Agnes and the Renegade (Men of Defiance) (29 page)

The morning was well advanced, the street already bustling with busy people moving about. There was a distant, persistent sound of hammering and men calling to each other as they constructed more buildings farther down in both directions. Oh, how she loved this town and its booming growth. The more it became a center for expansion in the west, the greater the population in small towns upstream, the more in demand her wholesale business became.

Harry opened the gallery door for her. When it shut behind them, the noise of the growing city became muffled. A handsome young man in a neatly tailored suit came forward to greet them. “You weren’t exaggerating your excitement over our exhibit,” he said to Harry. “Thank you for returning so quickly!” He switched his attention to Ester, greeting her with a polite head nod. “And you must be Mrs. Burkholder. How do you do? I’m Robin Daniels, assistant to the proprietor Prescott Giles. As I explained to your man earlier today, we are very excited to showcase Miss Hamilton’s work exclusively. And I am willing to give you a preview, but you must understand that the exhibit is not fully completed yet. The works are still being arranged. It will be a more pleasing experience for you to await the show on its opening day.”

Ester waved him away. “You are wasting my time, young man. I’m expected at another engagement and have only moments to spare.”

Robin bowed gracefully. “As you wish.” He stepped to the threshold of the exhibit and clapped his hands, ordering the workers to vacate the room. They left their tools in place. The pieces that weren’t yet hung leaned in place against the wall. The gallery was composed of three connected rooms, each featuring a different color theme on the walls and a tasteful arrangement of Aggie’s works.

The first room Ester entered was longer than it was wide, drawing the visitor’s eyes all the way across the room to the large piece she’d seen in Aggie’s painting tent. Seeing the painting hanging on a wall in a building deep in the heart of decent civilization caused a momentary paralyzation within her. Her legs wouldn’t move. Her lungs ceased to pull air.
 

Her grandson looked out at her from his portrait, a man who was a master of his destiny, proud, regal—even wearing his savage clothes. His black eyes glared back at her as they had so often in real life in the short time she’d known him. He stood against a rocky hill as if one with it beneath the cerulean-blue sky, his black hair lifted by the breeze. Ester could almost scent the wind that swirled around him.

He was magnificent. The piece was magnificent.
 

“That piece is titled ‘Hawk That Watches.’ Miss Hamilton said it’s the warrior’s name. He is a focal point of this exhibit.”

“What is the asking price for that piece?” Ester asked.

“It’s not for sale. She has already gifted it to her patron, Mr. Logan Taggert. If you like it, however, she has many sketches of this particular subject. I have no doubt you could commission another unique piece.”

Ester dismissed the man as she stepped deeper into the room, walking slowly from painting to painting. The girl had talent. Each work showed a deep realism, using light and color to reveal the emotion of the land and the details of her grandson. Even in the pieces that didn’t feature him, there were echoes of him everywhere.

She moved into the next room, slowly becoming aware of her grandson’s changing expressions, from anger and distrust to thoughtfulness and even joy. She’d never seen him happy in the short time she knew him. She wondered if she ever would. Miss Hamilton saw in her grandson something Ester herself hadn’t.
 

These works weren’t dispassionate studies of some wild red man. Miss Hamilton had painted her grandson’s soul. A pain sliced through Ester’s heart. She clutched her cane. A person couldn’t see another’s soul without loving that person. She’d been so blindly certain that Miss Hamilton was after her fortune, but these works proved her heart was true—or it had been before Ester had sent her away.
 

She’d come here thinking to buy up the paintings and shut the exhibit down. But the seeds of another plan had begun forming. Her family had founded a dynasty around America’s Manifest Destiny. How fitting for her to reclaim her lost grandson and transform him from his savage upbringing into an urbane, educated businessman. She could make an example of him, and use his transformation to grow her market share.
 

Perhaps she’d been looking at his attachment to the artist in the wrong way. The girl could be an integral part of documenting his domestication. What a triumph he would be for Ester. She would show the world that not only could she turn a savage into a decent citizen, so could she conquer the savage west, turning it into a safe place for businesses to thrive, he would become the symbol of her success.

