“Our way? You mean Lakota? But it’s not like you brought her a string of ponies, man.”
Char fought to keep from laughing. They seemed so serious. She reached out and squeezed Damien’s arm, touched that he was fighting for her honor. “It’s okay. He brought venison. And my favorite wine. Besides, where would I put a string of ponies? Do you have any idea how much work they’d be? I’m going back to college. I don’t have time for ponies.”
Eli jumped to his feet. He knew he was going to lose the moment if he didn’t do something to regain control. He needed a grand gesture. And Damien was right, the ambience of dirty dishes was definitely lacking. But where…?
You know where, chickadee. What are you waiting for?
The voice. He no longer feared he was losing his mind. He was grateful for the help.
“You win, Damien. Get the doors. I’ll bring your mother.” He winked at his son as he walked to where Char was sitting, then he bent down and scooped her into his arms.
“Field trip,” Damien chortled, bouncing up with far less cool than he usually purported.
They were all in high spirits, joking and laughing by the time they reached the teepee. Damien quickly fired up the patio heaters William had left. Within seconds, the chill had receded. The natural light that penetrated the heavy canvas embraced them like a comfortable cloak.
Char’s heart was thudding in her chest as if she’d run the entire way, instead of being carried. She wasn’t afraid, but she knew something momentous was happening and she didn’t want to miss a single image to record in her journal.
Eli stopped, purposefully, at the exact center of the teepee. Blue sky and brilliant white clouds winked at them through the open cross timbers. He lowered her feet to the floor but kept her close, so when she breathed in she could feel his chest against hers.
“I love you, Charlene Jones,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “I love the odd, impetuous girl you were when we first met and the strong, self-reliant woman you’ve become. I would be honored and grateful if you’d love me back, from now until our children’s children whisper our story as if it were a myth. Will you marry me as soon as humanly and legally possible? Please?”
“The ring, Dad,” Damien prompted.
Eli patted his pocket and a second later pulled out a small velvet box. When he flicked it open, she couldn’t contain her gasp. She recognized the artist, Miriam Flies-With-Hawk’s, unique style. Finely pounded strands of yellow gold were woven together to create a delicate bird’s nest for two beautifully cut stones of onyx and white topaz.
“You’re the jewelry specialist,” he told her. “You can pick out our wedding bands, but when I saw this, I knew it was you.”
She slipped on the ring, which fit perfectly, then touched his cheek with her open hand. “I loved this face in secret from the first moment I saw you. Tall and proud—even a bit cocky,” she added, glancing at Damien. “I wish I’d been brave enough to tell you that.”
She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. She’d probably always regret the years they missed out on—both together and with their son, but nothing could be gained by looking back at what was lost. They had a whole future ahead of them.
“I love you, Eli Robideaux. Always have. Always will. And, yes, of course, I’ll marry you. The sooner, the better. We don’t want to be a bad influence on our son.”
They kissed. What felt like a second or two to Char must have seemed an eternity for their audience, who politely coughed. Char pressed her cheek against Eli’s shoulder and looked at the boy standing a foot or so away. Waiting.
“Come here, chickadee,” she said, motioning for him to join them. “You’re a part of this family, too.”
He did.
The circle was complete at last.
And caught up as they were in their newfound sense of hope and possibility, none noticed their observer. Sitting on the rim of the teepee above them, a small black and white bird watched the humans for several seconds, then cocked its shiny head to one side, as if acknowledging its work here was done, and flew away.
Your Black Hills Rendezvous continues
BLACK HILLS OUTCAST
Hiding out from life worked just fine…until he met Rachel.
Ask anyone in Sentinel Pass. They’ll confirm: Rufus Miller is an enigma. A mystery man content to live and work in his Black Hills cabin. Where’d he come from? What’s his story? What’s a Dream House? Those answers are pure speculation...until marketing guru Rachel Grey shows up with plans to make Rufus’s art the next big thing.
