Page 5 of The Pursuit of Elena Bradford

5

Kirby watched Elena Bradford walk across the room toward her mother and sister. He shouldn’t have called her by her given name. Not so soon. But she liked it. He could tell. He knew women. He should after the many portraits he’d done of ladies over the last few years. He knew how to keep the women happy and coin in his pockets. But he had long since tired of such sketching and painting.

Perhaps he should never have gone west with that surveying team to chart their discoveries in maps and illustrations when he was eighteen. Being there had buried a desire in him to go west again with his paints and pencils to capture the beauty of that rugged land. He would go again. It was simply a matter of time. And money.

He could have already been on his way or nearly so if not for the hotel fire that had destroyed all his sketches and finished paintings. Their sale was to have bankrolled his westward trip. He wondered now if he should have trusted in fate and used his last bit of money to buy a ticket west instead of to Graham Springs. But fate had never been very kind to him.

Seemed best to take a safer course and come to this Springs Hotel, convince the owner to hire him as an artist in residence for a few months. Wealthy women would be here. Such women wanted to be portrayed as beautiful, and he knew how to make that happen. A slight altering of the chin line, a shading here and there to make wrinkles disappear. A sweet smile. He could always find some beauty to bring out in a portrait no matter the lady’s age or looks.

Even better, he had a way of talking to his subjects that made them feel lovely. He’d been doing it for years in this town or that ever since he left home. Some accused him of being a charlatan, but if the intention was to make someone happy, what was the harm in it? Surely it was more a favor than a pretense.

The fact was, to his artist’s eye, very few women were truly ugly or truly beautiful. The right expression could light up a plain face. The wrong one could steal the shine of a pretty one.

He looked back at the woman who had joined her mother and sister on the other side of the room. Elena. He sensed she thought she lacked beauty. Perhaps because of her sweet little sister with her curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and easy smile. The sister probably never even thought about her looks. Her pleasing appearance was as natural to her as breathing.

Next to her, Elena must feel plain. Perhaps she embraced such a look. That could be why her dark hair was tightly caught up in buns with no chance of strands escaping to soften the severity of the style. Nor did her smile come easy like her sister’s did. Instead her smiles would have to be earned. And yet she had those eyes that had grabbed his notice. She had beauty there, but she obviously glanced over the loveliness of their blue-green color without notice whenever she looked into a mirror.

If he wanted to marry a woman to finance his artistic dreams, why not Elena Bradford? She was at the Springs with her mother and sister. That indicated money. The black dresses made him think her father had recently died. That left no man to doubt Kirby’s true motives. And what was wrong with the motive of marrying a lady and being a faithful husband? He could do that. Give her a good life while she enabled him to live his dream.

The woman might even have backbone enough to go west with him. After all, she had brazenly ignored her mother and walked with him in front of the horses to look for the fallen jehu. The color in her cheeks hadn’t been only from the heat. She had wanted to know him better.

Perhaps just the artist and not the man, but he thought not. She could be the best of two worlds. A well-to-do woman who might understand the artistic urge to capture something with pen and paint. She wasn’t simply the dabbler she had claimed to be. Her expression when the words were spoken had revealed that. Even more telling was how she had seen at once what he had tried to convey on the canvas he held.

No time for courting her now. He might never have that time if he couldn’t convince the man smiling so broadly at his guests to let him stay. But those were guests with money. Like Harper must be. Like Elena and her mother had to be.

He wished Elena had stayed by his side while he approached Christopher Graham. If she shared her feeling that his painting conveyed joy and made mention of what she called his heroics on the stagecoach, that might tip Dr. Graham’s consideration of Kirby as an onsite artist toward favorable.

He didn’t know if Harper would think the same about the stagecoach adventure. The man had been amenable enough when they were gathering the scattered baggage. But he had that look in his eyes Kirby had seen so often from those with no worry about money and no sympathy for those who lacked such riches. Harper looked to be born to money, as if that made him better than a man like Kirby raised on a poor dirt farm with nothing but his own cunning and hard work to bring him good fortune.

