Teresa Bodwell

by Loving Miranda

  She’d set out the paints, hoping to start on the project today, but they might lose the daylight before Ben returned. She counted the tubes of paint again and ran her fingers over the soft brushes. The case contained everything a painter needed, Clarisse had told her. A palette, brushes, a small knife, and tubes of paint, fourteen of them in all, including blue, yellow, red, white, black. These colors she understood, but not vermilion, indigo, cerulean blue. She was tempted to squeeze them out onto the palette to see what they looked like. But she didn’t know what to do after that and was afraid of spoiling something. So she waited.

  Clarisse had given her several smooth boards to paint on. Miranda had made a pencil sketch of two dresses on one of the boards so she’d have something to start painting as soon as Ben returned. If he ever came home. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. He had said he’d make their parting easy. Perhaps this is what he had in mind—leaving without a word.

  Princess neighed a greeting sound, prompting Miranda to peer out the window. Ben was riding Lightning up the hill. He’d purchased the old nag from Jock Meier for twenty-five dollars. That was twice what the animal was worth, in Miranda’s opinion, but the beast did seem to have a few good years left in him.

  Miranda ran out the door and flew into Ben’s arms the moment he dismounted.

  “I thought you’d still be in town,” Ben said.

  Miranda could barely catch her breath. She was so pleased to see him. “I came right home. I needed your help with something.”

  “Happy to oblige, ma’am.” Ben kissed her, pulling her tight against him until she’d clean forgotten what it was she was going to ask him.

  “Will that be enough help, or would you like to go inside?”

  “That’s not the sort of help I mean,” she said. “Though come to think of it . . .” She sighed. “Later. First there’s something for Clarisse.”

  “Oh, well, you’ll have to tell her I’m a married man.”

  “That’s very funny.” The word married pricked at Miranda’s heart like a pin. “I have some signs to make. Clarisse gave me some paint to make colored pictures of my dresses.” She looked behind Ben. “What are you hauling?”

  “Wood.” Ben stepped back, revealing a mule hitched to a small cart. “Thought we could use a privy. Thad and Pa are going to come up tomorrow and help me with the digging and building.”

  Miranda smiled at Ben’s use of “Pa.”

  “I’ll be glad for that convenience.” Miranda had ten questions at once, but they all boiled down to one: Did Ben mean to stay? And that question she couldn’t ask. “I’ll help you with these beasts, and then you can help me.”

  “Fair enough,” Ben agreed.

  It was pleasant working side by side with her husband as he removed his horse’s saddle and she took the harness off the mule. She could almost imagine they were really married and making a life together. Even though she knew such thoughts were likely to lead to heartbreak, she allowed herself to imagine a future with this man. And one day perhaps a child.

  They went inside and she showed him the paints.

  “We don’t have enough light to work in here,” Ben said. “Let’s take the table and chairs outside and I’ll show you what to do.”

  They moved the furniture outside where the sun shone full force on her board. “The sketch is a good one, but you’ll want to paint a base first.” He squeezed some paint onto the palette. “Now we’ll mix a bit of blue in with the white—don’t generally want pure white.” He handed her the brush. “Just mix them together.” He watched her. “Good. Now take that white and paint the board. It will give you practice working with the paint. We’ll let it dry overnight, then tomorrow you can paint a dress over the background.”

  Miranda daubed at the board with the brush. Ben leaned over her. “May I?”

  She looked up at him. “Please, show me.”

  He put his right hand over hers and helped her make short strokes over the board, then longer strokes. “Experiment with it now. Do what you want with the brush and watch carefully how the strokes show up on the board.” He let go of her hand and watched for a moment. “There. You see? The brush gives it texture; it isn’t just a color.”

  Ben watched for a moment, then sat on the other chair and took up the second brush. “I don’t think I can do any harm just painting the background. Do you mind?”

  “I’d appreciate the help.”

  Miranda watched him out of the corner of her eye as she continued playing with her brush. It was only a white board that he was painting, but you wouldn’t know it from the look of intense concentration on his face.

  They worked on the painting until the sun grew dim, then carried everything inside their small house. Ben wrote in his journal, and Miranda made a simple supper of cornbread and the sausages she’d purchased in town. Together they cleaned up before going to bed. They explored each other in the darkness until they were both sated and fell asleep tangled together, neither of them willing to break the connection they found in their lovemaking.

  Two days later, Ben took a short break from splitting wood to watch Miranda hanging laundry in the sun. The mountains made a lovely backdrop, but Miranda was the true beauty in the scene. Ben pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. He stepped into the cabin and found the jug he’d filled with cool water from the creek that morning and took a deep swig.

  Again, his eyes drifted to Miranda, who was now framed in the window, as she reached high to throw a sheet over the line. For a moment, Ben thought to go out and help her, but his wife managed it even though the line was above her head.

  His wife. Ben shook his head. Six weeks of marriage and he’d grown used to thinking of her that way. Leaving was going to be damn difficult. The fact was he’d enjoyed their time together. He’d even enjoyed the domestic routine they’d created in their small home.

