Portraits

by Stef Ann Holm

  Ahr-ree-vay-dayr-chee. I’ll be seeing you.

  * * *

  Leah inserted her key into the lock and opened her front door. On an impulse, she cranked the bell. Nothing. She’d have to fix that. Perhaps it was time she got rid of the manual one altogether. With step-by-step instructions, she could probably install an electric ringer herself. One with a deep gong and five chimes that didn’t play a melody. That would be modern.

  She’d left the entry light burning low, and her shadowy movements were cast on the stairwell. As she walked inside, she turned the wall knob by the door until the electricity clicked off and the vestibule grew bathed in meager moonlight. She knew her way around in the dark, and there was no threat of her stepping on anything. She’d tidied up the house before she left. Everything was back in order.

  Entering the parlor, she laid the magazine on a tea table next to the Edison. Cranking the handle, she lowered the needle onto the record that was already on the turntable. There was a static-sounding hiss, then Signora Resky’s soprano voice, accompanied by orchestra, went into an aria from the new Puccini recording La Bohème. Leah had read a review of the opera in the Denver Post that she’d purchased here in town. The reviewer said the opera drew hecklers at its Turin premiere, even with Arturo Toscanini conducting, and that the arias were nothing short of useless fodder for the soul. She didn’t agree with the reviewer’s taste. The music was lovely, the love story so tragic it made her weep.

  Leah sat in the overstuffed armchair and propped her feet on the ottoman. Over the next couple of minutes, the clocks chimed ten o’clock. The last to toll was the pretty Ansonia clock on the mantel. The housing was bronze, with a fancy dial and two silver-cast croquet players, who rather than hitting a ball with their mallets took turns striking the bell on top of the time face.

  Despite the music, there was an eerie quietness settling through the room. Tug wasn’t here for her to read to, nor Rosalure for Leah to braid her hair before bed. She wondered how they would adjust to Italy. Was she being fair to them in making them come with her to pursue her dream?

  Leah unlaced her shoes and let them fall on the carpet. She brought her knees to her chin and stared through the filmy curtains covering the windows. The oak tree branches outside were like giant arms rising to the heavens, to those family members she had loved and lost.

  She had been devoted to her husband with a quiet camaraderie. She’d known him since the age of ten. He’d come into Telluride on business. Years later, she found out he’d given her father money to get their photography studio back on its feet after the murder of her mother. Each subsequent year, Owen Kirkland returned to Telluride. She grew up depending on him. They had a lot of common interests, and they were both only children.

  When she was fourteen, Owen told her that he had a fiancée back in Eternity. This news devastated her, but she hadn’t been able to arrest her feelings for him. During his short visits, he’d made her feel safe and secure about her and her father’s future. The following year when he returned, he told her that he’d broken his engagement. Leah had been so relieved, she’d actually laughed and cried in her bedroom that night. At sixteen, Leah finally caught his eye romantically, and Owen began to treat her as his girl. Twenty-two days before her seventeenth birthday, Leah married Owen. It would have been the happiest time of her life if her father hadn’t been taken ill with pneumonia late that summer and died.

  She’d come to Eternity with Owen after her father’s burial, and met Geneva and Hartzell. She was immediately warmed by Hartzell’s welcoming friendliness. It was Geneva who rebelled against her baby boy marrying—and marrying Leah, a woman clearly not his better. Geneva barely spoke to her until she found out that Leah was pregnant with Rosalure. And after that, Geneva doted on her grandchild, though she didn’t have as many kind words to say about Leah.

  And then four years later, Owen went off to fight in the Spanish American War in Cuba and got sick. Only no one knew how serious, until after Tug was born . . . and then Owen was diagnosed with malaria.

  Leah sighed. She didn’t want to think about that right now. She leaned her head back and listened to the music. The lovely voice. The kind of voice she wished she had. The kind of quality she wished she could give to her pictures. That sadness and loveliness all in one.