Turning artist Rufus Miller into a household name seems like a no-brainer—except for the fact the handsome recluse spurns the spotlight like…well, like a man with something to hide. Rachel isn’t sure what she’s gotten herself into but the chemistry between her and the Black Hills mountain man seems worth the gamble because the people of Sentinel Pass have overlooked one important fact completely: Rufus Miller is hot!
CHAPTER 1
“Sell the Porsche.”
Rachel Grey clutched her chest theatrically.
“Mother, I’d sell you into white slavery before I’d sell the Porsche. It’s the only thing I’m taking away from my marriage. A marriage you pushed for, I might add.”
“The fact that you and Trevor never found the common ground necessary to make your marriage a success is not my fault.” Rosaline Treadwell, a recently retired bank V.P., was a master at passing the buck. “The car is completely impractical.”
Rachel crossed her arms in a way her mother would recognize from the many childish rebellions Rachel had fought—and lost—over the years. She wasn’t losing this one—childish or not. “That’s what I like best about it.”
“Forty thousand dollars could provide you with enough of a cushion that you could stay in Denver and find a real job. You wouldn’t be reduced to working as a clerk in a tourist trap.” Mom made a sweeping, all-encompassing gesture that would have caused Rachel to die of embarrassment if the establishment’s owner, Char Jones, had been present.
“Native Arts isn’t a tourist trap. It’s more art gallery than a store. The local artists are amazing and I love working here. The energy is…electrifying.”
Rosaline would never be so crass as to roll her eyes in public, but Rachel knew her mother had no interest in, or respect for, the creative process. A fact played out in Rachel’s senior year of high school when she earned entrance to a prestigious design school on the west coast.
Mom dashed that dream with a succinct, “Not happening. Not if you plan to pay for it using the money I put into your college fund. Accounting might not be as glamorous as advertising, but it’s a lot more predictable. Death and taxes are never going out of style.”
Rachel’s take-away from the month long battle that followed? The person whose hand controlled the purse strings had the most pull.
“The nature of this business isn’t the point, is it, Mother?” Rachel asked, shifting impatiently from one well-broken in Uggs boot to the other. “Even retail might be acceptable if the high-end designer boutique were back home, right?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m moving to the Black Hills to get away from Denver.”
“Away from me you mean.”
Rachel heaved a sigh and shook her head. “I knew you’d take it the wrong way. Mom, I need a fresh start, a clean break. Why can’t you see that and support my decision—even if it’s the wrong decision? Just this once.”
Her mother’s carefully painted lips pressed together in a way Rachel knew all too well. Rosaline Treadwell would have made a fabulous wartime general.
“Never lose sight of your goal,” she’d admonished so often in Rachel’s childhood, Rachel had threatened to have it engraved on her mother’s tombstone.
Mom held up one perfectly manicured hand and listed her complaints, finger by finger. “You’re moving to a new state with no job, no real home and only a vague idea of what you wa
nt to do with your life. I’m supposed to be happy about that?”
“I have a forty-thousand dollar sports car.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “In the dead of winter,” her mother finished, waving her pinky for emphasis. “I honestly don’t understand you, Rachel. Are you certain you don’t want to try therapy?”
That subject had been covered at length in an email that had included links to several out-patient clinics in the greater Denver area and one in Taos, New Mexico—so no one from the bank would hear about her daughter’s collapse, Rachel assumed.
Rachel didn’t bother trying to repress her sigh. “I’ll make you a deal, Mom. If Sentinel Pass doesn’t work out…if I’m flat broke and miserable a year from now, I’ll move home and see any doctor you want. Okay?”
“A year? Will that give you long enough to meet a man? Maybe an actor from that silly TV show, Sentinel Passtime? My friends think you’ve become addicted to the glamorous lifestyle you had with Trevor and can’t give it up. They think you moved here to meet a movie star.”
Rachel’s shudder came from deep inside. “Are those the same friends who pushed you to introduce me and Trevor in the first place? I’m done with pretty boy prima donnas.” She paused. “Wait. Can a man be a prima donna? Wouldn’t that make him a prima Donald?”
