Beginner's Luck (6 page)

Prodded by hunger, he arrived at the back door,
twisted the knob, but it was locked from the inside. He tried to open a window, but it, too, was latched. Duane peeled off his tattered frock coat, wrapped it around a rock, and pushed it firmly against the window.

The glass broke, shards fell to the floor inside, and a dog barked across the way. Duane vowed to run if he saw a lantern, but the dog stopped barking, and passed to his whining phase. No lanterns could be seen. Duane returned to his broken window, reached inside, and flipped the latch. Then, slowly, he raised the window. He jumped into the air, bellied over the sill, and landed on the floor inside, next to the kitchen table.

A bowl of fruit was positioned on a doily in the middle of the table, and Duane grabbed an apple. He stuffed it into his mouth hungrily, chewing even the seeds. A tin breadbox on the counter became his next objective. He pried the top off, and saw a half loaf of bread with several corn muffins. He grabbed a muffin in his fist and mashed it whole into his mouth, chewing like a fanatic.

The doughy substance thickened in his throat, and he nearly gagged. He opened the front door of the wood icebox, groped inside, and his hand fell on half a chicken. He pulled it out and dug his fangs into the moist white breast. Chewing frantically, he darted around the kitchen, searching for liquid to wash it all down.

A sliver of light flickered on something in the hallway. Gnawing on the chicken, Duane proceeded down the hall to the next room, which had upholstered chairs, a sofa, and a fireplace. The twinkle came from
the top of a cabinet crafted from dark wood.

He bent before it, and was amazed to see tiny statues of unicorns made from gold, silver, and crystal, with Vanessa Fontaine's necklaces and bracelets draped over their horns, while earrings sprawled among their hooves.

It looked like fairyland, and Duane stopped chewing for the first time since breaking into the house. He wondered what kind of mind would concoct such a show. She's a little girl underneath it all, he realized. For the first time, it occurred to him that she might have a mind. He took a step backward, to see what else the room held.

His eyes widened on a painting four feet square hanging above the dresser. He leaned forward and feasted his eyes upon the image of Vanessa Fontaine, wearing a blue gown, standing against a backdrop of red roses. The likeness was almost real, and her big blue eyes seemed to be saying, Please don't rob me. Her reproachful eyes drilled into him, and he felt guilty for breaking into her home.

He heard a key in the front door, and his hair stood on end. He froze before the painting of Vanessa Fontaine, as a dainty foot made contact with the vestibule. Duane dove behind the sofa, as her footsteps approached. She headed for her jewelry, muttered something dark and incomprehensible, and began clawing among the unicorns. “Where the hell's that necklace?” she murmured.

Duane peered around the end of the sofa, as she fussed and puffed at the cabinet, knocking over unicorns, opening drawers. He hoped she wouldn't look down, where he'd dropped a spare chicken
bone. His heart beat like a tom-tom, and he broke into a cold sweat at the mere thought of jail.

Suddenly she went stiff, and he realized that she'd spotted the chicken bone, only a few feet from an apple core that he'd also lost track of. He pulled his head back swiftly as she spun around, eyes ablaze with fear. She pulled up her dress, whipped out a derringer, cocked the hammer, and said, “Who the hell's here?”

She's caught me, Duane thought, as his lungs emptied of air. Oh my God, if you get me out of this one, I'll go back to the monastery and sing your praise for the rest of my stupid existence. He heard her footsteps approach, and knew he was finished. “I didn't mean any harm,” he said weakly.

“Show me your hands, or I'll put a bullet into you—so help me, Jesus.”

He thrust his arms into the air, and she blinked in disbelief, her jaw agape. But she kept the derringer aimed with both hands at the center of his chest.

“Come out of there, and don't make any funny moves.”

He gazed into the over-and-under barrels of the derringer. “I wasn't going to take anything valuable. I haven't eaten since morning, and I was getting hungry. It was just some chicken, a few apples, and all your corn muffins. As soon as I get a job, I'll pay you back.”

