Painted by the Sun Read online

  Everyone at the table turned to where Lily was closely examining the pile of carrots on her plate.

  "You mean you'd be willing to come into town and help me put the studio in order?" Shea croaked incredulously.

  Lily's mouth crimped and the color receded from her cheeks. "Y-y-yes."

  "But Aunt Lily," Rand burst out. "You never go to town!"

  Shea looked across the table at Cam, who was chewing at the corner of his mustache and looked every bit as baffled by Lily's offer as she was.

  No matter how incomprehensible that offer was, Shea knew she couldn't refuse it. No matter how much distance she'd hoped to put between herself and the Gallimores, that Lily had volunteered to leave the farm was a miracle happening before their eyes. It didn't matter why Lily had made this choice. What mattered was that she had.

  "Well, then," Shea said, doing her best to sound matter of fact. "I'd certainly welcome your help. There's lots of work to do, and you're so good at making things pretty."

  As if she'd suddenly realized what she'd done, Lily raised one hand to her withered cheek. Lily was already worrying about going into town, wondering how people would respond to her.

  Shea didn't give her a chance to change her mind.

  "Now haven't I seen a veiled bonnet around here somewhere?" she puzzled.

  "It's on the hat rack in the parlor, isn't it, Lil?" Cam answered.

  Lily turned on her brother, her eyes wide with reproach. She'd clearly expected Cam to rescue her from this momentary madness and was stunned by his defection.

  "I really do need you, Lily," Shea went on, clasping Lily's hand and feeling how cold her fingers were.

  "I—I suppose I could come just once and help you clear away the worst of the mess," Lily conceded.

  "Thank you for agreeing to help," Shea said. "I'll expect you first thing in the morning."

  "Tomorrow?" Lily squeaked.

  "I'd planned to take the carriage into town tomorrow, anyway," Cam put in.

  "Oh, well, yes," she conceded, already fluttering with nervousness. "I suppose I can ride in with Cammie in the morning."

  Shea wanted to take this pale, slim woman in her arms and tell her it was going to be all right, that once she'd mustered her courage to do this, it would get easier. She wanted to tell her that neither she nor Cameron would let anyone hurt her. But even if she did, Lily would never believe her.

  "Good," Shea answered instead. "I'll expect you at the studio about eight o'clock."

  Rand carried most of the dinner conversation after that with tales from school.

  Once Shea had helped Lily wash up the dinner dishes, she grabbed a shawl and headed outside. The move into town wasn't going at all the way she'd envisioned, and she needed a breath of air to reflect on this change of plans. But when she stepped out onto the porch, she found Cameron leaning against one of the posts smoking one of the slim, dark cheroots he indulged in now and then.

  She didn't say so much as a word to him, just drew the tails of her shawl more closely around her and stared out toward the faint sawtoothed ridge just barely visible in the distance.

  "I want to thank you for whatever it was you said that made Lily offer to go into town," he finally murmured, breaking the silence between them.

  "I didn't say anything much. You heard her; she made the offer of her own accord."

  He shook his head. "Emmet and I have been trying to coax her into Denver for years, but she just wouldn't go."

  "Well, maybe the time's just right," Shea offered, looking up at him. "Maybe having complete strangers foisted upon her has worn down her reserve."

  One corner of Cam's mustache twitched in wry amusement. "Well, whatever it is, I'm grateful."

  Shea acknowledged the comment with a nod of her head.

  He looked back toward where the mountains lay dark and passive off to the west. He drew on his cheroot then tossed it away in a smooth, glowing arc. "I take it this means you and Owen have decided not to stay at the cabin."

  Shea felt the heat creep into her cheeks. "As generous as your offer was, I believe Owen and I will do better with our photography if we live in town."

  Cam hesitated, frowned, and then turned back to her. "It isn't what happened between us the other night that made you—"

  "No!" Shea denied, her cheeks burning hotter. It wasn't the kiss. It wasn't the rich, dark roux of emotions that kiss had set bubbling between them that made her want to leave.