  He dug out his journal from the bag he kept under the bed. Slowly, with Miranda’s urging, he’d unpacked his bag. The journal, however, was too personal to keep in the same chest of drawers where Miranda kept her things.

  He found a pencil and pulled the chair up to the window. His right hand trembled as he made the first stroke, which represented the tree that held one end of the line. One stroke followed another until the picture included Miranda, her arms outstretched as she reached up to the line.

  He held the book up to the light of the window and examined the sketch. The pencil marks lacked the confidence that had once marked his drawings. Yet the picture was true to the image in his mind. He closed the book and put it back into his bag with the pencil on top. He wiped his palms over his trousers and walked outside to help Miranda dump the wash water from the tub, his heart pounding as though he’d just run up the mountain.

  His eyes caught on the boards Miranda had painted with his help. He ran a finger over the lines of the elegant dresses and thought of old Mrs. Wick, the Denver woman who had purchased his last landscape. She would love to wear such elegant gowns. He had no doubt that the women of Denver would buy Miranda’s work.

  The paint kit sat on the table ready for the next project. Ben ran his hands over it. After guiding Miranda’s strokes, he had managed to wield the brush himself well enough to paint the board white. That hadn’t taken a great deal of skill, but his right hand hadn’t been nearly as clumsy as he remembered it. In fact, the drawings he made in his sketchbook were getting better almost daily.

  “Real art comes from the artist’s soul—not his hand.” Miranda’s voice startled him.

  He spun around to see her striding toward him.

  “Ain’t that what you told me?” She smiled. “It’s about time you considered the possibility that you might use those paints.”

  “I wasn’t . . . I can’t!” He couldn’t bear the thought that his work might look like a child’s scribbles.

  “Why not? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with your soul.” Miranda picked up a paintbrush from the table and pressed it into his hand. “No on
e else has to see it.”

  “I don’t have any control over my left hand, and my right hand is clumsy.”

  Miranda took his right hand in hers. “Now, I know some of what this hand can do. You have a real delicate touch, seems to me. Why not see what you can do with a paintbrush?”

  He was getting excited. “We have some good light now.” He looked through the window into the house. “I wonder.”

  “Of course, you can. What will you paint? The mountains? That cottonwood down by the creek? The one that’s still got a few leaves on it, so you can use some colors?”

  “You,” Ben said. “There”—he pointed to the fireplace—“I want a picture of you on the bearskin in front of the fireplace.”

  “There’s better light outside.”

  “I don’t want to chance a neighbor passing by and seeing you.”

  Miranda grinned. “Why, Mr. Lansing, don’t you think these Colorado folks understand art?”

  “They may understand art just fine. I still don’t want them seeing my wife’s naked body.”

  She was beautiful, and that was a hell of a lot of inspiration. His hands shook and his palms were moist as he prepared to make the first strokes on his board. If he failed, it would be easy enough to paint the board white again.

  And if this picture showed promise, he’d have to get canvas and stretch it properly. No doubt, Clarisse could help. She seemed able to find anything and bring it here to the wilderness.

  Getting ahead of yourself, Benjamin. He drew a deep breath and faced the board Miranda had prepared with a bluish white background. He’d mixed the paint to the color of Miranda’s fair skin. This time he would focus on Miranda stretched against the dark rug. It wouldn’t be a complete picture—no fireplace, no pine floor, just dark bearskin and creamy complexion.

  He made a stroke and another until the picture began to take shape. As the sun dropped behind the mountain, the room grew dark, forcing Ben to stop. Miranda pulled her nightgown over her head and came to stand next to him.

  “It don’t look like me.”

  “No, not yet,” Ben said as he gathered the brushes, wiping the excess paint from them with a rag before placing them in the turpentine.

  “It doesn’t, and yet it does.” Miranda tilted her head one way, then the other. “Yes, I see how it will be me.”

  “Not you exactly. Not as though I can duplicate you, or would want to—”

  “One of me is more than enough, Pa always said.”

  Ben brushed a kiss on her forehead. “One is exactly right.” He took the painted board to the window where he could see it in better light. “What I want to do here is to capture something of your life and preserve it.”

  “A bit of my soul, you mean?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “I like that.” Miranda looked carefully at the board. “My soul and your soul—together on that board forever.”

  Chapter 17

  Ben walked into their small cabin and spied Miranda, head bent, studying the corner of the window frame. He watched her for a moment, her hair and skin glowing in the sunlight. She was chewing on her lower lip, so intent in her thoughts that she didn’t respond to the sound of his footsteps on the rough plank floor. On the other hand, his response was unmistakable and urgent. Control yourself, Ben. You’ll frighten her.

  “What is it, love?” He managed to make his voice sound calm.

  “Hmm?” Miranda turned her intense scrutiny on him. “What do you mean?”

  “You have that look you get when you’re trying to solve a puzzle.”

  “No, not a puzzle.” The brightness of her smile made the sunlight around her seem dim. “Look.”

  Ben forced his eyes away from her face to follow the direction her finger was pointing. Nothing there. He stepped closer to get a better view. “Miranda!” He pulled her back away from the spider. “Good Lord, that’s a big one.” He searched for something to crush it and found one of Miranda’s shoes.

