by Sivad, Gem
“I would like to hire you,” she answered, facing him.
“I don’t sell my gun skills anymore.” His enjoyment in her company fled, leaving his tone cold and grim when he answered.
“Well that’s certainly good news, since I’d rather sketch you alive.”
“You want to sketch me?” he asked, feeling stupid as if he’d missed part of the conversation. He scratched his whiskers, absently noting the scruffy feeling of them under his fingers while he tried to get a fix on how the conversation had jumped from sense to nonsense.
“I’m an artist.” She said it as a fact, clasping her hands in front of her, watching him intently. “The first day we almost met, when I was in the willow tree, I was sketching.”
“Well now, that’s real interesting—”
“I make considerable money at it,” she said, cutting him off and gesturing at her bicycle. “Just as we in the West are indulging in the new conveniences offered in the East, Eastern art collectors have developed an appetite for all things Western. You are the perfect image of a cowboy. I would like to sketch you. I will pay you to be my model.”
Well hell. He figured any picture Miss Prescott drew of him at the moment would have a dumb-struck look on his face. He didn’t answer and she prepared to leave, gathering the now empty basket and tying it behind the bicycle seat. Apparently she’d suddenly discovered she had other business.
“Think about it. Let me know. You were an excellent subject.” Abruptly she mounted her bicycle. Straddling the mechanical contraption she’d ridden in on, Miss Prescott leaned toward him. “I’m very serious. I would like to sketch you again.”
“Would that be with or without my clothes?” he drawled.
When she didn’t answer and pushed off, her feet finding the pedals to travel home, he thought he might have scared her. Not so. She was grinning when she shouted her message over her shoulder.
“Both. If you’re interested, be at the willow tree tomorrow.” And away she went, riding her two-wheeled carriage like a queen.
She pedaled faster, putting distance between them. He was glad she didn’t look back because he knew he’d lost the battle with his jaw, his mouth gaped wide open as he watched her ride back down the dirt trail.
“I need to tie a handkerchief around my head to keep my jaw from dropping when she’s around,” he muttered.
*
She’d done it. Cheeks blazing from both wind and embarrassment, River pedaled furiously away from the man standing behind her. It astonished her how fiercely she wanted him to be her model. Excitement sizzled through her veins, powering the forward thrust of the bicycle as she sped toward her namesake.
River, River, River… Leash your emotions. Her mother’s often said words surfaced, reminding her to quell her excesses. Out of sight of the Grayson ranch yard, she slowed. Her fingers tingled and she guided her bicycle with one hand, flexing the other, testing its readiness as she planned the picture she would draw the next day.
She hadn’t exaggerated. Edge was the epitome of what Easterners thought a cowboy should be, and River knew she’d sell her paintings of him and make money. She’d already drawn his picture so many times it would have been simple enough to lay appropriate background and paint each western landscape, dominated by his rugged presence.
She resolved to share the money from this work with him since his cooperation would make it possible—and from the looks of his ranch—he needed financial help.
Probably needs some ranching advice too. I’ll send Amos over to talk to him. No, I’ll invite him to come to supper this time and let him talk to Amos over another good meal. No wonder he enjoyed the food yesterday.
She swerved and almost wrecked her bicycle when Edge appeared beside her as she approached the log spanning the water.
“I was afraid this was the way you’d crossed with your vehicle.” He wore a stern expression, speaking to her in a gruff, chastising manner. “That’s a dumb thing to do.”
“I managed fine getting across the first time. I’ll manage fine…” River spoke quickly, fighting the urge to stumble back and away from the monster sized beast he rode.
When she dismounted her bicycle, prepared to walk it across the slippery tree limb, he leaned from his horse, pushing the bicycle from her grasp. The next thing she knew, she was perched on his lap, at the mercy of him and the beast under her.