  Realizing Rand was her son was what prevented her from accepting Cam's offer. Her indecision and her impotence when it came to declaring herself made it impossible for her to stay on the farm. She'd spent ten years yearning for this child. Now if she meant to claim him, she'd have to destroy this home, this family. Destroy everyone involved, including Rand, and she couldn't bear being reminded.

  Cam shifted uncomfortably beside her. "What I mean to say," he went on, "is that I didn't intend for that kiss to happen. What I mean to say is that I can—control—myself where you're concerned."

  Shea glanced up at him, pleased to have something to divert her from her own irresolute thoughts. "Now, isn't that just the kind of compliment every woman yearns to hear from a man who's kissed her?"

  She hadn't realized how stiffly he'd been holding himself until she heard him chuckle and saw the line of his shoulders soften.

  He rubbed at his chin and something that might have been a smile curled one corner of his mouth. "It isn't that I didn't enjoy it," he amended.

  "I suppose I should be grateful to hear that."

  He hitched an eyebrow in her direction. "Does that mean that you enjoyed it, too?"

  Oh, God help her, yes! Her mouth tingled just remembering how his lips had moved on hers, how his tongue had explored her. Her body ached to feel the imprint of his again, with the need to feel his arms around her, drawing her close. He'd stirred to life things she had never experienced. He'd given her her first, lush taste of unruly passion.

  Liam's father had been as shy and as unseasoned as she was the night they'd come together. Simon had been kind, but years older than she and ill most of their married life.

  For all the semblance of a staid, almost monastic existence, Cameron knew what a woman wanted. He knew how to give her pleasure. Shea understood that instinctively with just one kiss. But she couldn't let this unwelcome attraction influence the decisions she had to make.

  She drew her shawl closer still. "I thought the kiss was lovely," she answered.

  He leaned closer, bending over her. "I was hoping for a more enthusiastic adjective."

  His breath feathered over her face. She could feel his warmth through her clothes. She longed to raise her mouth to his, taste the flavor of him again, and chance whatever came. But Shea Waterston was a practical woman, a woman who recognized danger when she saw it. So instead she stepped away.

  He drew back as well and looked off toward the mountains again. "No," he agreed. "That wouldn't have been wise. Not for either one of us."

  She was glad he understood that her responsibilities came first—just as his did—and yet the hot tremble of unrequited anticipation was slow to die in her. She stood there not wanting to turn and go back into the house, yet not knowing what to say to him, either.

  "So when do you think you will be ready to open the studio?" he asked her.

  She let out her breath, grateful he'd bridged the gap between them, glad they had something to talk about that didn't involve either Rand or that soul-deep kiss.

  "Longer than I'd like," she admitted. "If I could open the studio by mid-November, I'd be able to take advantage of people who want portraits done for Christmas."

  "Do you need money for supplies and groceries until then?" he inquired.

  "Oh, Cam!" she breathed and turned to where that strong, half-illuminated profile stood out sharply against the deeper dark beyond the porch. She couldn't remember more than a time or two in her life when anyone had been so thoughtful, or so generous. "If our money arrives from New Yor
k anytime soon, we'll be all right. I think the shopkeepers will extend credit to me until I establish myself."

  "Good," he told her and straightened as if he meant to go into the house. "Good. I just want you to know you can come to me if you need—well—if you need anything at all."

  "I will," she promised. "Cam?"

  He paused, looking down at her.

  It was her turn to avert her eyes. "You've been really good with Owen these last weeks. He says you understand what happened in the war."

  Though he didn't move, she sensed a sudden and peculiar tension coil through him. It was a moment before he spoke, and when he did his voice was low.

  "The war scarred everyone who fought in it," he answered carefully. "It scarred folks who had no reason to be hurt."

  He was most decidedly speaking of his sister, but Shea sensed his empathy ran deeper than that. To Owen, and maybe Dr. Farley as well, who'd fought for the South. Hearing Cam speak of it made Shea wonder what the war had done to him and how he managed to hide his scars so well.

  "I just wanted to thank you," was all she said.

  "That makes us even, then." He made it all the way to the door this time. "Come on into the house. Lily will have my head if I let you freeze to death."