All
my corn muffins? Her forehead wrinkled with mystification. She glanced at the top of the dresser, where she kept her jewelry, and knew each piece intimately; they were her favorite possessions, but nothing was missing, not even a unicorn. She turned toward
the young man, and he was pale, cadaverous, raw-boned, with long black sideburns and velvet eyes almost as beautiful as a woman's. Her eyes roved down his filthy garments, and his filthy feet dwelled in crude leather sandals. She glanced back at his face, and it looked as though someone had beaten the hell out of him recently. How old are you?” she asked.

“Nearly eighteen.”

“Where are your folks?”

Duane turned his eyes away. “Killed in a Commanche raid.”

He looks like a lost little kid, she considered, and those clothes are pathetic. She lowered her derringer. “All right—I won't call the deputy this time.”

Duane's hands fell to his side, and his face became contrite. “When I looked at your picture over there, I knew I shouldn't have come here. It was as if you were talking to me.”

“I was robbed in another town once,” she replied dourly, “and that's why I had the painting done. If anybody wants to take what's mine, I want him to look me in the eye.”

She still didn't know what to do with the burglar. He looked like a lost puppy dog. With a sigh of defeat, she raised the side of her dress, then dropped the derringer into its holster.

“You don't have any money at all?” she asked.

“Some boys robbed me.”

“Where were you going to sleep tonight?”

“The Sagebrush Hotel.”

He speaks well, she figured, and obviously has an education. “Where does your family live?”

“Everybody's dead,” he admitted.

“How do you exist?”

“I was raised in a monastery, and left a couple of weeks ago.”

A
monastery
? she wondered.

“I'll be on my way,” he said. “I'll also pay you for the window that I broke. Do you know of any jobs?”

“What can you do?”

“I thought I'd become a cowboy, but I don't know how to ride a horse.”

She smiled in spite of herself. No humbug could come up with a line like that, she figured. He appears innocent, untouched, special, and he was raised in a monastery? She couldn't help being curious about him. Dress him in decent clothes, he'd turn the heads of women old enough to know better, she concluded.

“You don't have to sleep outdoors,” she said. “I've got a guest room, and you can stay here.”

“Here?” he asked, wondering if he'd heard correctly. “With you?”

“Do you expect me to move out of my own home? But you'll have to take a bath first, because I can smell you all the way over here. Don't touch anything—I'll be right back.”

She swooped toward the door, the ends of her black silk shawl trailing behind her. I hope this isn't another mistake, she thought, but somebody's got to help a young person in distress. She approached the carriage, and her driver, Jed Wilson, opened the door.

“My plans have changed,” she said. “Tell Mister Petigru that I'm not feeling well.”

Jed nodded sullenly, then hoisted himself atop the cab. Vanessa returned to her parlor, where the young
man stood with his hands behind his back, staring at her painting. He blushed, and his fluttering eyelashes devastated her. “Don't you have shoes?”

He shook his head, embarrassed by insufficient footwear and ripped raiment.

“You're a mess,” she said. “Come with me.” She led him to the kitchen, where the floor was littered with corn muffin crumbs, broken glass, and more chicken bones. “I've got some wood out back. Do you know how to light a fire?”

He was out the door before she could ask another question. She sat near the window, and said to herself: I hope this isn't going to be another mistake.

Meanwhile, in the backyard, Duane wondered if he should make a run for it. He was afraid she'd call the deputy, and he didn't want to end up in jail. Firewood was stacked neatly in a shed, and he loaded up his arms. He recalled her finely chiseled profile, rosebud lips, and long legs. How can I spend the night under the same roof with that woman, and not go berserk? he questioned.

He returned to the kitchen, where she sat on the rocking chair in the corner, smoking a cigarette nervously. He dropped to his knee beside the stove, stuffed in paper and kindling, added firewood, and lit a match.

Crackling sounds could be heard. Duane set the drafts expertly, then worked the pump at the sink, filling pails with water. She watched beneath heavy-lidded eyes, and saw muscles straining against his clothes. He's an undernourished Adonis, she considered. “When'd you get out of the monastery?”

“About two weeks ago. Got tired of the life.”

“Why'd you go to a monastery in the first place?”

“My folks were killed by Commanches when I was a baby, and that's where I ended up.”

I can't believe that some voracious woman hasn't grabbed him by now, she mused. He carried the pails to the stove and arranged them over the flames, as perspiration glistened on his tanned features.

