Rosa's Land: Western Justice - book 1 (3 page)

She sighed. “You do realize Doris was flirting with you just now.”

“Oh no. She just brought me some tea.”

Eileen shook her head sadly. “You don’t know women.”

“I guess not, but she’s a nice girl.”

“No, she’s a flirt. You be careful.”

“Well, if you say so, Mother.”

“How’s the painting going?”

“I haven’t felt much like painting. One good thing—I didn’t hurt my hands.”

“You’re going to be a great artist, son.”

Faye put his hands out and ran them across the keyboard softly and gently. “I’m letting Dad down, Mother. He and my brothers think I’m a failure … and I guess I am. Any one of them could have taken care of himself. I’m just a failure.”

“You’re
not
a failure! Your father and your brothers have strong muscles, but they don’t have any sensitivity or gentleness.”

“Well, I wish I could be an artist
and
a tough man.”

“Forget being tough. There’s a new teacher in town named John Arlington. He’s been studying in Europe.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Well, I’ve asked him to come and look at your work, and he’s agreed.”

“Oh, that’s good, Mother. Thank you very much. I know I need more help.”

“Why don’t you go lie down awhile? You look tired.”

“Maybe I will.” He rose, leaned over, and kissed her cheek, something Leo or Max would never think of doing. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Faye went to the second floor and into his room. He liked the room, for the window went from the floor almost to the ceiling, and he could catch the morning light. He had picked his own furniture. The chairs were old, the red and blue turkey coverings were worn to center, but he was happy with it. The pictures on the walls were not expensive, mostly watercolors with a few oils and many sketches.

Faye went at once to his desk and opened it, then pulled out a book and sat down in one of the chairs and began to read. It was a book about the Texas Rangers. He had bought it at a used bookstore and was fascinated by the stories of the terrible battles with the Indians and the outlaws that the Rangers engaged in. He sat there reading for a time then closed the book and sighed, “Well, I’ll never be able to do that.”

He left his room and found Pat Ryan outside cleaning up the barouche. “Pat,” he said, “how’d you learn to fight?”

“Why, Mr. Faye, I always knew how to fight. In my neighborhood, you had to fight.”

“You think you could teach me to fight? Could I learn?”

“I don’t think you need to. How much you weigh, Mr. Faye?”

“About a hundred and eighty-five pounds, I think.”

“A hundred and eighty-five? Well, it don’t show. That’s big enough, but a man has to be quick.” He held up his hand, palm out, and said, “Try to hit my hand. I’ll try to make you miss.”

To Pat’s obvious shock, Faye hit him on the hand before he could even move.

“You are fast!” he said. “Try it again.”

Again and again Pat held up his hand but never dodged a blow. He said, “You’re the quickest man I ever saw with his fists. Hold your hand up and see if I can hit it.”

But the result was the same. Pat was faster than some fighters, but he never could hit Faye’s hand.

“Well, you’ve got quick hands, but there’s this, Mr. Faye: In a fight you’re going to get hurt. If somebody hits you, you just have to grin and act like it don’t hurt. Some men just quit.”

“Could you give me lessons on fighting, Pat?”

“No, sir! Why, your good mother would have me out on the street quick as a wink! Fighting is a hard world. You stick with your painting. I’ll do your fighting, Mr. Faye.”

Faye said, “All right” and left, thinking about how easily he had beaten Pat in the game with the hands.
I bet I could fight if I had some help!

A
feeble light filtered down through the tall windows on the palette that Faye had placed on an easel. Carefully he dabbed his brush on the palette, mixed up two colors that he wanted, and then turned again. He glanced at the display he had, which consisted of a silver pitcher, a plate of purple grapes, and a silvery fish lying on a platter. The platter was on an ivory-colored tablecloth. Carefully he touched the tip of the brush to the canvas and slowly pulled it across the surface. His concentration was intense, but his hand trembled slightly, and he smeared the section of canvas he was working on.

“Blast it!” he shouted. He drew back his arm and threw the brush across the room. It hit the light green wall and left a purplish stain before dropping to the carpet where it left another stain.

For a moment Faye stood there gritting his teeth and staring at the two stains. He was strongly tempted to kick the easel across the room to join the brush and make an even bigger mess. He forced himself to breathe slowly, and gradually the impatience and anger, which were such a rare thing to him, began to fade away. He stared at the canvas for a long moment then picked it up by the edges, walked across the room, and stacked it against several other half-finished paintings of the same still life.

His face was distorted, which was unusual for him. Usually his expression was pleasant, and some insisted that he had a baby face, an epithet that he despised. He always admired his brothers and his father who had stern, tanned features. Indeed his own was as innocent as a cherub. His lips twisted in a disgusted expression.
I might as well give it up! Can’t do anything right!

Taking a deep breath, he shook his head with disgust then wheeled and stomped noisily across the room, threw himself into a horsehide-covered chair, and glared out the window. Raindrops were running down the glass. Ordinarily he would have found this interesting, as he did all aspects of weather, but he was so upset at his own failure that he did not notice.

“What’s the matter with me?” he muttered aloud. “I can’t even paint a F
OR
R
ENT
sign and do a decent job of it!” He closed his eyes then leaned back, resting his head on the rough leather. The sound of the rain falling on the roof and on the outside windows made a sibilant whisper that ordinarily would have soothed his nerves, but he could not force himself into a good mood.

He had heard of writers having times when they just couldn’t write, and they called those periods “writer’s block.” Faye had never believed for a moment that such a thing existed. In an argument once with a writer, he had exclaimed, “Writer’s block? Nonsense! You never heard of a carpenter having carpenter’s block, did you? Of course you haven’t! When a carpenter has a job to do, he just
does
it! And you never heard of dishwasher’s block, have you? If a woman has dishes to wash, she just plunges in and washes the blamed things!”