“Put me down,” she whimpered. The size of the horse eclipsed any other thought. Gripping his shirt front, she held on, shaking like an aspen in the wind. “I told you. I hate horses.” He in turn, cradled her closer to his chest as he carried her across the river to the willow tree. Once there, he slid from the saddle still holding her.
“Guess you weren’t exaggerating,” he said. He stood between her and the animal, staring down at her with concern.
“I’m fine.” It was the best she could manage.
Without a word, he remounted, splashing this time as he raced back through the water. Dismounting by her downed bicycle, he grasped the handle bars on the heavy contraption and wheeled it onto the log, balancing it and himself for the walk across. She winced as she saw him teeter and slide more than once.
“If we’re going to be neighborly, I need to build a bridge for you to get back and forth.” He wheeled her bicycle to where she stood and then whistled, summoning his horse. Glad to see that the beast at least heeded his master, she nevertheless, cringed as it trotted across the water to his side. “Sandy, meet River. Miss Prescott, meet my conveyance and friend.”
“Mr. Grayson,” she sputtered, shrinking back from the animal. It seemed as if Edge took her aversion to his horse personally. Nevertheless, she had no plans to get better acquainted. She pointedly gazed away from Sandy and toward the river. “You can barely manage the construction of a straight board fence. I have little confidence in your ability to engineer a bridge.” Before she’d gathered her wits enough to deliver more scalding words, he mounted his horse and had the last say.
“You design it. I’ll build it. We’ll split the cost of materials.” Not waiting for her response, he tipped his hat. “See you tomorrow.”
River pushed the heavy Rover up the hill, continuing to feel the two spots on either side of her waist where his big hands had gripped her as he lifted her to sit across his thighs. He’d radiated heat she continued to feel even after he set her on the ground.
Proximity to his horse had left her quivering with fear, but the way Edge had held her close, tucked against his chest as he carried her across the water, made her shudder from an entirely different emotion; she was filled with desire to have his arms around her again.
She could barely contain her nervous anticipation. Thoughts of Edge Grayson disrupted her ability to concentrate. She spent the rest of the day wondering if he’d show up at the willow tomorrow.
River left her bed early the next morning, made coffee, and as soon as the sun lighted her way, she mounted the Rover, heading for the river. On the climb to the top of the bluff, her stomach churned. She both dreaded and anticipated what might lie on the other side. Either he’d come or he wouldn’t. She wasn’t sure which notion had her most afraid.
She planned to set up her easel on the crest of the hill and paint while she waited. But, when she reached the top and looked below, Edge stood unloading wooden rails from a sled he’d hitched to his horse.
As she began the slow walk down the rough slope, holding tight to her bicycle lest it get loose and careen into the river, Edge left his task and strode up the hill to meet her.
“Let me,” he said, taking the Rover from her grasp and rolling it along even as she protested that she could handle it.
But as soon as they were on level ground, he surrendered his claim and returned to the sled holding the fencing material.
River felt it to be an auspicious beginning. She quickly unfolded her easel, setting it up on a level patch of ground in the sunlight. Edge resumed work on the fence and she began work on her canvas. Nothing
but the sound of his hammering interrupted the morning.
She became so engrossed in her painting that when her subject began gathering his tools in preparation for leaving, it startled her. The sun was overhead, the morning over.
“Tomorrow?” she called to him.
He nodded, mounted, and rode across the river to her side.
“I’ll wheel the monster up the hill for you,” he said gruffly.
She could have argued, but the Rover was heavy. Besides, following behind him as he wheeled the bicycle up the path gave her an opportunity to admire his denim dressed backside. Even in clothes, she found it pleasing.
When they reached the top, he once again relinquished his hold on the handles and stepped away, preparing to leave.
“I’d be pleased if you could join my foreman and me for supper tonight.” When he pushed his brim higher, a surprised smile showing, she added, hastily, “We need to discuss plans for the bridge you said you’d build. Besides, I owe you for today’s work.”
He lost his smile, nodded and retreated down the hill. She didn’t quit watching him until he’d mounted his horse and ridden for home.