  * * *

  I hope this isn't a mistake! Cameron thought as he drove the carriage up Sixteenth Street and pulled to a stop at the stairs to the left of the millinery shop.

  He glanced across to where his sister sat beside him, veiled from head to toe in black. She hadn't said so much as a word the whole way into town. He figured she was scared to death—and he couldn't blame her.

  Lily hadn't left the farm since they'd moved into the house not quite eight years ago. She never went anywhere to shop. She didn't attend church. She'd never so much as set eyes on their neighbors. Coming into Denver today, Lily was like a chick breaking out of its shell, leaving somewhere safe for worlds unknown.

  Watching her, he felt like he had when he'd taken Rand to school for the first time. Eager and apprehensive, and determined not to let his feelings show.

  He just hoped everything would go all right. He hoped he wouldn't be sorry he'd encouraged her. God knows, he had so much to regret where Lily was concerned already.

  Still, for all her evident trepidation, Lily didn't seem cowed by being here. She carried herself like the lady their mother had raised her to be, sitting beside him on the buggy seat with her chin up and her back straight.

  Setting the carriage's brake, Cam jumped down. As he came around to help her to the ground, the chilly October wind ruffled the dark scrim of her chest-length mourning veil.

  She batted the fabric back in place, took a breath that was deep enough to visibly lift the wall of her chest, then accepted his outstretched hand to negotiate the steps to the ground. It was early and the streets in downtown Denver were empty, except that the proprietor of the shop next door was sweeping the walk.

  He looked from his work, and dipped his head in greeting. "Morning, Judge. Miss Gallimore."

  Lily's fingers bit into the muscles of Cam's arm.

  Cam tipped his hat. "Morning, Mr. Nicholson."

  They were halfway up the stairs to Shea's studio when Lily squeezed his arm again. "How does he know who I am?" she whispered.

  Cam decided this wasn't the time to tell her she wasn't as anonymous as she thought. He patted Lily's hand reassuringly. "Mr. Nicholson was only guessing it was you on my arm."

  Shea must have heard them coming up the steps, because she was waiting when they reached the landing. "Good morning!" she greeted them, and with a laugh and flourish swept them into the studio.

  "Now I want you to imagine this with the cobwebs knocked down, the boxes gone, and the floors polished," she instructed breathlessly. "Imagine a nice rug out here in the reception hall, and a curtain between it and the studio. What do you think?"

  "Goodness!" Lily answered with a little laugh. "Give me a moment to catch my breath!"

  Shea chattered eagerly as she showed them around, extolling the virtues of northern light for making photographs, opening the door to what would be their darkroom, showing them the alcove behind it where Owen would sleep.

  Since the photography wagon had been gone when he went to the barn for early chores, Cam surmised Shea had been here cleaning since before sunup. God knows she looked it. Her hands and the apron around her waist were smudged with black, and her hair frizzed around her head like a halo of down. But beneath the sheen of perspiration on her brow and the bit of fuzz stuck to one cheek she was glowing with excitement.

  She loved this. He could feel her enthusiasm as if she were giving off sparks. He could feel them crackle along his skin, and saw that Lily was energized by her, too.

  Before he knew it, Lily had whisked off her bonnet and was taking a folding rule from her reticule. She measured the width of the doorway between the reception room and the studio.

  "Green curtains, I think," Lily was saying, half to herself. "Velvet would be lovely, but I think we could make do with something not quite so grand."

  "I just knew you'd know how to make this place presentable," Shea agreed.

  "And wallpaper," Lily went on. "The reception room needs just the right wallpaper to set if off. And brass sconces..."

  With a frown of practicality Shea gently reined in Lily's enthusiasm. "I can't afford wallpaper, or sconces, either. We'll only be here until the roads are passable in the spring, so I daren't spend much on decorating."

  "Well, then, we use paint. A nice soft color, something that will flatter the ladies' complexions. Cammie will paint the reception room for you."

  "I will?" Cam spoke up. But then, he would have agreed to anything short of highway robbery to see his sister so bright and animated. "Maybe I can get Emmet to help."