Her mother’s slow, dramatic inhale made Rachel rush to get back on topic. “Mom. I married superficial charm once in my life, and once was enough. If I ever fall in love again, it’s going to be with a plain, down-to-earth, what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of man. Homely, hook-nose, bald, whatever. Looks only count in advertising.” She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Her mother didn’t seem convinced, but she set aside the topic of love and returned to the one of location. “Please explain why you chose this town, Rachel. A small, flash-in-the-pan overnight sensation.”
Without giving Rachel a chance to reply, she answered her own question. “I know you and your brother are close, and I will admit that Kat has grown on me. I understand your wanting to help plan their wedding, but surely you can do that from Denver.”
I could, but that’s not the point.
“Mom, face it. There’s nothing for me in Denver. The big, beautiful house that Trevor was so quick to get listed on the celebrity home tour is as good as sold. Thanks to the crazy economy, my dependable accounting job is history. Last hired, first fired.” A job her mother got for her and Rachel had never really liked, although she had, toward the end of her employment, found ways to make it her own.
Rosaline didn’t reply.
“I like this place. I like the people. I love my future sister-in-law and her sons. I can’t wait to be part of the Wine, Women and Words book club. Char is a gas. We bonded when she came back from her trip to California, and I feel as though we have a true friendship blossoming. I need that, Mom.”
“Fine. Do what you want. You always have.”
It took every bit of self-control Rachel possessed not to scream, “What are you talking about? I usually do what you want. And always have.”
Rachel wasn’t sure what was fueling her current rebellion. Maybe Jack’s unexpected too-early-for-mid-life crisis had been the catalyst. Her straight-arrow, look-before-you-leap brother shocked everyone when he bought a motorcycle, rode to the Black Hills and fell in love with Kat, a single mom with two sons.
Rachel felt a little sheepish trailing after her big brother this way, but Jack knew about her desire to open her own Web design and online marketing company. Probably a foolish plan given the fact she lacked any real training or experience, but she’d dabbled in Web design for years on the side. In fact, the mock-up she’d done for Trevor the day after they met at her mother’s big charity golf event had impressed him so much he’d asked her out. He claimed to have been blown away by her innate ability to grasp the inner Trevor Grey. The man behind the public persona.
She’d been flattered. He’d played to her ego and swept her off her feet. When he asked her to marry him, her instincts told her to slow down and see how they gelled over time. But her mother had berated Rachel’s cold feet. “Only a fool would pass up a fine catch like Trevor Grey,” Mom had said.
So, Rachel ignored her misgivings and let herself become swept away by the energy and craziness of planning her own wedding. Her mother walked around for weeks with a copy of In-Style’s Celebrity Bridal edition to show her friends.
Unfortunately, Trevor wasn’t good at math. He didn’t understand that one plus one was supposed equal two, not three or four or as many meaningless trysts as he wanted. Besides feeling angry and humiliated, Rachel slowly came to realize her self-confidence had suffered the biggest blow. She’d failed to trust her instincts. What if she made the same mistake again?
That mistrust was one reason she was moving away from Denver. Away from her mother. The less Mom knew about Rachel’s current plans the better.
“Mom,” she said, gesturing toward a stack of boxes, “I need to start setting out the Christmas displays for Char. And you don’t want to get caught in traffic when you reach Denver, right? Drive carefully and call me when you get home, okay?”
Rachel could tell there was a lot more that her mother wanted to say, but Rosaline managed to contain herself by pressing her lips together for several seconds before she gave Rachel a quick, perfunctory hug then walked away. An implied goodbye wafted on a wave of Chanel No.9, her mother’s perfume of choice for as long as Rachel could remember.
Rosaline paused at the door of her Cadillac Seville but didn’t wave at Rachel. Instead, she scowled at Rachel’s small, midnight blue pay-off for a quick, quiet divorce.