With an abrupt motion, Faye rose and walked to the window. For a moment he stood watching the raindrops run down. He was fascinated by unusual things, and he watched as two drops that were at least a foot apart at the top of the window began their journey downward. They darted to the right and to the left, and then suddenly both of them moved toward each other. They joined and made one drop. For a moment Faye forgot his agitation and thought,
Just like a marriage. These two drops went hither and yon. Finally they found each other and came together. Now that’s the kind of romance I’d like to have!

A lightning bolt scraped its way across the darkness of a cloud and reached down and touched earth. He waited and counted the seconds, for he had heard you could tell how far away the bolt hit by counting the seconds between a flash of lightning and the resulting thunder. He counted, “One, two, three,” and then he heard the rumbling.
A little closer than a mile away
.

He leaned forward, put his head against the glass, and closed his eyes.
Maybe there is such a thing as painter’s block
. The thought disturbed him, for he had always been able to do any task he put his mind to as far as painting or other intellectual subjects were concerned. Even as a small boy he had been able to stick with the books that his mother provided, even when they were difficult. He had begun with crayons and graduated to charcoal and then finally paints and oils. His willingness to stick with a job, he understood, was due to his mother’s careful teaching, for she had lovingly and patiently curbed his natural instinct to quit when a thing got difficult.

A sudden blinding bolt of lightning startled him, and he opened his eyes and watched as an ominous black cloud blotted out most of the sky. The woods that stretched out to the west of the house were suddenly lost in a deluge. The rain fell in fat drops making slanting lines. His painter’s eye noted that, and he resolved that the next time he painted a scene having rain he would be sure that the drops were slanted, not straight down. Usually he rather liked storms, finding them a dynamic setting, but as another fork of crooked lightning clawed the earth, he suddenly realized that he was late for his lesson with John Arlington.

“What am I thinking about?” he muttered. Whirling, he grabbed his raincoat, jammed on a wide-brimmed hat, and left his room at a run. He slammed the outside door and dashed into the carriage house where he found Pat sitting down and eating a sandwich. “Pat, I’ve got to get to the ferry!” he exclaimed.

“Why, Mr. Faye,” Ryan protested, “you can’t go out in this weather. You’ll drown.”

“No, I must go. I’m late for a lesson. Now get the carriage ready and take me to Port Jefferson.”

The burly Irishman started to protest, but seeing the stubborn expression on Faye’s lips, he shrugged, saying, “All right, sir … but it ain’t a good idea.”

The Riordan estate was located in the eastern part of Long Island. It was a wooded section where rich people built their mansions tucked away in deep woods. It was not too far from downtown New York City to make the journey daily, but the setting bore the illusion of deep woods such as was found in the secluded parts of upper New York State.

By the time Ryan had pulled the carriage to an abrupt halt at the wharf where the ferry that carried passengers across Long Island Sound was docked, the rain was falling unchecked in what looked like solid sheets. Faye leaped out of the carriage, calling back, “Thanks, Ryan,” and reached the gangplank just as it was beginning to draw up.

One of the crew, a tall man wearing a black slicker and matching hat, grinned. “You just made it, sir.”

“Thought I’d have to swim,” Faye answered. He stepped onto the deck and moved under the wide canopy that offered shelter from the sun … when there was sun. He felt the ferry shudder as the engine took hold. The paddles began to turn, and the huge ferry swung wide and then moved forward into the downpour. Usually Faye went inside to take shelter from the heat of the sun, but he liked the rain, and he stood watching as an occasional bolt of silver lighting illuminated the dark waters.

“You must love storms.” Startled by a voice that came so unexpectedly, Faye turned to see a woman standing there smiling at him. She had a heart-shaped face and an expressive mouth that was now turned upward at the corners in a smile. Her long brown hair was exposed. She had pulled off her hat, and her hair was now turned lank by the rain. She had the most brilliant and the most beautifully shaped eyes Faye had ever seen.

“I guess so,” he muttered. “I’ve never been scared of them for some reason. My mother found me outside once when I was only four, I think, in the middle of a terrible thunderstorm. It gave her quite a scare.”

“I like storms, too.” The woman’s voice was deeper than most women’s and had a throaty quality that somehow hinted at a passionate nature, at least so it seemed to Faye. “I’m scared of snakes and spiders but never of the weather.”

“Your home is here?”

“One of them. I travel a lot. My father and I have learned that any place we set our suitcase down is home.”

“That must be interesting. You travel abroad?”

“Oh, yes. My father is an explorer, and he writes books about exotic lands. I go along to take care of him and help him when I can.”

“That sounds exciting. Have you ever been to Africa?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact we just got back from there two weeks ago. We spent six months with the Maasai tribe.”

“Savages, I suppose?”

“Yes, but they are such a fascinating tribe. Most of them are over six feet tall and lean. They hunt lions with spears, and they have a dance in which the men leap up into the air in a standing position. Some of them, I think, can leap as tall as their height.”

“I never travel,” Faye said. “I envy you. Oh, my name is Faye Riordan.”

“I’m Marlene Jenson.” She put her hand out as a man would do.

When Faye took it he felt the strength of her grasp. “So, you are living here now?”

“Yes, our home is in Manorville.” She gave him a penetrating look. “You take the ferry often?”

“Fairly often. I’m taking lessons in Fairfield, just across the Sound.”

“What sort of lessons?”

“Oh, painting lessons.” Somehow taking painting lessons sounded like a rather frail thing for a man to indulge in next to a woman who had traveled among six-foot savages in the Congo.