Then she sped down the hill, pedaling as fast as her legs would allow, racing to get home to help Sarah fix the evening meal.
Blueberry cobbler, chicken, potatoes, hot bread, no, sweet rolls. Maybe some greens from the garden…
“We’ll fix extra chicken tonight, Sarah,” she told her housekeeper as soon as she’d gone over the menu with her.
“You and your company gonna eat up two hens?” Sarah’s eyebrows climbed high in surprise.
“I’m sure Mr. Grayson’s appetite exceeds either Amos’s or mine. Leftovers won’t hurt, anyway.”
She left Sarah frying chicken and retreated to her bedroom to choose what she would wear. The sea green suit with the narrow skirt and double breasted jacket seemed much too formal; the gray cotton too plain. One by one, she pulled clothes out for inspection. Too many of them wore daubs of foreign color from her palette. She looked ruefully at her short nails and paint-stained hands. It shouldn’t matter, but it did.
After Sarah had gone for the day, leaving a giant platter of chicken in her wake, River returned to the kitchen. The aroma of baking rolls and cobbler entwined, perfuming the air better than any flowers ever could.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I would have guessed you older…
Edge didn’t know what time exactly to show up. He didn’t want to appear too eager or be rude by being late. He should have waited, but he settled on early for fear of missing another decent meal.
When he arrived, nobody came to the front door, so he snooped a little and found the back porch. He could see her moving around through the window and tapped on it.
“You’re early.” She seemed astonished when she opened the back entrance. “Amos works a full day. He won’t be in to eat until regular time.”
“You didn’t say what time,” he growled, feeling reduced to a lay-about. Smelling the food she was fixing kept him from turning on his heels and leaving. There was proud, and then there was dumb. Before he could be either, she motioned him into the kitchen and handed him a knife.
“You can peel the potatoes.” She set a cup of coffee next to him, and a bowl for the skinned spuds. He sipped coffee, filled the waiting bowl, and watched her cook. Heat from the oven turned her hair into ringlets at the nape of her neck and around her face.
After he finished the chore she’d set him, he waited expectantly, hoping she’d give him another. He enjoyed just sitting and looking at her. Sweat dotted her lip. The apron she wore wrapped around her twice.
“You look like a little girl,” he grinned, sharing the thought before he could parse his words better. Under the too big apron, she had on a light gray dress and the color made her eyes seem green as the willow tree.
“I am small,” she said dryly.
“I mean young,” he corrected himself, then realized that wasn’t right either. Him telling her it made her look young meant she usually looked old—er.
“Younger, I mean,” he stumbled around trying to say what he meant.
“How old are you?”
“Let me think.” He scratched his jaw, calculating in his head. It wasn’t as if he’d been celebrating the event each year. “I guess I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?” She’d asked him, so he figured it was okay to ask her back.
“I would have guessed you older,” she murmured, ignoring his question.
The foreman, Amos, came into the kitchen then, and she waved them into the big dining hall. Edge would have preferred lingering in the coziness of the kitchen. He liked it. It felt good, as if he had temporarily shared a home. The dining room was all dull colors and dark wood. He didn’t much care for her choice of decorations, but the house was definitely built sturdy. He wondered what she thought of his shack and falling down barn.
Then, he stopped wondering when she came through from the kitchen carrying a platter of chicken, and he took the opportunity to hold the door for her, figuring the sooner she got the meal on, the quicker he could eat and take his leave. It had been a mistake coming, but he’d go home with a full belly to make the night worthwhile.
She made more than one trip, and so he waited by the connecting door, holding it open for her, and when she finally got ready to sit, he pulled her chair out for her. She seemed surprised, and Amos looked suspicious.
Edge grinned inside. He’d not spent much time around ladies, but he’d been raised in a brothel and learned firsthand how women liked being catered-to. When they were all seated, the foreman divided his time between filling his plate and watching the new neighbor to keep him from stealing the silver or worse.
