Faragher blustered their way through the mob.
“What’s going on here?” Conlin hollered, the badge on his coat winking silver beneath the sun.
Pike Faragher pointed to the statue, his mouth dropping open.
Closely viewing the artwork, Conlin gave it a thorough exam, and then let out a low whistle. Facing Jake, he declared,“Brewster, I’m going to have to arrest you for public indecency.”
Murmurs went up in the crowd.
Folding his arms across his chest, Jake stared down at the chief officer. “What’s indecent on me?”
“Your body.”
Jake reported, “Nothing’s missing off it.”
“I’ll say,” Pike commented, staring hard at Jake’s saddle horn—or rather, the area thereabouts.
Snickers erupted from the younger boys. Members of the Barbell Club jabbed each other in the ribs.
“Shut up, Pike,” Conlin dictated. “Brewster, you have a point about not personally being indecent—but this fellow on his horse is as buck as they get.”
“Not buck and a horse,” the deputy said in correction. “ ‘Strongman On A Horse, by Frederic Remington.’ That’s what’s spelled out on the plaque on the bottom.” He read the rest of the large print engraved in the brass sheet at the statue’s wide base. “ ‘For the population of Harmony, Montana, in honor of Jacob Brewster, a man of epic strength.’ ” He ran the tip of his index finger over the letters and enunciated clearly. “ ‘Work in bronze. Completed November 1901 in New York City.’ ”
“Who’s Frederic Remington?” Conlin asked, scratching his ear.
“He’s an artist. And a very good one.” The reply came from Prudence Plunkett, who must have been on the No. 101 train herself.
Truvy turned and watched as she entered the crowd wearing a fur muff and matching ermine stole.
Reaching the center of the square, Mrs. Plunkett informed the officers, “Many of Mr. Remington’s paintings are exhibited in the National Academy of Design on Fifth Avenue in New York.”
“How do you know?” the chief officer snorted.
“Because I’ve just returned from a visit to my daughter in Buffalo and we traveled to Manhattan for a mother-and-daughter excursion. Where,” she added, while giving the statue a brief going-over, “we toured city museums and galleries.” If she were appalled by the blatant sexuality of Jake’s likeness, she didn’t show it. “Mr. Remington’s dynamic revelations of our American West awe those people who have no concept of the beauty and savage nature we are privy to for living in Montana.” She stared at the ladies gathered in a huddle, their mouths open. “Mrs. Elward, Mrs. Calhoon, and Mrs. Brooks, I suggest you accept the placement of this statue without a fuss. We must learn to accept the things we cannot change, and embrace them—or else we will lose them entirely.”
The only utterance to follow Mrs. Plunkett’s oration—which had less to do with Jake Brewster’s statue and more to do with her relationship with her daughter—was that of her husband’s voice.
“Pru, you’re back.”
“Yes, Hiram, I am.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
The pair met and gave each other a short hug, then drifted outside the crowd. In their departure, the chief officer’s tone lifted in annoyance.
“All this highfalutin talk about Frederic Remington of New York City is well and good, but it doesn’t change the fact we’ve got us a naked statue in the middle of our town square. It’s got to go.”
Algie Conlin pushed the long lapel of his coat behind his service revolver as if the display meant his word was law. Jake leaned forward and Algie took a step back. The stare-down lasted all of five seconds. “Now, Bruiser, I think we can work something out. I’ll give you twelve hours to get this heap—”
“It’s called art,” Mrs. Kennison said, her hat and gloves in perfect harmony with her attire. She was one of the most beautiful and respected women in town. “What we have is a work of art from a well-known artist. I have heard of Mr. Remington, and Mrs. Plunkett is right. We should embrace this statue and be honored Mr. Remington thought of us.”
“Well, he didn’t think to put Bruiser’s clothes on,” Conlin shot back. “It is a disgrace.”
“Only if it were you on that horse,” the deputy mumbled, “without your clothes on. I don’t want to see you naked, Algie. But Bruiser’s got a far better build, and I kind of think this bronze does him justice. Makes me want to join up at that gymnasium of his so I can look like this.”
“Pike, I’m going to remind you of your place.” The chief officer sneered at Pike Faragher.
“Remind me all you want, but there really isn’t a law against statues in the town square if the citizens pass a vote to put one in.”
“But no vote has been taken.”
“We could vote right now.”