  At times, she wished Owen were still here for her to turn to. But when she reflected on her marriage, she had to be honest about its stability. During the last years, it had been shaky. Owen had been married to his job at the bank, while she was left in charge of the house—a responsibility Geneva constantly pointed out she wasn’t capable of—and the rearing of the children. But inasmuch as Leah resented Owen’s long hours at the bank, she herself was guilty of the very same offense. She’d shortchanged Tug and even Rosalure by putting her studio first. Time gone by would never come back. A shared moment together was never to be had once the day was done. Leah needed to be with her children more, and vowed to rearrange her schedule to spend more time with them during the summer while they weren’t in school.

  Quiet tears streamed down Leah’s cheeks as she sat in the dark. She should have recognized her fault before and done more to include Rosalure and Tug in her life. The opera music should have made her feel better, as it always did. But this evening it didn’t. The sorrowful aria only served to remind her she was alone in this great big house with her multitude of clocks and nothing more than a passion to do great things to keep her going. If she failed, she would have to admit it had been an elusive portrait that she just couldn’t capture. That would mean she’d be ordinary.

  And Leah didn’t want to be ordinary. In that respect, she was like her mother. Leah wanted to be somebody famous.

  * * *

  At first, Wyatt wasn’t sure where he was. The bed beneath him was softer than anything he could remember, not the hard ground or a sagging cot. When he rolled onto his side, the wire springs inside the felt-covered mattress squeaked. As he opened his eyes, the window shade came into focus. Sunlight peeked through the cracks on the sides and lit the hotel room. Morning had come without a whistle to tell him he had to get up.

  Outside came the ring of a hammer striking wood. Wyatt shifted onto his back, in no immediate hurry to get up and dress. It felt too good to lie in bed until he was fully awake. To languor in the crisp white sheets that smelled like clothesline air and a female’s touch as she’d folded the starched linens with a precise hand.

  Putting an arm beneath his head and bending his leg, Wyatt stared at the ceiling where a lightbulb on a cord hung above him. Last night, he’d triggered the light on and off at least a dozen times. Having never operated an electrical switch before, he couldn’t figure out how that bulb of glass ignited an artificial flame.

  City noises came to his ears, a populace of foreign sounds that he wasn’t used to hearing. Voices calling out cheerful greetings. Bicycle bells. The grate of saws against lumber. When he had his ranch, he was going to revel in every birdsong, every horse’s nicker, and every calf’s bawl. He’d wake to the sound of his children’s laughter as they rumpled their bedclothes and threw pillows at one another. He’d start each day with the warmth of his wife’s body snuggled against his. They’d share a kiss and murmur their love for one another. And he’d finally know what bottomless peace and satisfaction felt like.

  Wyatt exhaled a long sigh. Then he swung his legs over the bed’s side, ran a hand through his tousled hair, and rose. The hardwood floor was a welcoming cool beneath his bare feet. A quick glance of the room in the daylight and he admired anew the tidy room Almorene East kept.

  The walls were flocked with a crimson paper and didn’t smell of dampness and sweat. Though the plain furnishings were sparse, he had everything he needed. The faint scent of lemon wax clung to the surface of the bureau, and inside the drawers was a printed paper lining. Down the hall, a bathroom with running cold and hot water was at his disposal. A pipe was anchored to the tub wall with a sprinkler called a shower bath. He wasn’
t quite sure how it worked, but figured it had something to do with the pull chain.

  Picking up his watch on the dresser, Wyatt noted he’d slept later than he intended. He wouldn’t have as much time digging as he wanted to before calling it quits to take July out. Rather than get dressed right away, he went to the window and nudged the edge of the shade aside so he could view Main Street. The Starlight was smack next to the Eternity Security Bank. He couldn’t make out any of the building’s front architecture, but he saw the sidewalk and men in suits going inside. In his mind’s eye, Wyatt saw himself following them with deception on his mind. But that wasn’t his way anymore.

