The Shadow Portrait (4 page)

It was a beautiful sight to Phil. Many times he had grown lonely for his old home. He took in the long, low ranch house painted a glistening white with its shake roof, bunkhouse, and cook shack. Smoke rose out of the chimney, curling up in a leisurely fashion into the blue sky. The corrals held horses, and his keen eyes picked up a spirited paint prancing around that he longed to ride at the first possible opportunity. It was a fine ranch, and fond memories came flooding back to him. A sense of futility accompanied this, for the three years he had spent in Europe at times seemed wasted. But even so, he knew it was something he had had to do.

A strong streak of stubbornness had shaped Phil Winslow and had gotten him into trouble more than once. As prosperous and challenging and welcoming as the ranch looked, he knew even now he would not be staying there long. He sat quietly on the wagon seat, taking in all the improvements that had been made since he was gone. When Fuller pulled up in front of the gate, Phil said, “I’ll walk in from here, Fuller. I want to look things over.”

“Why, shore. I reckon they’ll be right glad to see ya.”

Plucking his suitcase out of the bed of the wagon, Winslow reached up and took the enormous hand of the driver. “Stop in a little later. I’ll show you some of those paintings you wanted to see.” He grinned and said, “You’ll probably say I should have kept on herdin’ cows.”

“Wouldn’t be too quick to say that,” Fuller grinned. “I’ll take you up on it. Get on in, now, and let your folks have a look at ya. I reckon they’re sure gonna be surprised to see ya.”

“I hope so. Thanks for the ride.”

As Winslow walked along the dusty road that led from the
gate to the house, he felt strange, almost like a foreigner. The crowded cities of London and Paris were far away from this place he had called home for so many years. When he first arrived in London, he had walked the streets for days and days, entranced by the famous buildings he had only read about. The history of places such as Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the Tower of London had captivated his interest. And then a frenzy to paint had come upon him and he’d spent weeks painting them all.

Taking a deep breath, he suddenly realized how much he had missed his home during those three years. Now, however, as he looked out across the land, the crisp air and the azure sky that seemed to stretch out to infinity brought a sense of completion to him.

“Hey, what in the world do I see here?”

In his concentration, Phil had not heard the sound of a horse approaching. He turned and saw Lobo Smith, his brother-in-law, mounted on a fine chestnut gelding. Lobo was not his real name, but he despised his given name so much that he refused to be called by it. He swung off the saddle and put his hand out. He was not a tall man, not over five ten, and weighing no more than one hundred sixty pounds, but there was a solid roundness to his arms, revealed by the light tan shirt he wore. He had a muscular chest, and there was an aura of strength about him. Shoving his narrow-brimmed hat back, he exposed a wealth of curly brown hair and one bright eye the color of indigo. The other was covered by a black patch, but the one indigo eye gleamed with excitement.

“Well, the prodigal has finally come home,” Lobo murmured, his grip hard on Phil’s hand.

“Hello, Lobo. Yeah, I reckon that about sums it up.”

“Folks know you’re comin’? They didn’t say nothin’.”

“No. I didn’t know myself when I’d get here, but I guess they’ll let me in the front door.”

“I guess they will.” Lobo had married Lanie Winslow, one of Phil’s sisters, and the two men had become very close
friends. Lobo had never understood the force that drove Phil to leave his home and sail to Europe to become a painter, but he had said often, “A man needs to do what’s inside of him, Phil.”

Now Lobo said with a grin, “Give me that old suitcase. Guess if you’ve carried it across the big water, I can tote it the rest of the way.”

Phil surrendered the well-worn bag, and holding the lines of his chestnut with his left hand and the bag with his right, Lobo asked, “You home for good, Phil?”

For a moment Winslow hesitated. He had no real plans, except he knew he had learned all he could in Europe. He had not liked the Continent and just two months earlier had decided to come home. He arrived with empty pockets and nothing more than the clothes on his back, but he had learned something about painting.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so, Lobo.”