Her mother was right, of course. Rachel would have been smart to sell the car months ago. But as long as she was driving the Porsche she could pretend that she’d come out of her marriage ahead. That her spirit was strong and vital like the perfectly tuned engine under the sleek, sexy hood. That she wasn’t damaged goods, someone to be pitied. Or worse, such a lousy wife she couldn’t keep a husband.
If Rachel were a bigger person, she would have admitted that she’d listed the car online last week and had several very promising responses, including one from a guy in Denver. She planned to meet him next week when she returned home to finish packing her stuff. A trip her mother knew nothing about.
Rachel felt an uncomfortable pressure on her chest as she watched the Caddie pull out of the gravel parking lot unto the highway. Bad daughter, she silently castigated. But she had her reasons for keeping mum on both subjects.
For one, if her mother knew exactly how precarious Rachel’s finances were, Rosaline would have felt compelled to offer Rachel a loan. Or worse, an advance on her inheritance. Either way, the money would have been one more blow to Rachel’s pride.
Secondly, Rachel didn’t want her plans to interfere with Rosaline’s golf getaway to Florida. With any luck, Mom would be so charmed by the weather, she’d become a “snow bird” like several of her friends. Which probably sounded like a terrible thing for a daughter to think, but, at the moment, distance sounded like the best way to keep her mother out of her business.
Was she crazy to risk everything on an unproven business in a remote corner of the world? Mom would certainly say so. But Rachel knew the Internet didn’t care where you lived, if you were good at your job.
But am I? That remained to be seen.
She could crunch numbers with the best of them, but she could blend left-brain functionality with her right hemisphere’s love of art, color and composition?
She fished a bright, glossy business card out of the front pocket of her jeans. WebHead—Designed to Sell, Rachel Treadwell Grey, Owner. She would have given one to her mother if she thought for a moment that Mom would have been happy for her.
Rachel shrugged. Despite their differences, she loved her mother, and wishing things were different between them was a waste of effort. She set her card on the counter, intending to leave it by the register for Char after she finished unpacking the d
ozen or so boxes Char had left out.
She grabbed the retractable box cutter and was poised to slice into the largest of the designated boxes when her cell phone started playing “Red, Red Wine” — the ringtone she’d given Char.
“Hi. How’s it going?”
Char had gone to the northern Hills town to register for classes at Black Hills State College--a new endeavor that had added to Rachel’s sense of optimism. If Char could re-imagine her life, maybe that same would hold true for Rachel.
“Would be better if I’d called first—as you suggested. The Registrar’s Office is closed for Thanksgiving break, for heaven’s sake. What’s wrong with me?”
Rachel smiled. They both knew the reason.
“Are you coming straight back?”
“No. I drove to Sturgis to see Damien and Eli. It’s such a nice, clear day we’ve decided to hike to the top of Bear Butte for a picnic.”
Rachel leaned sideways to look out the large picture window at the front of the store. A small amount of snow remained in piles near the edge of the highway, but the bright winter sun seemed to hold a special sparkle.
“Cool,” she said. “Some might say chilly.”
“Oh, believe me. Some already have,” Char returned, a laugh in her voice.
They talked a few minutes longer about the holiday displays before Char said, “Do whatever you want, Rae. I trust you. You have a real gift for color and design. Go for it.”
Rachel’s throat squeezed tight.
“Gotta run. See you later this afternoon.”
Rachel allowed herself a brief moment to savor Char’s praise then she pocketed the phone and got to work. It was one thing to claim you had an eye for design but quite another to actually make the idea in your mind come to life in the space and time allotted.
The Internet was her medium of choice, but she believed in the power of word of mouth. If she did a fantastic and original job on these displays for Char, word would get around.
And her mother was right about one thing: it would be good for business to snag the endorsement of a celebrity or two, but the person she most wanted to work with was a reclusive, natural-mediums artist named Rufus Miller.
Black Hills Native Son: a Hollywood-meets-the-real-wild-west contemporary romance series (Black Hills Rendezvous Book 5) Page 21