“Wait a doggone minute!” Conlin raised both hands, aimed a pointed finger at Jake, and blasted, “Brewster, aren’t you opposed to having yourself made a spectacle of in public view?”
&
nbsp; Jake unfolded his arms and shrugged. “No. I like the horse.”
“Vote!” came a call.
New murmurs sounded from the crowd. “I’ll second that,” shouted a voice from the back.
“Call a vote,” Pike stated, and quickly went on. “All in favor of Jake Brewster posing on a horse in the town square say, ‘Aye.’ ”
Hearty ayes arose.
“Those opposed say, ‘Nay.’ ”
Several nays sounded.
“Ayes have it,” the deputy said with a firm nod of his head. “This vote is closed! We’ve got us a Frederic Remington statue.”
“Pike!” Algie Conlin fumed. “You’re filling out all the permits.”
The crowd began to disband, many people walking in for a closer inspection. It wasn’t something Truvy would do. There was no reason. She’d already seen the real thing—flesh and blood, genuine man.
“Well,” Edwina remarked. “This was something.”
Truvy had no opportunity to reply. Mrs. Plunkett walked forward and stopped in front of them. Her eyes were sincere, her mouth set in remorse.
“I’m so very sorry, Miss Valentine,” she said with a quiver in her voice. “I hope you can accept my apologies. It was unfair of me to treat you the way I did. I was missing my Hildegarde so much that I neglected to think of your feelings. It was disgraceful of me.”
There was no reason not to put Mrs. Plunkett at ease with a warm smile of acceptance. “Did you have a nice visit with Hildegarde?”
“Wonderful. I should have gone much sooner.”
“I’m so glad you did.”
“Well, my dear . . .” From the pocket of her coat, she brought forth a tatted handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. Truvy could tell the glisten in them wasn’t caused by loneliness for a faraway married daughter but rather by relief that the situation had been mended. “I hope you’re getting along all right in your new surroundings.”
“I’m fine.”
“If it’s agreeable to you, I’d like to return for dance lessons.”
“I’ll expect you in the next class.”
Then Mr. Plunkett took her by the elbow and they went to toward the mercantile.
Jake walked up to them on the heels of the Plunketts’ departure. “Mrs. Wolcott.” Then to Truvy, with a deliberately deeper tone, he said, “Miss Valentine.”
“Hello,” she automatically replied, but her breathing came too fast. His formal address to the both of them felt stilted.
“Hello, Jake—you rascal,” Edwina exclaimed. “My goodness, but how did you manage to do something so grand?”
“I never posed for this. Remmy had to have used sketches from a long ways back. I used to sit au naturel for the art school when he was enrolled.”
“I’m impressed. The detail he put into the work is incredible. Don’t you think, Truvy?”
She didn’t immediately answer. She thought the detail accurate to the letter, but she wouldn’t admit that. “Yes. Very nice.”
“He got your face perfect. Wouldn’t you agree, Truvy?”
“Yes.”
“And the chest looks about right.” She gave Jake a glance, then one to Truvy. “Wouldn’t you say so, Truvy?”
Truvy knew one thing. She had to get out of there or she’d no longer be able to disguise her feelings. She was shattering, piece by piece, being so close to Jake and pretending she didn’t know what he looked like in the nude. “I’m afraid I’m developing a headache, Edwina,” she fibbed. “I can’t make it to tea after all. I’m going to go lie down.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Edwina touched her gloved hand.
“Not a thing. I’ll be all right.”
“I’ll walk you home, Miss Valentine.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Thank you, Jake,” Edwina replied for her. “That’s thoughtful of you.”
“I can be thoughtful.”
Truvy headed toward the livery, Jake beside her, helpless but to let him accompany her across Main Street. “You don’t have to go out of your way.”
“I’m not. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Yes?” She didn’t miss a step.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Truvy almost stopped. But didn’t. “I thought I was making it easier for you.”
“Easier for what?”
“So you wouldn’t feel obligated.”
Jake took her elbow and her arm knocked against his. Truvy steeled herself against the contact, refusing to let her heartbeat clog her throat. “I never do anything I don’t want to. And being with you isn’t an obligation.” He pulled in a deep draft of breath, then exhaled with the comment, “You weren’t at the dance studio the other morning. I waited for you.”
“I was detained.”
“The hell you were.”