  Resting his forehead on the window frame, he watched a young boy on a two-wheeled bicycle dart between buggies. He had a bell on the handlebar that he engaged with a smirk whenever he got close to the horses. It spooked the animals and made Wyatt shake his head. Damn kid. On the corner of Main and Seventh was a popcorn-and-peanut wagon with a thick black cord strung out to its roof denoting that the equipment was functional because of the electricity. Its power source was the street lamp strung across the middle of the road.

  The racket of construction continued, and Wyatt veered his gaze straight ahead on the other side of the street. A building was being erected, the framework nearly complete. On the outside in the lot’s front expanse of dirt was a large sign.

  Future Site of: Independent Telephone Co.

  Then in smaller print:

  Advantages of a residence telephone are friends can call you; does your shopping; calls the plumber; saves letter writing; saves time and steps; calls the doctor. RESERVE YOUR TELEPHONE TODAY AND BE THE FIRST TO SAY “HELLO”

  Wyatt dropped the shade into place. He was a stranger in an era he didn’t recognize. The world had gone on and left him far behind. There was nothing here that he knew. From lights to showers, to telephones and automobiles. He was lost on a frontier of innovations.

  Sinking onto the mattress, he cupped his head in his hands. His mind swirled with doubts. Could he make it in this new place without reverting back to the old way of life with which he’d been so familiar?

  He struggled with the uncertainty as the wood saw’s grate penetrated his room, and the hammer kept on pounding. Like a gavel. Rapping. Over and over . . .

  6

  To one who waits, a moment seems a year.

  —Chinese proverb

  October 4, 1887

  Montpelier, Idaho Territory

  Rap! Rap! Rap!

  “Come to order!” The bailiff barked the demand above the authoritative slam of the judge’s gavel. A late hush descended on the crowded courtroom as the Honorable Judge Erastus Peabody set down his mallet while the last of the spectators filed in behind the occupied seats. It was standing room only to hear the proceedings. This was the biggest criminal case that had ever been tried in Montpelier.

  The leader of the Loco Boys had been apprehended and sent to Montpelier to face a jury on a grand larceny warrant that had been outstanding since November 3, 1885. Today was his arraignment and the whole town had flocked to the trial of the decade.

  Harlen Shepherd Riley had been locked in a piss-poor territorial jail cell for nearly two weeks. Ever since he’d been extradited out of Colorado on the eighteenth of September, just a day after his capture in Montrose.

  Twenty-four hours after splitting up with the boys, Harlen hadn’t been able to collect the money and head south as he’d wanted. The area was swarming with members of a spread-out posse. On every trail to Mexico that Harlen had tried, some half-cocked deputy with a temporary badge on his chest was smack in the middle of the road on his horse. Waiting. Knowing that he’d be thinking to cross the border. So he had to stick to the high country for another two days, riding at night and catching some shut-eye during the day. The stocky bay he’d stolen in Eternity came up lame on Sunday morning, and he had had to divert to Montrose, a mining town farther north.

  He held back until the street activity died down and everyone settled in the Glad Tidings Church for services. Despite keeping his face covered by a bandanna and the lowered brim of his hat, some smart Pinkerton detectives spied him. They immediately apprehended him and took him to the Montrose city jail. The sheriff was summoned from his pew to sign the necessary extradition papers.

  Those damn detectives had had things all worked out. The capture was to be kept quiet, and they told Harlen their theory. Though they had no proof, they speculated that Harlen had stashed the sixty thousand dollars somewhere for safekeeping. They figured other members of the gang would begin asking around for him when he disappeared with the money, and in turn, give themselves away. There were enough law enforcers in the various counties and territories who knew of the plan and actually expected to contain Colvin, Thomas Jefferson, Manny, and Nate by the month’s end. Harlen knew that none of his four comrades would fall for such a trick. They wouldn’t think he’d absconded with the cash and left them high and dry. They’d go on to Mexico without him until he could meet up with them.

  Since no positive identification could be made on the Silverton job, and since Harlen had had no evidence on him—namely, the money—it was going to be difficult to get a conviction in the Silverton Miners Bank robbery. Even though Colvin had left the portrait, the teller couldn’t testify under oath that it was Harlen who’d stuck a gun in his face.