She turned to leave, but something caught her attention. A price. A ridiculously low price. She went from piece to piece, shocked at how little the gallery was asking. This would never do. These works were important pieces of history.
 

Mr. Daniels returned to her side. “What did you think of the paintings?”

“I’m astounded at the quality of them. There are several I’d like to purchase, but I refuse to pay those ridiculous prices.”

He frowned. “Ridiculous? The artist specifically requested that we keep the prices low.”

She made a dismissive sound and waved her hand. “It devalues the works. Your clientele are my friends. We visit each other’s houses. We display our art acquisitions proudly. It is a matter of personal achievement that we are able to enjoy fine art in our own homes. If anyone were to see these paintings being offered for such a pittance, not one of them would deign to own the works, much less display them in a place of honor.”

Mr. Daniels’ cheeks deepened in color. “I can see your point. I will discuss this with Mr. Giles as soon as he returns. The prices were extremely low, but it was at the author’s request and aren’t indicative of the quality of her work.”

Ester showed Mr. Daniels the pieces she wanted and the prices she was willing to pay. She handed him her card. There was a small satisfaction to be had in seeing the exact moment when he recognized her name.
 

“You’re the Indian’s grandmother.”

“I am. However, that isn’t why I’m demanding you increase your prices. I have bought several works from you and I’ve never paid less than the amounts I proposed for the two I wish to purchase. It is slightly insulting that you devalue works featuring my grandson. And when you add to the mix Miss Hamilton’s extraordinary skill, I think you would offend any connoisseur.”

Mr. Daniels smiled at her. “As I said, I will discuss this with Mr. Giles. And I’m delighted that you were able to find a couple of works to make your own. I won’t be able to release them until after the show. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“Of course. Good day, Mr. Daniels.” She started toward the entrance, but paused before leaving. Looking back at him, she asked the question that had been pestering her mind: “Why is it that Miss Hamilton settled on the prices she did?”

Mr. Daniels smiled. “She’s an artist. She isn’t driven by money. She loves your grandson on a level very few people ever get to experience. She requested these prices so that more people might have access to your grandson and could love him as she does. It is for that reason that I do not know if we will be able to honor the change in prices you’ve suggested.”

“If you are not able to, sir, then I shall acquire the entire collection and close the exhibit. Good day to you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Chayton watched the town slip past the small coach window. They’d stopped at Agkhee’s studio earlier. Someone had been there at some point after Agkhee’s quick arrival and departure, because there was a stack of mail that included a postmark more recent than her return date. They’d found a woman in the stairwell, but she took one look at them and refused to talk. Julian had taken over the questioning and managed to get from her that Aggie’s assistant and model had asked that she not speak to anyone.

Julian, Sager, and Jace were going to make a round of visits to all the gallery owners in the city once they dropped Chayton, and Logan, off at his grandmother’s. With every street they crossed, every building they passed, every vehicle they went around, Chayton’s temper grew. Sarah had said that Agkhee was upset the morning she left. Logan had said he wasn’t convinced his grandmother wasn’t involved in Agkhee’s disappearance. Was it possible that the old woman had hidden Agkhee somewhere in her house? What better way to keep her under control?
 

When Julian dropped them off at his grandmother’s house, Chayton followed Logan to the front door and waited with him to be admitted.
 

“Logan, my grandmother said her man drove Agkhee down to Defiance and saw her safely home. We have only her word for that. He was the last to see her. What if he kept her? What if she is somewhere at my grandmother’s house?” Or worse, the thought he couldn’t bear to speak—what if his grandmother had harmed Agkhee?

Logan nodded, but did not have a chance to answer him before a middle-aged man in a uniform opened the door. “Good day, gentlemen.” He stepped back and widened the door to admit them.
 

Good day,
he’d said
.
It was
not
a good day.