After Edge sampled the first forkful of food, he dispensed with niceties, digging in as fast as he could. Cleaning his plate a second time, he blotted the gravy with a final roll, ate it, sighed, and sat back in his chair, replete.
“Do you have room for a slice of blueberry cobbler?” Miss Prescott stood next to him, holding a spatula in one hand and dessert in the other. He looked at his plate, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. If he reassembled the pile of bones he’d discarded after sucking the marrow from them, he was pretty sure he’d have a whole chicken carcass.
“Son, if you think the chicken was tasty you’d better try some of the cobbler.” Amos already had his fork in hand with a bite ready to disappear in his mouth.
“I’m pretty full,” he lied. The sparkle in her eyes dimmed some and Edge had a sinking feeling Miss Prescott had made the dessert especially for him. Not wanting to hurt the cook’s feelings, especially since she hovered over him waiting for him to accept the slice she’d already cut, glumly, Edge nodded his head. “Well, maybe I’ll try just a little piece.”
She cut the slice in two parts and put half on his plate. The other she slid onto her own. He sat staring at the pretty pastry on his plate as if it were a snake. Both Amos and River waited for him to take a taste.
“The truth is, I got sick eating blueberries once, and I don’t favor ‘em anymore.” Got sick was an understatement. He’d blown up like a damn blueberry, himself, his lips had swollen and his eyes itched, while for three days he’d wheezed like an old man.
“Can’t have that. I need you able to work, tomorrow.” Miss Prescott reached across the table and removed his indecision with his plate.
“Work where?” Amos asked belligerently.
“I’m using Mr. Grayson as a model in my preliminary sketches for my current picture. Since he’s already building fence, he’s going to fashion a bridge from his side of the river to ours.”
Amos shook his head, opened and closed his mouth, and then cut himself another piece of cobbler. “I’ll eat his since he’s finicky.”
“You have it designed?” Edge asked her.
“Amos will be better than I am at that. After I clear the dishes, you two can sit here and decide how it should be built.”
Somehow Edge spent so
much time at the Prescott Ranch that early evening had turned into late night by the time he left. Amos walked him to the barn where Sandy dozed in a stall.
“Do you need a lantern?”
“Naw, moon’s fine. Before I forget, I didn’t want to worry Miss Prescott, but I didn’t know she spent so much time out on her own. When Emmett and his crew came onto my spread, it was by way of Prescott land.”
Amos grunted an expletive. “I’ll have the hands ride guard on the fence-line. Watch your back. Emmett’s not one to give up.”
“I can take care of myself. But you need to make sure he doesn’t bother Miss Prescott again. While she’s drawing, I’ll be close by. But on her way to the river, she’ll need an escort. I can ride with her back when she’s done.”
Edge wasn’t getting drawn into any local feuds. He had his own problems. But it wasn’t going to cost him anything but time to make sure River made it home safely every day.
Amos shifted from foot to foot, giving Edge the eye. But he didn’t appear to have anything else to say. Finally after Edge mounted Sandy and readied to leave, Amos let loose with what was on his mind.
“River’s a single woman you know. She owns this place. A man could do a lot worse than have her cooking meals for him every day.”
It was a stunning departure from the foreman’s original suspicious manner. A man could do a lot worse than have River cooking meals for him every day. Edge could testify to that. Miss Prescott was still standing on the porch, so he rode to the house before he left. “Thanks for the meal and the company,” he told her.
“First light at the willow tree, Mr. Grayson. Don’t be late.” Miss Prescott’s last moment flare-up of bossy didn’t dim the fine meal and the night’s entertainment he’d enjoyed. Picturing the indomitable artist wearing an apron and cooking meals for him made him laugh out loud more than once on the way home.
Edge had plenty to ponder as he rode toward his barn. Every time he visited the Prescott ranch it made it harder to call his own four hole-filled walls and patched roof, home.
