Nevada Nights (9 page)

*  *  *

The day was warm. Almost too warm. Removing her shawl, Cameron draped it across the saddle and lifted her heavy hair from her neck, shaking it loose. As her horse crested a hill, she reined him in abruptly.

Standing on the side of the grassy knoll, staring at her, was the man who had rushed out of the saloon on that night—a night Cameron would forever think of as her "night of humiliation."

"Your name is Quenton, I believe."

He continued to stare until Cameron felt her temper flare.

Some of the fire was evident in her haughty tone. "My name is Cameron McCormick."

He smiled. It was a gentle smile that softened all his features.

"Forgive me." He walked closer and stared up at her, shielding the sun with his hand. "It’s just that you’re so beautiful. I can’t help staring. You see, I’m an artist, and it isn’t often I see someone so lovely. Would you ever consent to allow me to paint your portrait?"

Now it was Cameron’s turn to stare. Beyond him she could see the easel and paints.

Dismounting, she led her horse along the knoll.

The canvas on the easel was blank. Disappointment showed on her face.

"I’d hoped to see some of your work." She turned to him with a look of anticipation. "I’ve never met an artist before."

"Then we’re even. I’ve never met a vision before. And, Miss McCormick, you’re a vision of loveliness." He brightened. "I’ll make you a proposition. If you’ll sit for me, you’ll have a chance to watch an artist work. And I’ll have the most beautiful portrait model in the country. What do you say?"

Cameron barely hesitated. His offer was too tempting. Besides, she liked this shy man’s smile and his gentle manners.

"All right. When do we start?"

"Now, Miss McCormick," he said eagerly. "Right now."

He helped her dismount, then lifted the saddle and blanket from the horse, tethering him in the shade. Spreading the blanket on the grass, he took her hand and led her to sit down, positioning her face upward to catch the sun. Her windblown hair fell in a cascade of soft curls about her face and shoulders.

Standing by the easel, he studied her for long moments, frowning in deep concentration. He stared at her for so long, Cameron began to think he had actually forgotten her.

Slowly, he picked up some charcoal and began to sketch.

"Can you talk to me while you work?" she asked tentatively.

He smiled. "Yes. What would you like to hear?"

She shrugged. "Tell me about yourself."

He seemed almost shy. "There’s not much to tell. My name is Quenton Lampton. I live in the house on that hill which faces the McCormick land."

"Do you live alone?"

"No. I live with my father. He’s very old, and infirm. He rarely leaves his bed now."

"I’m sorry. Is there someone besides you to care for him?"

"There’s an old housekeeper. Rose. She’s been with us since before I was born."

"Such a big house for so few people," she mused. "It must seem empty."

"Yes. Of course, there’s . . ." He paused, then leaned quickly to his work. "We have a boarder. But he’s gone for long periods of time."

Cameron watched as his hands moved quickly, sketching, pausing, then bending once more to the canvas. "How did you learn to paint?"

"I’ve always been drawing and sketching. Ever since I was a lad. For my fourth birthday my sister bought me every book about artists and painting that she could find. I suppose that changed my life. I’ve always known I wanted to be an artist."

"That’s wonderful. Your family must be very proud."

She saw the look of pain in his eyes, before he composed himself.

"My sister is—gone. And my father has never approved. He thinks it’s—unmanly."

Cameron felt a surge of sympathy for this shy man. How painful, to desire the approval of the one person who could never give it.

He saw the green eyes darken. "Well, I think it’s a wonderful, God-given talent that you should be proud of. Reverend Mother said we must all use the talents God gave us."

"Reverend Mother?"

Cameron blinked. She had forgotten for a moment that this man was a complete stranger. Sitting here in the sun, watching the movement of his soft hands on the canvas, she felt completely at ease with him. It was as if she had always known Quenton Lampton.

"I was raised in a convent, in Canada."

He studied her, then turned his attention once more to his work. "Were you happy there?"