“Still got that paintin’ in your head, I reckon.”

“I guess so,” Phil said absently, looking around. “The place looks good,” he went on. “How are the folks?”

“Finer than frog hair. They’re gonna eat you alive, Phil, and them boys of mine, Logan and Frank, need an uncle for a while.”

When Phil stepped up onto the porch, the door swung open with a bang, and his mother, Bronwen, came flying out. He saw that her hair was the same brilliant auburn it had always been, with touches of white only adding to its sheen, and her sparkling green eyes seemed to laugh as she threw her arms around him.

She hugged him close and whispered, “Well now, it’s fine to see you.”

A trace of her old Welsh lilt was still in her speech, and as she clung to him, Phil felt the loneliness he had tried to ignore, for she had been a mother such as one only reads about. Over her shoulder another voice came, this one louder and more boisterous.

“Well, look what the wind blew in!”

Releasing his mother, Phil took his father’s handshake and then felt himself gripped by the strong arms that went around him. Zach Winslow had always been a powerful man, and now as he stepped back, Phil saw that his father had hardly aged in the time he had been gone. At sixty-nine, his brown hair had only just begun to be streaked with gray, and when he lifted his hand, Phil noted the forefinger that had been shot off by a Confederate sharpshooter.

“You couldn’t give us a little warning? That would have been too hard for you, I guess!” Zach scolded, but his eyes were laughing as he grabbed Phil’s arm. “Come in the house. We’re going to kill a fatted calf. Lobo, you think you can find one?”

“Reckon we got a few stringy critters. I’ll pick out the worst of ’em.”

Phil grinned at Lobo, then walked arm in arm into the house with his parents. The feeling of loneliness that had plagued him for the past few months faded, and he knew that, at least for a time, he was home.

When Zach Winslow had designed the ranch house that would provide a permanent home for him and his family, he had told the builder, “I want a dining room big enough for my family, all the kinfolk, and all the neighbors who want to crowd in. I’ll pay for it, and you do it.”

The builder had done well, creating a room that reflected the great western plains in its light and airy spaciousness. Three enormous windows along one wall opened onto a spectacular view of the distant mountains. The high-beamed ceiling made the twenty-by-forty-foot room seem even larger than it was, and two wagon-wheel chandeliers hung from the lofty beams on heavy chains. The polished hardwood floor and the honey-colored pinewood paneling gave the room an informal homeyness that put visitors instantly at ease.

Zach had filled the walls with the spoils of his hunting adventures—huge racks of deer and elk antlers—while on decorative shelves he had arranged small stuffed birds and game. Pictures of the Winslow ranch in rustic wood frames encircled the room. Bronwen had added her own touches to the decor: she had made curtains of heavily starched cotton in rich earth tones and had created tiebacks out of old horseshoes nailed into the wall. A large rag rug that she had spent many years making now lay beneath the heavy knotty-pine dining table. The table, which of all the furniture in the room most exemplified the character of the Winslow family—strong and stately—was surrounded by high-backed chairs, upholstered in a woven fabric of Cheyenne design. Silver candlesticks sat on a matching runner on the table. The Indian motif was further complemented by a wool blanket, woven in the natural colors of the plains, that hung above the massive stone fireplace.

Bronwen had also added a certain elegance to the western decor by including family heirlooms along the wall opposite the windows—a delicate maple china cabinet and two larger mahogany buffets, displaying an assortment of fine cut-glass pieces, china plates and platters, as well as silver trays, a coffee set, and candleholders. On the wall above the two buffets, she had proudly displayed some of Phil’s paintings that he had recently shipped home from Europe.

When Phil came down to breakfast in the morning and entered the dining room, he was surprised to find his entire family sitting at the table waiting for him. He had slept like a log all night, and the clanging of the dinner bell on the front porch had startled him from a peaceful slumber. He was no longer in the habit of rising at dawn. Now as he sat down at the table and greeted his family, a lump rose in his throat at seeing again those who loved him. At one end sat his parents, flanked by Lobo and Lanie, and across from Phil sat his two nephews, Logan and Frank, ages twelve and ten.

