Wildcat Bride Page 2

  Jack whispered sharply in her ear. She didn’t make out what he said, but he kept dragging her away. Her feet were getting tangled in her skirt.

  She’d have to turn about or fall. “Bug? I’ll see you, later?” she asked again.

  Bug’s eyes hadn’t left her, but he didn’t answer either. Jack tugged abruptly, spinning her about.

  When she caught her footing, she spun back. Bug’s head was bent down as he listened to something the blonde said. The happiness of this—her first art show—shattered.

  Chapter Two

  The exhibition was scheduled from six to nine, and Eva found herself wishing it wasn’t happening at all. The pretend smile on her face hurt, as did her feet in the tight, pointed tip and spiked heeled boots that now had to be three sizes too small. She wiggled her toes, wondering if blood still flowed to them.

  Needle sharp stings raced along her feet and up her shins.

  “Smile,” Jack whispered in her ear. “This turnout is tremendous. Even better than I hoped.”

  “I am smiling,” she insisted quietly, nodding her head at those passing by.

  Jack patted her cheek. “Try harder.”

  She would have responded, but just then he waved at a man entering the room.

  “Mr. Cannon.” Jack moved swiftly, away from her to cross the room and greet the man personally.

  Eva let out a sigh. The gallery was packed from wall to wall already, and yet more people shuffled in the open doorway. When Jack had first described tonight’s event, she’d been thunderstruck, never imagining anyone would attend a show featuring her artwork. Then again, when Jack first arrived at the soddy, a few months after Bug had left, explaining how he’d seen her painting hanging on the wall of the Majestic Hotel in Dodge City, she’d never imagined he’d sell the number of paintings he already had.

  The picture in Dodge that Jack had seen was of Bug’s brother, Hog and his wife Randi. The couple had built the hotel and restaurant a few years ago, which was on its way to becoming famous. People flocked into the establishment. Hog claimed it was because everyone wanted a piece of refinement in their lives. She’d painted the picture as a gift, as she had for all of Bug’s brothers and their wives, Kid and Jessie, Skeeter and Lila, Hog and Randi, and Snake and Summer. The Quinters were the only family she’d had—besides Willamina—since her parents died while traveling west.

  She’d been fifteen when her family left Missouri for the silver mines in Colorado, but they’d only made it as far as Dodge City before she’d been orphaned. Her mother to disease, her father to an outlaw. Willamina had taken her in, and afraid the outlaw would return, they’d left Dodge. In some ways it was all a blur, how quickly everything had happened. But happen it had. The oldest Quinter brother, Kid and his wife Jessie, were friends of Willamina’s and lived eighty or so miles west of Dodge. In no time, Eva and Willamina were settled in the soddy that had belonged to Jessie before her marriage. In even less time, they were accepted by the Quinters as part of the family.

  “Miss Reynolds, can you tell me about this picture? I just love it! Is it really of Dodge City?” A woman dressed in a shimmering black dress, set a large painting on the floor in front of her feet.

  “Yes, that is of Dodge City,” Eva answered.

  “Oh, my.” The woman leaned closer. “My friends are going to be green with envy. Please tell me all about it. When did you paint it? Who are the people?” She pointed to the four men on horseback, wearing large hats and long dusters.

  “I’m afraid they’re not real, just images I created. That’s how most men dress in Kansas.” Eva explained. “I painted it three years ago while I was staying in Dodge for a few weeks.”

  “Oh,” the woman said. “I was hoping they were outlaws or something.”

  Feeling the woman’s disappointment, Eva leaned closer and pointed to the big white house in the background of the picture. “I can tell you that house is Danny J’s.”

  “Danny J’s?”

  Eva wondered if she should go on, not really sure why she admitted that was Danny’s house. It really didn’t matter and might give the woman something to tell her friends. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “It’s a brothel.”

  “Oh!” The woman slapped one hand over her excited shout.