“I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You were fine by eleven o’clock. Mrs. Treber looked out the dancing academy’s window, so I know you were in there with those ladies.”
“I was.”
“Of course you were. I know exactly when you’re in there, especially on the days those bird watchers are supposed to be dancing. They peek through the curtains to watch the men in the gymnasium.”
Truvy honestly hadn’t realized that. “They do?”
“Yep.”
“Oh . . . well, I’ll talk to them.”
“Don’t bother. Talk to me.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing.”
They neared Dogwood Place; rather than letting Truvy continue on, Jake veered her off in the direction of Bruiser’s.
“Wait! What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
“I want to show you my Ping-Pong game.”
“Your what?”
“Table tennis. The table arrived the other day. Shipped from Chicago. You’re the only woman I know who could appreciate it.”
Truvy had no inkling what a Ping-Pong game was. She’d never heard of one. “I don’t want to see it.” Dubiously, she added, “If indeed there is such a thing.”
“There is. I haven’t had anybody to try it out with. Give me a run for my money, Tru. Play me.”
“I will not. I have a headache.”
They were at the door of the gym.
His gaze bore into hers, capturing her pulse and making her stand stock still. “You have as much of a headache as the guy riding the horse in the town square does.”
“That’s you on that horse.”
“And don’t you know it, sweetheart.” The low voiced sexual implication wasn’t offensive to Truvy. In fact, she reveled in the intimacy of his words as they wrapped around her in a heated caress.
On that statement, he unlocked the door and nudged her inside.
“This is outrageous,” she protested.
“This is my Ping-Pong table,” he declared, the hand on the small of her back as he steered her toward an extra-long table with a short net dividing its center. The dimensions of the table had to be at least nine feet by five feet. Two paddles lay on the table’s wood surface, along with one tiny white celluloid ball.
Truvy observed,“It looks like regular tennis, only in miniature.”
“Pretty much.”
She went forward to have a better look. “Why did you buy it?”
“The manufacturer says it’s supposed to be good for stamina. And a lot of fun.” Jake picked up a round paddle and bounced the ball against it, using his wrist to keep the paddle steady and to keep the ball from dropping to the floor. “Play me and we’ll see.”
Truvy removed her gloves, set her pocketbook aside, and took the other paddle. With the paddle, Jake tossed her the ball. She caught it in her hand. The ball was very lightweight without the bounce to it that a tennis ball had. “Interesting.”
“What we do is whack the ball back and forth over the table. You ping and I pong.”
“What?”
“Ping-Pong. That’s the name of the game. Serve by holding the ball on the flat of your palm,
then throw it up and strike the ball when it falls.”
“I can do that.”
Guiding her wrist to propel the paddle, she hit the tiny ball and sent it over the net. Jake struck it to return. The white flash went sailing back to her. She whacked it to Jake. He missed. They tried it once more—and within a few minutes, they’d gotten the rhythm of the motions.
Back and forth.
Ping. Pong.
An apt title for the game.
“How did you learn how to play lawn tennis?” Jake asked, balanced on the balls of his feet so he could cover edge balls at his end of the table.
“By accident,” she remarked, hitting the ball back to him. “I wanted to make a donation to the Daughters of Liberty campaign, but I didn’t have any money. So I entered a tennis tournament, hoping to get the third prize of ten dollars.”
This time Truvy missed the return ball.
She bent, picked it up from where it had rolled to the rowing machine, then went back to the table. Serving, she shot the ball over the short net as she got back into the proper playing position.
“You won the ten bucks?”
Ping.
“No. One hundred. I took first. I had a knack for tennis I didn’t know about.”
Pong.
“And you forked over the one hundred to the Daughters?”
Ping.
“What do you think?”
Pong.
“Every last Abraham Lincoln.”
Ping.
“Yes—who, by the way, was the most powerful president of any party we have ever had in office.”
Pong.
“He was a Republican. Right?”
Ping.
“Right.”
Pong.
They played five complete games. Truvy won all five by scoring twenty-one points first. After the last, she set her paddle down and accused, “You let me win five times.”
“No. You beat me five times.”
“Fair and square?”
“Truvy, I play to win. Never to lose.” A succession of emotions crossed his chiseled face: honesty, desire, and reverence. In the seconds that followed, he uttered three words that went straight to her heart. “I’ve missed you.”
Hearts Page 29