"Oh yes." A dreamy smile crossed her face. "It was a very orderly life, but a simple one as well. I suppose it was like a smooth road. No hills or valleys, just one continuous line." She was speaking more to herself than to Quenton. Her tone became softer, almost wistful. "I’m still not sure I like climbing these hills, or racing down the valleys, but I’m slowly discovering that the view is certainly more exciting than one long smooth road."

The artist smiled at her words. She had revealed much more about herself than she realized.

"Have you ever left Virginia City?" Cameron asked on an impulse.

He nodded without looking up from the canvas. "Once. For nearly a year. I served with the Texas Rangers."

Surprise showed on her face. "I’ve heard they’re rugged, tough men who’ll go to any lengths to capture men outside the law."

"I’d say that’s pretty accurate."

She studied his features, wondering how a gentle man like Quenton could have found the courage to ride with the Texas Rangers.

He glanced up and, seeing her expression, smiled gently.

"Maybe I thought I would prove to my father that I was a man. Or maybe I needed to prove it to myself. At any rate, I served for a year." He shrugged and bent once more to his task.

"And did you prove anything?"

She watched the breeze ruffle the rusty hair. The sun revealed a sprinkle of silver strands. "I think so. At least I didn’t run from danger. I think I did my company proud. And I came home, thankful for the beauty around me."

He stood back. "I think you’ve endured the sun for long enough today, Miss McCormick. Will you sit for me again?"

"Oh yes." She stood, brushing down her skirts. "May I see what you’ve done?"

He paused. "I’d really prefer to wait until it’s completed. Would you mind?"

She was eager to see what he had done. But she understood his unwillingness to share an incomplete work.

"All right. I’ll practice patience, Quenton. When would you like to meet again?"

"How about the day after tomorrow? Come to my house. I have a gown I’d like you to try on. I think it would be perfect with your hair and those eyes. Would you mind?"

The thought of a new adventure exhilarated her. "Not at all. I’d love to."

Pounding hoofbeats startled them. A black stallion appeared over the ridge and, astride him, the brooding Colt.

Cameron felt a shiver pass through her at the sight of him. Quenton stared from Cameron to Colt. No one spoke.

"Why don’t you come at noon." Quenton gave her a warm smile. "If my father is awake, you can meet him and take your meal with us."

He quickly saddled her horse, then helped her mount. He took her hand.

"Thank you, Miss McCormick."

She smiled. "Call me Cameron. And the pleasure is mine."

She gave a hurried glance at Colt, who sat in frosty silence, watching them. "Will you be all right?"

Quenton squeezed her hand. "Don’t worry about me, Cameron. I’ll be fine."

"Are you sure? I—have a gun."

His eyes widened for a fraction. His smile deepened. "Thank you. But I can manage." He stepped back. "Go now."

She gave one last glance at Colt, and the mere sight of him caused her heart to lodge in her throat. With a touch of her heels, the horse turned and broke into a canter.

*  *  *

Each day, Cameron continued to ride off at first light, determined to examine every inch of land willed to her. Always she carried the gun, and as soon as she was safely away from prying eyes, she practiced loading and shooting, until she was satisfied that she could hit a target.

True to her promise, as soon as she returned she would settle herself at Miriam’s knees and describe everything. At first Miriam sat quietly, the perpetual frown occasionally replaced by one of bland indifference. But Cameron’s enthusiasm was contagious. Soon Miriam was caught up in the narrative, her laughter joining Cameron’s with girlish abandon.

"Today I rode to the highest peak. See?" Cameron pointed out the window, and Miriam’s gaze followed her direction. "You can see for miles. Far below, I saw deserted mines, rusted wagon wheels, and mining machinery. There was a mare and foal on the next ridge. They seemed to be heading for a line of trees in the distance, where a stallion stood waiting for them. They looked so wild and free. I envied them."

Miriam’s eyes sparked with life. "You’re wild and free like them."

"Me? No, Miriam. No matter how far I wander, I have to come back here by nightfall. Where else would I go?"

Miriam nodded thoughtfully. "I never thought of that. I guess none of us is really free. We all have a different prison. I have this chair." She frowned. "And Nina has Alex."