  Eva cowered. She really shouldn’t have shared that. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you don’t want to purchase it now.”

  “Are you serious? Of course I want to purchase it. Even more now that I know more about it.” She picked the painting up. “I absolutely love your work.

  It’s magnificent!”

  “Thank you,” Eva offered. It never failed to stun her at how people marveled over her creations. To her it was just something she had to do. Therefore, she’d been painting for as long as she could remember.

  “No, thank you, my dear. I must continue browsing, I’m sure there are more paintings I need to purchase.” The woman, clutching the framed work to her breast, moved on.

  Eva, smiling at the strong sense of self accomplishment hovering around her heart, turned to gaze at the people examining her art work. Men and women elbowed each other aside to get closer looks, while others stood on the tips of their toes, peering over the heads of those in front of them.

  It was all due to Willamina. Not long after they started living together, Willamina learned of Eva’s passion for painting. The woman insisted Eva took time to paint every day, even when there were other chores needing attention. Eva had seen to the chores first, of course, she wouldn’t have Willamina doing them all herself. Not that Willamina couldn’t have, even old and bent over, the woman had had more energy and gumption than people half her age.

  She scanned the room then, searching for Bug’s tall figure and remembering many happy times.

  She’d seen him earlier, while Jack was making her introduction, and the crowd was clapping and flocking towards her like birds gathering up to fly south. Bug hadn’t congregated forward, instead he’d hung back, leaning against an open space on the far wall and frowning.

  He was nowhere to be seen now, and neither was the blonde who hadn’t left his side. Was she, the petite, prettier than pretty blonde, the reason he hadn’t returned to Kansas? May never.

  Like a fly, buzzing from one spot to another, Jack appeared at her side again. “Come along, my dear, there’s a couple making a very large purchase who has requested a private conversation with you.”

  “What?” she asked, still searching for Bug.

  “Snap out of it, Eva. You’ll never have this chance again if you don’t devote your time and attention to these people. They’ll become your best fans, and assure your paintings sell worldwide.”

  Jack, always serious, squeezed her elbow. “We haven’t worked this hard for some pretty boy in a three piece suit to screw it up.”

  Miffed, she scowled at him. “Jack, you—”

  “Just smile, and come with me.” His fingers dug into her flesh as he led her to a private room near the back of the gallery.

  Knowing now wasn’t the time, Eva breathed through the anger building in her chest as Jack haughtily described the way Bug had entered the event. Ignoring him, and his attitude, she held her head high, and strolled into the side room with a fake smile glued on her lips.

  The elegant couple was from France, and interested in what other paintings she had that weren’t on display. They insisted people in Europe were starving for art work from the Wild West, especially those like hers, the ones that depicted everyday life and people.

  Eva had no idea how someone could be hungry for paintings, but following silent instructions from Jack, she visited with the man and woman until they seemed satisfied with her answers. An agreement was settled, Jack would send them a dozen more paintings he had in storage, and provide the couple the first opportunity to purchase a few specific others as she completed them.

  The conversation had been lengthy, and when she re-entered the gallery, the darkeni
ng windows suggested evening had turned into night. Eva scanned the room again, praying Bug hadn’t left.

  Her eyes found him almost immediately.

  A grin formed on his face. Relief flooded her chest. He pushed away from the wall. The room, in her mind anyway, was empty as she made her way across it. Bug, just like his brothers, was as tall, strong, and sturdy as an oak in a storm. The thought of basking in his protection made her pace increase.

  He caught her hand, but instead of folding those brawny arms around her, he fell into step beside her, leading her toward a hallway that led to the back of the building. Once out of the room, he spun her about.

  “Why, Eva? Why would you put our lives on display?”

  “Lives on display?” she repeated, confused by his angry tone, and disappointed that he didn’t hug her.

  “Yes. That’s Willamina washing clothes next to the soddy in that painting. And that other one, that’s Buffalo Killer. How do you think he’d feel to know someone’s buying him to hang up for people to stare at every day?”