“Washtub's in the closet,” she said.

He opened the door, pulled out the big tin tub, and set it on the floor near the stove. “You don't talk like the people around here,” he told her. “Where are you from?”

“South Carolina,” she replied, “but that was long ago—before the rebellion.”

Duane knew about the rebellion, although there'd been no fighting near the monastery in the clouds.

“Why'd you pick
my
house to rob” she asked, “out of all the others in this neighborhood?”

“I saw you sing earlier, and followed you home. I didn't intend to rob you, but then I got hungry, and figured you could afford it.” He forced himself to look at her face, and not hide his eyes in an obscure corner of the kitchen. “I thought you looked like the Madonna of La Salette.”

“A lot of people in this town consider me a fallen woman, if you know what that is.”

“I saw you at the Round-Up, and a feller told me that you're the girlfriend of the richest man in town.”

“What else did he say about me?” she asked crossly.

“We were too busy listening to you. You have a beautiful voice, and perfect pitch.”

“You can't put on those dirty clothes after you take a bath. I'll get you a sheet to wrap yourself in.”

She left the kitchen in a swirl of perfume, and he felt dismayed. She belongs to the richest man in town, and could never care for somebody like me.

The black carriage stopped in front of the Carrington Arms, and Jed Wilson jumped to the ground. He tied the horses' reins to the hitching post, ducked underneath it, and landed on the sidewalk before the wide veranda.

It was mostly deserted now, along with surrounding sidewalks and alleys. Jed pulled out his pocket watch: nearly one in the morning. Mister Petigru'll jump all over my ass, he thought, but it's not my fault.

Jed was an ex-cowboy and former blacksmith now earning more money than ever as Vanessa Fontaine's stagecoach driver, bodyguard, and all-around errand boy. It was humiliating to take orders from a woman, but less demanding physically than roping and branding steers. Jed tended toward laziness and overindulgence in drink. He was pushing forty; time to settle down.

In the lobby, a drunkard sprawled on a chair, fast asleep, and another bedecked a sofa, his mouth open and his tongue hanging out, snoring loudly. Jed walked past the desk, and the clerk nodded to him. The carriage driver climbed to the third floor, and knocked on a door.

“About time you got here.” Edgar Petigru, richest man in town, stood in his dimly lit suite of rooms, wearing a black satin smoking jacket. He was average height, nearing fifty, with short salt-and-pepper hair parted on the side. “Where's Miss Fontaine?”

“She said she's sick, and can't come tonight.”

“Come on in.”

Jed entered the suite, and saw a bottle of champagne in a brass bucket full of ice, while candlelight illuminated little sandwiches and delicacies atop the dresser.

“Care for a drink?” Petigru asked.

“Don't mind if I do.”

Petigru indicated the bottles lined on a cabinet, and Jed poured three fingers of whiskey into a glass. Petigru reached into his pocket, took out a ten-dollar coin, and flipped it toward Jed, who caught it.

“Is she really sick?” Petigru asked.

“She looked fine to me.”

“Keep an eye on her, and report back in the morning.”

After Jed departed, Petigru wanted to throw the specially prepared food out the window. “Women,” he muttered. “Drive a man out of his mind.” He absent-mindedly munched a chicken sandwich, as he wondered what Vanessa was up to this time.

Edgar Petigru had come West from New York City after the war, to make his fortune in cattle, land, and anything else he could turn into an honest or dishonest dollar. His grubstake came from his mother, who lived on Fifth Avenue.

It took him six months to reach Kansas, where he'd heard tales of vast wealth in Texas. Cattle herds had multiplied incredibly during the war, while the rest of the country was hungry for fresh meat. A steer that cost a few dollars in Texas could fetch twenty-four dollars at the railhead in Kansas.

It sounded like a hot proposition to Edgar, so
he'd journeyed to Texas, discovered Titusville, and began buying land. The first thing he built was a saloon, and he'd slept in back with the kegs of beer. His second and third buildings also were saloons, and soon he was running girls in addition to selling whiskey. Money began pouring it, and he invested in the hotel. One deal led to another, and then he bought the Lazy Y Ranch from an old reprobate who'd never married, and wanted to return East, where his folks lived.