“Where is my wife?” Chayton asked. The butler looked at him as if he didn’t understand. Chayton repeated himself. This time, Logan, too, gave him an odd look. Chayton broke. He stepped forward and grasped the little uniformed man by the throat and lifted his face close to his own. “Where. Is. My. Wife.” He spoke slowly, forcing each word out from clenched teeth.
 

The man sputtered. His arms flapped about. His mouth opened and closed. Chayton thrust him aside and took the stairs two at a time. He heard the man cough and gasp. Logan followed him up the stairs.
 

“Shall I summon the police?” the butler asked.

“No. He won’t harm anyone,” Logan said. “Tell the staff not to resist or impede. And they must not hurt him. Mrs. Burkholder would be devastated if her grandson were injured.”

“Yes, sir. I will gather the staff in the kitchen…”
 

Chayton heard nothing more as he entered the first room. It was full of furniture and textiles. A thick carpet covered the floor. Heavy drapes covered the window. Curtains framed the bed. He looked under the bed, in the armoire, anywhere large enough to contain a small female. He went into the next room and the next, increasing his speed and desperation as he went. He opened one room where a uniformed woman was changing the linens on the bed. She screamed when she saw him, then just stood there and screamed and screamed.
 

Logan moved around him and ushered her from the room, urging her to hurry down to the kitchen where the others were gathering.

Chayton went from room to room, down corridors, up stairs, sweeping the entire house. Each room was larger than the area inside most tipis. This building held enough space to house a small
Lakȟóta
village. And it was empty.
 

His grandmother, and her people, had invaded his country, sweeping away the homes of his people, so that she could build houses empty of any occupants—except for the uniformed people who served them. How did that make sense? How could anyone exist in this upside-down world?

He shoved his way into the kitchen, the last room in the house he had to inspect. A woman screamed. The others gasped and huddled in a corner. Some of the men stood with the women as if in fear of him. Other men stood between him and the quaking group.
 

“I am searching for my wife,” he told them.

Logan turned his back to the room and whispered to him. “English, Chayton. English.”

Chayton glared at his friend, then let that gaze of hatred sweep those in the room. Before he could speak, the kitchen door was thrown open and his grandmother entered. She banged her cane on the hardwood floor.

“What is the meaning of this? Charles, why on earth are you frightening my staff this way?”

Chayton turned on her, prowling closer as he spoke. In English. “My name is Chayton. Or Hawk That Watches. Use it, old woman. I will not answer to any other. What have you done with my wife?”

His grandmother took a couple of long breaths, pulling air through her flared nostrils. He wondered how well she would breathe with his hands around her throat.
 

“We will not discuss this here. Follow me to the library, please, gentleman.”

“Madam—” her butler started, but was cut short by the orders his grandmother issued as she walked out of the room.

“Not now, Thomas. Have the staff return to their duties. Mr. Taggert, please join us.”

Logan held the door for them, giving Chayton a quelling look as he passed. Chayton knew words and thoughts held a power of their own that once expressed could never be revoked. Right now, he was at a breaking point. He did not want this life. Not without Agkhee. His temper was restrained by a tie that was fast unraveling.
 

His gaze swept the heavily paneled room as he entered behind his grandmother. It was cluttered with books, vases of cut flowers, heavily padded furniture upholstered in floral prints. He wanted to sweep the shelves bare, break the china, burn the house. He turned blazing eyes upon his grandmother.

“Tell me what you have done with my wife.”

“I have done nothing with your wife.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss.” He started for the door.

“I have not given you permission to leave.”

He pivoted to face his grandmother. “And I have not given you permission to breathe, yet you do.”

“I will not tolerate your insolence.”

“And I will not tolerate your arrogance.”

His grandmother visibly collected herself. “The woman you call your wife is not, in truth, your wife. A wife is an asset to her husband. This may not be a concept you are familiar with. A man in your position in life does not marry for love. He marries to strengthen his dynasty. The woman you claim to have married is not an asset to you.”