"Oh, Miriam. What are you saying?" Cameron’s heartbeat quickened. This was the first time Miriam had ever volunteered any information.

The pale young woman shrugged. "Ask Nina sometime."

As Cameron began to leave the room, Miriam said haltingly, "Thank you, Cameron."

"For what?"

"For keeping your promise. I like having you be my legs. And ... I’d like to be your ears in return."

Cameron hurried back to Miriam’s side. In hushed tones she said, "You’d do that for me?"

Cool blue eyes appraised her. "Yes. I hear a lot in this house. I have little else to do but listen. If I hear anything you should know, I’ll tell you."

Cameron hesitated, then leaned down and kissed Miriam’s cheek before hurrying away, unaware of the look of surprise in the startled eyes or the dreamy smile as she touched a hand to her pale cheek.

*  *  *

On her daily expeditions, Cameron discovered a crumbling cottage which stood on land that bordered the McCormick land and the adjoining Lampton property. Nearly hidden behind a stand of ancient spruce, the cottage offered a cool shelter after a hot, dusty trek.

Hesitantly, Cameron pushed open the door, then surveyed the single room. One wall had begun to crumble, and the roof sagged. A wooden bed frame still stood in one corner. A tattered, hand-stitched quilt covered matted straw. Against a wall leaned a wooden rocking chair. A broken water pitcher lay in a porcelain basin. Through a shattered window a rose bush had thrust its branch, like a flower-bedecked arm, lending its fragrance to blend with the pungent scent of the earthen floor.

There was nothing outstanding about her surroundings, yet Cameron was drawn further into the room. Sitting down in the chair, she rocked for long moments, pleased that it was still sturdy enough to hold her. A feeling of peace pervaded the room. There had been love here. She could sense it. After the hostility in the big McCormick house, this decaying cottage, with its memories and ghosts of happier times, was a soothing balm.

Cameron moved about the room, touching the faded quilt, fitting the jagged pieces of the pitcher together to study the lovely floral design. Lifting a brick that lay on the floor, she reached up to fit it back into the wall. Something white gleamed in the hole. Reaching deeper, Cameron removed a pile of yellowed pages. They had long ago pulled loose from their binding, and most were curled, the strong, neat handwriting smeared from the moisture of years.

She moved to the light from the broken window and began to read. It was a diary. Her heart leaped. She might be able to decipher some of these pages and get to know the people whose love was still so strongly felt in this place.

Pulling the old rocker beneath the window, Cameron began to sort through the yellowed pages, reading bits and pieces of someone’s life.

September 6, 1855
Father has been in a black temper for days. He lost five hundred acres of land to a drifter in a card game. He says the gambler cheated him. But I’ve heard rumors. Father got drunk and wouldn’t quit until he had lost too heavily.
I can escape his fury by riding across the hills for hours until he is calmer. But poor baby brother must bear the brunt of it. Such a shy, sweet dreamer. He will never please father. Sad to say, I should have been his son. Sadder still, we all three know it. A girl! This diary was penned by a girl. A cloud passed over the sun, plunging the room into shadow. Startled, Cameron wondered how long she had been here, lost in another time. Carefully stuffing the pages back into the hole in the wall, she replaced the brick. If the diary had remained here undiscovered all these years, it would be safer here than in her room back at the house.

With a last glance around, Cameron pulled the door shut and surveyed the land around her. This cottage stood on her land. Her father had said in the will that he felt certain she would make use of it. If nothing else, this tiny building would become her haven from the simmering anger around her. As she mounted and rode down the barren hillside, she had the sensation she was being watched. Scanning the distance, she saw no one. Yet during the entire ride back the feeling persisted.

On her way home, Cameron came to a decision. Although she had faithfully described to an eager Miriam everything she saw and did on her daily rides, including sitting for a portrait for Quenton Lampton, she would not mention the cottage or the diary. These were her secrets. She wasn’t yet ready to share them with anyone. She would hug them to her heart, and when the world around her became too harsh, she would hurry to her secret place to renew herself.