  “Well, uh—”

  Jack, once again, was there to interrupt her explanation. “Eloisa!”

  Bug, with blood boiling and temples pounding, glared at the man who attempted to step between him and Eva.

  “Excuse me,” the man’s eyes roamed up and down Bug’s suit before he said, “my good man. Miss Reynolds is needed elsewhere.” The man planted an elbow, none too gently in Bug’s ribs.

  Snatching the irritating fellow, even though he was good sized, by the back of his stand up collar, Bug lifted the man off his feet. “Jack is it?”

  The man, toes dangling, nodded.

  “Jack, my good man,” Bug growled, “don’t ever elbow me again. Not unless you want to see what happened to the last man who did.”

  Jack nodded, and eyes blinking, turned to Eva.

  “Eloisa, please tell your fri—”

  Bug, still holding the man an inch or so above the ground, tightened his hold. He’d taken the time, while Eva visited with the patrons of the show, to discover that she and Jack weren’t married. A fact that had made his heart sing, and his mind was relieved, too, knowing he no longer wanted to hang his mother. Yet, the man, husband or not, still irritated the pants off Bug. “Her name is Eva, not Eloisa.”

  Eva set both hands on his chest. “Bug, please put Jack down.”

  He’d never been able to deny her anything, and madder than a cross-eyed bull or not, now wasn’t any different. Bug relaxed his hold and the man slipped from his fingers. A smile cracked Bug’s lips as the heels of Jack’s kid-leather shoes hit the floor with a thud.

  “Elo-Eva,” Jack started, tugging the lapels of his jacket straight.

  She held up one hand, but her gaze stayed locked on Bug’s. “Leave us alone for a few minutes, Jack.”

  Bug didn’t look aside either, but knew the moment Jack moved away. Perhaps the man wasn’t a fool after all. Bug tossed the thought aside. There were so many other questions swimming around in his mind, he could barely make one out from another. “Why does he call you that?”

  “What?” she asked, frowning.

  He wrapped his hands around her fingers still settled on his lapels, and gently removed them.

  Holding her fingertips, massaging the knuckles, he asked, “Whose Eloisa Reynolds?”

  “Me.” She gazed at their fingers for a moment.

  “Jack says Eva Robertson is a fine name for a girl from Kansas, but not for a world renowned artist.”

  “World renowned?” Her paintings were the best he’d ever seen, and the prices of them had astonished him, but when had she become world renowned?

  “Yes, I’m not world renowned yet, but Jack says I will be in a few years.”

  “Who is this Jack guy, anyway?”

  “He’s my agent. He sells my painting and sets up shows like this for me to display my work.”

  Bug’s guts churned. “How many of these shows have you done?”

  “This is the first.”

  “So, Jack says you’re going to be world renowned?”

  She nodded. There was a happy glint in her eye.

  He didn’t want to disappoint her, but the whole thing smelled like rotten eggs to him. “And Jack set up this show.”

  Again, she nodded.

  “And Jack says you have to call yourself Eloisa instead of Eva?”

  “Yes, he said—”

  “I know, you already told me.” Bug ran the ball of his thumb up and down the inside of her wrist.

  “How much does Jack make off your paintings?”

  “Fifty percent”

  Bug choked on his own saliva. Swallowing, so she wouldn’t notice, he repeated, “Fifty percent?”

  “Yes, that is the going rate.”

  “Eva,” he said, shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “When did you become so gullible?”

  Her big, brown eyes snapped up, alive and alarmed they gazed at him. “What?”

  “Gullible. You can’t believe—”

  “I can’t believe what, Bug Quinter?” She tugged her hands out of his.

  He reached to recapture her, but she stepped back.

  “Who do you think you are? Storming in here.”

  She held up a hand as he stepped closer. “Jack told me about the commotion you caused in line.” Her icy glare held him from trying to reach out to her.