  “No!” She grabbed his arm. “Don’t kill it.”

  “It might be poisonous.”

  “Let’s take it outside then.” Miranda bent over the web again. “I can’t bear to kill anything that weaves so beautifully.”

  Ben stared at her, then back to the ugly black creature perched upon the intricate web.

  “It seems a shame to destroy it.” She sighed, then scooped the critter into the palm of her hand.

  “Miranda Chase! If that thing is poisonous . . .”

  But she wasn’t listening. She ran out the door and into the woods near the creek; she bent to place the spider on the trunk of a cottonwood. “You can build a new home here, little spider.” Miranda watched it scamper away, then stood up and beamed another smile at Ben.

  “Do you think I’m very silly?”

  Ben pulled her up against him. “No, love. I’m the silly one.” He turned her and looked into her eyes, feeling the pull of the deep, warm pools. That smile of hers could warm him on the coldest day of winter. He felt so hot now he had trouble breathing.

  “And may I remind you my name is Lansing now.”

  “You’re so very beautiful, Miranda . . . Lansing.”

  “You don’t have to say that.”

  “You who sees the beauty in a spider’s web must surely understand the beauty in your own face. Not perfection, but real beauty.” His voice was husky and deeper than usual.

  “I know my scar ruins it. An artist like you can’t help but notice how it makes my face . . .”

  He took her hand and pulled her back up the hill toward the house. Then he turned around to face the woods. “Look.”

  “What is it?”

  “You tell me. What do you see?”

  “Trees and the mountains beyond.”

  “Look at the trees—where do your eyes go?”

  “There”—Miranda lifted a hand to point—“the tree in the center.”

  “The one with the broken branch?”

  “Yes, what is your point?”

  “That isn’t the center, not really.”

  “No, not exactly center. A bit left of center.”

  “Yet your eye goes there.”

  “Because of the flaw—the broken branch. I know people can’t help but look at my scar, if that’s what you mean. Often they can hardly take their eyes from it.”

  “Look at the trees again, Miranda. Are they beautiful?”

  “The trees are . . . peaceful right now, sleeping. Come spring they’ll be pretty, and next fall when they turn their colors—”

  “I think they’re beautiful right now, bare and stark against the December sky. Do you disagree?”

  “Can’t disagree about how beautiful you think—”

  “Exactly my point, love.” He brushed a kiss to her jaw. “I’m the only one who knows what is beautiful to me. You’re beautiful, love. Your face. Your eyes such a deep blue I could take off my clothes and swim in them. Your hair so wild—”

  “Now, I can’t help my hair.”

  Ben chuckled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He kissed the top of her head and pulled his fingers through her curls. “I like the fact that your hair is always out of your control; it suits you perfectly. You are not one to keep things inside.”

  “You make me sound like a ninny.”

  “You’re hardly that.”

  “Damn right, I’m not.” She grinned at him. “I get things done and work hard. I’m as reliable as the sunrise.”

  “I can rely on you to be late. You were nearly late for our wedding.”

  “I was trying to look perfect. When have you ever had to work to look perfect?”

  “Gentlemen don’t spend time on their appearance.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute. You are always well groomed—clean clothes, hair combed and tidy, chin shaved and smooth.” She brushed her fingers over his jaw. “Don’t tell me you wake up with a smooth chin, because I know better.”

  “I have to be careful with that—I could
slit my throat, after all.”

  “Heaven forbid you might look in the mirror to judge your appearance. A gentleman merely uses a mirror to keep his throat safe.”

  “Exactly.” He bent to kiss her, fooling himself into believing that one kiss would satisfy him. As their lips met he found he couldn’t help wanting more.

  She wove her fingers through the hair that hung over his collar and pressed her tongue deep into his mouth. Her breasts rubbed against his belly, causing a part of his anatomy that resided lower to come to life—hard, demanding, and ready.

  Fortunately, his wife was easily persuaded. She’d already begun working the buttons on his shirt and had his chest bare before he could decide whether to change the venue for this activity.

  “Bed?” he mumbled into her neck.

  “No, here.”

  They tumbled to the ground in a tangle. Miranda managed to release the buttons on his pants. He found his way under her skirt and thrust inside her. The earth felt cold under his palms while all of his and Miranda’s heat concentrated where their bodies joined together. The murmuring of the creek two hundred yards away echoed through the stillness around them.

  She laced her fingers behind his neck and pulled him down until their lips met. Her tongue played with his, gently, as though they weren’t both desperate to find their release. He lifted his head to watch her face as he settled deeper inside her and began rocking his hips. The joy that sparked in her eyes was a treasure he would keep locked away until he needed it one lonely day. When he felt her throbbing around him, he drove deeper still. She kneaded his buttocks with her hands until they found the pulse together.

  “Ben!” She shouted.

  He laughed, for the sheer joy of hearing her call his name. They soared together far above the mountains that towered above their home into the sky and past the sun.

  When their ride was finished, he rested over her for a moment, feeling her heart pounding against his chest, listening to her ragged breath in his ear. He rolled next to her, but they remained twined together. He withdrew from her and remembered too late that he’d been careless again.