Kirby shoved those thoughts out of his mind. Graham was a self-made man himself, and look at him now with this resort that was the talk of the country. The Saratoga of the West it was said.

With a last glance at his painting for confidence, he started toward where the doctor was still talking with Harper.

“I was sorry to hear about Gloria.” The man clutched Harper’s shoulder with such firmness that the younger man looked unsteady for a moment.

A closer look at Harper’s face made Kirby think the words were what staggered him as much as the force of Graham’s hand.

“Yes, well.” Harper dropped his gaze to the floor as though he couldn’t bear the sight of the sympathy evident in the older man’s face. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry, son.” This time the doctor gave Harper a little shake. “Your grandfather has sent you to the right place. We will have you ready to get back to living the good life in no time at all. One can’t dwell on what cannot be changed.”

Harper raised his head, but instead of looking at Graham, he let his gaze slide past the man. When he spotted Kirby, he looked relieved, as though glad for something, anything, to keep the other man from saying more about this Gloria.

“Frazier.” He moved back away from Graham’s hand on his shoulder and motioned to Kirby. “Come meet Dr. Graham. Let us see that painting we carried along on the stagecoach.”

Kirby heard the forced camaraderie in Harper’s voice, but he appreciated the man’s effort to sound friendly and wasted no time taking advantage of this introduction.

Harper turned back to Dr. Graham. “We had an incident on the trip here today. Our driver foolishly tried to race with another coach and ended up being thrown off. The horses panicked.” Harper smiled at Kirby. “But Frazier here somehow managed to climb out of the stagecoach up onto the roof, where he must have crawled over to rein in the team and avert tragedy to the horses and, more importantly, to those of us in the coach, including those lovely ladies across the room.”

Harper nodded toward the three women in black. The mother and the younger sister didn’t notice, but the older sister appeared to have been waiting for them to look her way. She nodded slightly toward the canvas Kirby held as her lips twitched in a slight smile.

“That sounds like quite a feat,” Graham said. “Welcome to our establishment. Have you come for the waters?”

“No, sir.” Kirby turned back toward the doctor. “I’m an artist and I hoped to find employment here as such. Perhaps to fashion advertisements for your brochures or to add entertainment for your guests by sketching or painting their portraits.”

The man’s face lost its smile as he studied Kirby. “I see.”

Kirby could tell Graham wasn’t a man to be flattered or conned into hiring him. He didn’t know what he’d do if the doctor ordered him gone. Make the long walk back to the town, he supposed, but he hadn’t been ordered away yet. He squared his shoulders and turned the canvas around toward Graham.

“I brought a sample of my work with the intention of giving it to you, should you like it,” Kirby said. “But sadly, it got damaged on the way here.”

“Hmm.” Graham stroked his beard and stared at the painting.

Harper spoke up. “Too bad you fell on it when the stagecoach was bouncing around.”

Graham frowned. “I thought you said he was climbing up to stop the horses.”

“This was just before. The same bump that threw Mr. Frazier down on his canvas unseated our driver. Stagecoaches are rough rides even on the smoothest roads with the properly pacing horses, Doctor. You know that.”

“True enough.” He looked from the canvas to Kirby. “I like it. There’s something happy about it. Not sure what, but it’s a feeling I like.” He still wasn’t smiling as he continued to stare at Kirby for a long moment. Then he turned to Harper. “Will you vouch for this man?”

Harper only hesitated a second. “For his courage and daring. For his geniality. And from this example, for his art. Yes, I can.”

“For his honesty?” Graham raised his eyebrows even as he kept his gaze on Harper and not Kirby.

“That I cannot say for certain, but I have no reason to doubt it. He might be the one to answer that.”

Graham leaned toward Kirby. “I won’t have a shyster taking advantage of my guests.” His voice was barely audible now instead of booming as before.

Kirby kept his voice low but firm as he answered him. “I always have the greatest respect for the subjects of any portrait I do. Fair pay for my work, if it meets with the person’s satisfaction, is all I ask. Any sketch or painting I might do for you in regard to your establishment here would have to meet with your approval, although I would appreciate room and boarding.”

