Rosa's Land: Western Justice - book 1 Read Free Page A

at your work, and he’s agreed.”
    “Oh, that’s good, Mother. Thank you very much. I know I need more help.”
    “Why don’t you go lie down awhile? You look tired.”
    “Maybe I will.” He rose, leaned over, and kissed her cheek, something Leo or Max would never think of doing. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
    Faye went to the second floor and into his room. He liked the room, for the window went from the floor almost to the ceiling, and he could catch the morning light. He had picked his own furniture. The chairs were old, the red and blue turkey coverings were worn to center, but he was happy with it. The pictures on the walls were not expensive, mostly watercolors with a few oils and many sketches.
    Faye went at once to his desk and opened it, then pulled out a book and sat down in one of the chairs and began to read. It was a book about the Texas Rangers. He had bought it at a used bookstore and was fascinated by the stories of the terrible battles with the Indians and the outlaws that the Rangers engaged in. He sat there reading for a time then closed the book and sighed, “Well, I’ll never be able to do that.”
    He left his room and found Pat Ryan outside cleaning up the barouche. “Pat,” he said, “how’d you learn to fight?”
    “Why, Mr. Faye, I always knew how to fight. In my neighborhood, you had to fight.”
    “You think you could teach me to fight? Could I learn?”
    “I don’t think you need to. How much you weigh, Mr. Faye?”
    “About a hundred and eighty-five pounds, I think.”
    “A hundred and eighty-five? Well, it don’t show. That’s big enough, but a man has to be quick.” He held up his hand, palm out, and said, “Try to hit my hand. I’ll try to make you miss.”
    To Pat’s obvious shock, Faye hit him on the hand before he could even move.
    “You are fast!” he said. “Try it again.”
    Again and again Pat held up his hand but never dodged a blow. He said, “You’re the quickest man I ever saw with his fists. Hold your hand up and see if I can hit it.”
    But the result was the same. Pat was faster than some fighters, but he never could hit Faye’s hand.
    “Well, you’ve got quick hands, but there’s this, Mr. Faye: In a fight you’re going to get hurt. If somebody hits you, you just have to grin and act like it don’t hurt. Some men just quit.”
    “Could you give me lessons on fighting, Pat?”
    “No, sir! Why, your good mother would have me out on the street quick as a wink! Fighting is a hard world. You stick with your painting. I’ll do your fighting, Mr. Faye.”
    Faye said, “All right” and left, thinking about how easily he had beaten Pat in the game with the hands.
I bet I could fight if I had some help!

CHAPTER 2
     
    A feeble light filtered down through the tall windows on the palette that Faye had placed on an easel. Carefully he dabbed his brush on the palette, mixed up two colors that he wanted, and then turned again. He glanced at the display he had, which consisted of a silver pitcher, a plate of purple grapes, and a silvery fish lying on a platter. The platter was on an ivory-colored tablecloth. Carefully he touched the tip of the brush to the canvas and slowly pulled it across the surface. His concentration was intense, but his hand trembled slightly, and he smeared the section of canvas he was working on.
    “Blast it!” he shouted. He drew back his arm and threw the brush across the room. It hit the light green wall and left a purplish stain before dropping to the carpet where it left another stain.
    For a moment Faye stood there gritting his teeth and staring at the two stains. He was strongly tempted to kick the easel across the room to join the brush and make an even bigger mess. He forced himself to breathe slowly, and gradually the impatience and anger, which were such a rare thing to him, began to fade away. He stared at the canvas for a long moment then picked it up by the edges, walked across the room, and stacked it against