  “Scowling at the other guests like they’re trespassers. And then!” She threw her arms in the air. “You not only accuse me of exploiting my family and friends, you tell me I’m gullible for believing in myself? Gullible for believing I, Eva Robertson, an orphan from Kansas, could become a world renowned artist.”

  Damn. None of it seemed that bad in his head.

  “Eva,” he started. “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh? And what part don’t I understand? That you’re a brute? That you don’t care about anybody but yourself?”

  “A brute?” How’d she turn it around on him?

  “Yes. A brute.” She held one finger under his nose. “Let me tell you something, Bug Quinter. I’m a very good artist. Those people out there are paying good money to purchase pictures I painted. And yes, they may be of people and places I know, but you know what else?” She continued before he could answer. “I have permission from those friends and family to paint them. To exploit them!”

  She poked his chest with her finger now. It didn’t hurt, but it was annoying. “Buffalo Killer gave me permission to paint him. He was proud that I wanted to, and he was proud when the other six I’ve done of him have sold for substantial amounts of money.”

  “Buffalo Killer knows…”

  “Yes!” She hit him one last time with her finger, as if for good measure. “He knows and he’s proud of me.” Her tantrum had lit ire to flame in his chest. It bothered him to think that everyone else knew about her paintings being sold—for substantial amounts of money—and they were proud of her. He was, too, but he had the right. They didn’t. Especially not Buffalo Killer. “What about Willamina? How does she feel about being on display for everyone to see? She’s worked hard her entire life, and to be displayed as a wrinkled old wash woman, well, that’s just wrong.”

  The resounding crack of her hand hitting his cheek was more shocking than the contact itself.

  Stunned, he stared at Eva.

  Tears glistened in her eyes. “How dare you insinuate I’d ever illustrate Willamina as anything less than the caring and wonderful woman she was!”

  One word pelted him with icy rain. His breath welled in his lungs, making them flame. “Was?”

  “Yes, was!”

  The thought of Willamina being gone turned his blood into ice. He grabbed Eva’s upper arms. “What?

  When? Why didn’t someone tell me?” This time he didn’t give her the time to answer before he continued, “Everyone writes to me, Ma, Jessie, Lila, Randi, Summer, hell even
the boys, including August writes now and again. But no one mentioned that!” He tightened his grip. “Not even you!”

  She shook her head.

  “Why?” The pain inching its way from his gut to his heart blistered his insides. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  “I asked them not to.” Her fingers shook as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because there wasn’t anything you could do.

  She was old and tired. It was her time. She didn’t suffer, nor was she ill. She just didn’t wake up one morning. I didn’t want her death to interfere with your dream of becoming an oil man.”

  He wanted to pull her close, to ease the pain twisting her face, but he couldn’t, his own pain was too severe. Willamina had been like a grandmother to him. He loved her as dearly as he did the rest of his family. “That wasn’t your choice to make. It should have been my choice. I should have been there. I should have dug her grave. Said my good-byes.”

  Eva chewed on her bottom lip. Tears trickled down her face, dripping off her chin. Bug spun about from the sight. “That wasn’t your choice to make, Eva.” Shaking his head, forcing the tears from pressing their way out from behind his eyes, he walked through the room. His blurred gaze landed on the sod house picture. An old woman—Willamina—was bowed over a wooden wash tub, scrubbing clothes on a tall wash board. Her gray hair, falling from the bun at her nape, floated on the breeze as did the line of garments hanging from a rope stretched from a pole to the corner of the house.

  He stomped over and snatched up the picture.

  The little price card in the corner fluttered to the floor. It didn’t matter, he’d already seen the number, knew buying the painting would empty his pocketbook.

  “Sir?” A man dressed just like the ticket taker blocked his path.

  Bug hitched the painting under one arm, and dug out his purse. Pulling every last bill out, he slapped the money into the hand the man held out.

  Jenny appeared at his side then. “There you are.

  I’ve been looking everywhere for you. There are a few paintings I’d like to purchase, too.”