The man lifted his chin and was silent for a moment before he spoke in a normal tone, not booming or quiet now. “You must know how to handle horses.”

“Sir?” The change in the direction of their conversation rattled Kirby.

“You stopped the runaway stage.”

“Oh. My father had a contrary mule I had to deal with at plowing time on our farm.” When Graham smiled, Kirby hurried on. “Then a few years ago I went west with a survey team as a cartographer, but I had to pitch in with everything on the trip. One of the men taught me about handling horses and driving a team.”

“Good skills to have and that proved to be fortunate for young Harper here.” He turned toward Harper. “Best go find your room, Andrew. Dinner will be served soon, and then there’s the ball.”

“I thought to skip the dance,” Harper said.

“No, no.” Graham’s booming voice returned. “Can’t allow that. Dancing is part of the treatment here.”

Harper didn’t look pleased, but he inclined his head slightly before he turned to Kirby. “I look forward to seeing more of your work.”

As Harper walked away, Graham spoke almost as if talking to himself. “A shame how a bad experience in love can wreck a man.”

Kirby stayed where he was, still holding the canvas. He hadn’t been dismissed or ordered to leave. Yet. He could do nothing but wait for the man’s verdict.

“But once you’ve lived as many years as I have, you know that almost anything can be defeated with strong will and proper living.”

“And taking the waters at the best Springs Hotel.”

With a laugh, Graham jerked his attention back to Kirby. “Another skill is knowing what to say and when to say it. It appears you may be as gifted in that as you are with your brush.”

“That’s something that a man on his own has to master, but I’ve heard in the case of Graham Springs that partaking of the waters does have a reviving effect.”

“True enough.” The laugh gone, Graham studied Kirby with narrowed eyes.

Kirby didn’t say anything. There were times to speak and times to be silent. With this man, he figured there were more times to listen than to speak.

“Tell you what. You repair that canvas.” The doctor pointed to Kirby’s painting. “I’ll take that in exchange for two weeks’ lodging.”

“I can’t mend the tear.” Kirby looked down at the rent in the canvas.

“Then work it into the whole. That’s what we have to do when we are surprised with unexpected catastrophes in life. Work them into the fabric of life.”

“All right,” Kirby said. “But after the two weeks?”

“Let’s see how things go. Whether you can show your worth to the clients here. They come for healing but also for a good time. Will your presence add to their pleasure?”

“I have no doubt of that,” Kirby said. “Most enjoy seeing likenesses of themselves.”

“True enough if such likenesses show them in the best light.”

“I always find the best light.”

Graham smiled again at that. “For the right price?”

“That can help the light be brighter.”

“No signs with prices. But you can accept whatever any subjects of those likenesses offer you in payment.”

“Very well.”

“You can start by coming out to the rifle club to sketch some of the gentlemen displaying their marksmanship.” An amused look came into the doctor’s eyes. “You might do well to remember they do have guns and thus leave off the evident warts and scars.”

“Such can make a man look stronger at times.”

“True, but perhaps not more generous.” He clapped Kirby on the back with such force, he had to take a step to keep his balance. “And as there were a variety of duties on that westward trek you went on, so it is here too. Can you dance?”

“I can.”

“Then I expect you to be at the dances and make a willing partner to the ladies regardless of their beauty.” Again, the man’s eyes narrowed. “But without leading the na?ve on. No romantic nonsense.”

“It looks a place for romance.”

“Not for my workers. I’ll not have a handsome fellow like you leaving a trail of broken hearts in your path.”

Kirby looked straight into the older man’s eyes. “I’ll draw their pictures. I’ll whirl them around the dance floor. I’ll make them smile, but I’ll leave their hearts intact.”

He had no problem making that promise. If he enticed an heiress such as Elena Bradford to fall in love with him, no heart would be broken. He would give her his own heart. At least as much of it not already owned by his art and his dream of the west. He could make a woman happy.