  This hadn’t come as any surprise to Harlen. Though he had wanteds on him for numerous holdups, not a single witness could lay his hand on the Bible and swear to the court that Harlen had been the offending culprit.

  The shootout in Telluride was a different matter. Even though they knew that it was Harlen, for none of the boys had worn disguises, there was no proof that it had been Harlen who killed Evaline Darling.

  While Harlen sat in the Montrose jail, he’d heard a lathered-up lawyer acting on Strawn’s behalf, arguing that Harlen should be tried as an accessory to murder. But a representative from the Merchants and General said that there wasn’t a one hundred percent guarantee that Harlen would be found guilty. They finally had him behind bars and that’s where they wanted him to stay. Only a clear-cut case of guilt could keep him in prison.

  That’s where Montpelier came in. And that’s where that picture sealed Harlen’s fate.

  The cashier whose till he’d emptied in the Montpelier bank had a hobby: sketching. He’d been able to draw all five of the undisguised Loco Boys from memory, and had done an admirable job of it. There was no denying the like-for-like images of that drawing to the men in the photograph Edwin Darling had taken. Not only that, but there were two tellers and a manager, not to mention the half-dozen customers, who could identify Harlen in a court of law. It looked as if that portrait Colvin had left on a whim could wring Harlen’s neck.

  The Telluride and Silverton officials were willing to make a deal with the Montpelier officials. Lawmen in Telluride dropped the accessory to murder charges, and lawmen in Silverton dropped the larceny charges, with the promise Harlen would be severely prosecuted in Idaho and given a stiff sentencing.

  This wasn’t the first time Harlen had been arrested, so he was rather optimistic about his chances of getting off despite the big hoopla that he was going to be made to pay for his crimes. This arraignment was only a formality that his attorney, Richard Robison, had to come all the way down from Wyoming to handle.

  “Order!” The sagging skin beneath Judge Peabody’s chin shook against his tight collars as his voice bellowed through the courtroom. “This court is in session and I demand quiet. Those who cannot comply will be thrown out by the bailiff.”

  The room stilled to an ominous calm.

  Handcuffed, Harlen sat at a table in the front next to Richard, while the prosecutors, Jason H. Edlin and Samuel Martin, the district attorney, were at the adjacent table. They wore expensive suits and had a lot of papers in their files. They looked prepared, and for a scant second Harlen felt a needle of worry prick his spine. But Richard had always gotten him off. This time would b
e no different.

  “There being sufficient evidence to go to trial with, I order the defendant, Harlen Shepard Riley, to rise, hear his charges, and have his counsel enter his plea.”

  Harlen slid his chair back and stood. He refused to avert his gaze from the judge, who had an imposing look about him. That high and mighty look that said he wanted to make Harlen cower.

  “On this fourth day of October, Harlen Shepard Riley is hereby charged with the grand larceny crime of armed robbery to the premises known as the Montpelier City Bank in Montpelier, Idaho, on November third, eighteen eighty-five. How does the defendant plead?”

  Richard’s tone was low and expert. “Not guilty.”

  “Having entered a plea of not guilty, and that plea duly recorded by the court clerk, the defendant will be remanded into the custody of the court, whereas he will be held at the Montpelier jail without bail until the twenty-fifth day of October, eighteen hundred and eighty-seven.” The rap of the gavel cut through the room. “This court is adjourned.”

  Richard left his chair to stand next to Harlen as the bailiff came to take him away. Harlen had thought Robison could at least get him out on bail. But Judge Peabody was a hard-nosed officer and hadn’t been persuaded by Richard’s request earlier in chambers.

  “I’ll come to the jail straightaway, Harlen,” Richard said as he leaned to gather documents into his case. “First I need to speak with the district attorney.”

  The bailiff was leading Harlen toward the side door as Harlen replied in a restrained voice, “Don’t you go making any deals for me, Richard. I’m not going to any prison. You got that? You’ve got to get me off.”