  "Emmet!" Lily laughed and wrinkled her nose. "He may be unsurpassed when it comes to using a scalpel, but he doesn't know one end of a paintbrush from the other. Do you remember the time, Cammie, when you asked him to help you paint the fence?"

  Cameron shot an explanatory look in Shea's direction. "He ended up spattered from head to toe, and with picket stripes all down his trousers."

  Shea bit her lip to hold back a smile. "Owen paints; so do I. And it sounds as if we're a good deal more accomplished than our friend the doctor."

  Cameron laughed and the tension seeped out of him. Lily was doing fine here. In a few more minutes she would be tying an apron around her waist and taking up a broom. She was safe here, and he knew he could count on Shea to keep her safe.

  He was preparing to head for his office when someone thumped insistently on the door to the studio. Lily started in surprise and lost her smile.

  Shea turned toward the reception room, her features sharp with curiosity. "I'll just go see who that is."

  Cameron followed her and arrived just as she opened the door. A ragtag boy about Rand's age stood outside.

  "Why, Tyler Morran!" Shea greeted him as if she knew him well. "Whatever are you doing in Denver?"

  "Pa and me come to town for the winter," the boy said. "Pa's been coughing something fierce since the weather got cold, so I figured town'd be the place for him this winter."

  "How on earth did you find me?" she asked him.

  "I sweep up over at the Golden Spur on Blake Street," he told her, "and heard a lady photographer was opening up a studio. Then I saw your photography wagon parked in Mr. Johanson's livery stable and figured I'd stop by."

  Cameron moved up a little closer behind Shea, taking note of the boy's rumpled hair and dirty face, his ragged shirt and inexpertly mended trousers.

  He could tell by the way Shea's mouth narrowed that she was every bit as appalled by the boy's appearance, but when she spoke it was clear she was more concerned about other things. "It's Tuesday, Ty. Why aren't you in school?"

  He studied the toes of his battered boots. "Me and school don't get on too good," he explained to her.

  Cam saw concern for the boy ge
ntle her features. "Are you here looking for work, Ty?"

  "Well, yes, ma'am, I am," the boy answered. "Like I said, I been sweeping up some, and I work at the livery when Mr. Johanson needs me. I figured maybe you'd be needing some help—like up in the mountains."

  Shea reached out to the boy and curled her hand around his narrow shoulder. "And a fine helper you are, too."

  The boy's face lit up like the Fourth of July.

  "Well, let me see," Shea went on. "I suppose I'll be needing someone to sweep up here, and maybe run some errands."

  "I could do that," Ty assured her. He scuffed his boot soles and stepped into the studio. "And it looks like you got the makings of a fine place here, too."

  The boy looked up at Cam and nodded, as if he had been raised to be polite. Then his gaze moved beyond Cam to where Lily stood in the studio doorway.

  Before anyone could stop him, Tyler Morran stepped in close and looked up at her. "What happened to your face?" he wanted to know.

  Cam turned, ready to grab this ragamuffin by the collar and haul him out the door. But when he saw Lily was nearly as absorbed in the boy as he was in her, he decided to wait.

  "I got burned in a fire," she answered, tipping her chin just a little so he could see the scars more clearly.

  The Morran boy looked at them intently. "I bet that hurt."

  "It did," Lily confirmed.

  "It hurt anymore?"

  "Not at all."

  "Good," he said, and just that quickly, the boy moved on to the things that were more interesting and important. "So are you a lady photographer, too?"

  Cam saw the twinkle of appreciation come into Lily's eyes. "No, I'm not a lady photographer," she answered. "I came to help Shea get ready to open the studio."

  "Me, too," Ty agreed and turned to where Shea stood watching them. "So, Mrs. Waterston," he asked, "what is it you want us to do to help you?"

  Shea made hasty introductions, then offered Lily an apron and broom, and dispatched Ty to the store.

  As they scurried off in all directions, Cam slumped back against the wall and let out his breath in a whoosh. He'd known that, no matter how careful they were, Lily was bound to confront a stranger eventually. That this boy—this child—had faced her, looked at her scars, and then dismissed them, was something for which Cam was profoundly grateful.