He grinned at them, for they were exact replicas of their
father, Lobo Smith. They even had the same indigo eyes. To his left was his brother Tom and his wife, Helen. Phil grinned and nodded at Tom. “I can’t get used to having a lawman sitting in the house. Why aren’t you out catching criminals or something?”

Tom Winslow wore a sheriff’s star on his shirt. He leaned back and studied Phil carefully, a lazy grin on his lips. He was sunburned, and his hands showed the mark of his trade, which had been herding cows until he had been elected sheriff the previous year. “I might start right here in this room. No tellin’ how many laws you broke over in Paris and London—and right here in Montana for that matter.”

“Oh, don’t be foolish, Tom!” Helen said. Tom’s wife was a petite woman with a pair of brilliant blue eyes and an attractive face. They had been married for only six months and the aura of being newlyweds was still on them. She reached over and squeezed his arm. “You be nice, you hear me, Tom?”

“Nice? I’m always nice, except with criminals. This brother of mine may need to be locked up. We could take some of the meanness out of him down at the county jail.”

“Why, that’s utter nonsense, Tom!” Bronwen snapped as she brought in a huge platter of scrambled eggs balanced on one arm and a basket piled high with buttermilk biscuits in the other. No sooner had she set down the basket than Tom reached for a biscuit. She soundly whacked his knuckles and chided her son for his bad manners. “Wait until after the blessing! You got no more religion than a Gila monster!”

Helen got up to help carry in the rest of the food, and the table was soon brimming with steaming dishes of crisp bacon and sausage, huge stacks of pancakes, and heaping bowls of fried potatoes. Freshly squeezed orange juice and milk had already been poured into large glasses, and heavy mugs awaited the hot, steaming coffee that Bronwen placed on the table in two ornate silver coffeepots.

Zach leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and shook
his head. “Well, I don’t guess the tribulation age has begun yet. You think this will keep you until noon, Phil?”

“I reckon so, Pa.” He looked over the steaming mountains of food and said, “It looks like we ought to invite half the county in. Mom, how do you expect me to eat all this?”

“You’re too thin! I’m going to fatten you up!” she said, smiling.

They all looked toward Zach, and when he bowed his head, they followed suit.

“Heavenly Father, I’m thankful for this food and for this house. I thank you for this son of ours who’s been brought back safely. We acknowledge that you’ve done it all. So we ask you to put your hand on him and on all of us and help us to please you in all our ways. In the name of Jesus. Amen.” Then without losing a breath, he reached out, stabbed some pancakes, and said, “Tell us what all you been doin’ over there in Europe.”

“No, you tell me first what you’ve been doing here. How’re Betsy and Wesley?”

“Fine,” Zach said as he lathered butter on his stack of pancakes, then reached for the hot maple syrup.

Betsy was Phil’s other sister, a few years younger than Lanie, and she lived in Chicago with her husband.

“They got a fine boy. Named him Heck after Heck Thomas.”

“That’s a good name,” Phil said, biting down on a piece of bacon. “It’s a wonder he didn’t arrest you, Lobo.”

Phil referred to the time when Lobo had been very close to stepping over into the outlaw life in Oklahoma Territory. It was there he had met the Winslows and fallen in love with Lanie, the oldest girl.

Lobo’s one eye glittered, and he said, “You’re right about that. If Lanie hadn’t taken to reformin’ me, I reckon I’d have been hanged by Judge Parker.”

Lanie reached over and tapped Lobo playfully on the arm. She was one of the most beautiful women Phil had ever seen. Her figure was stately, and even at the age of forty, she still had
most of her youthful grace. Her rich auburn hair and brilliant green eyes came from her mother, as did the high coloring of her cheeks. “Phil, have you heard from your brother John?” Lanie asked. “He’s doing well at Yale with his law studies. I expect he’ll eventually become a politician.”