Relieved that Dylan was feeling in control again, Jess opened the computer and started putting together the article she needed to write. Having the subject right there to verify facts and quotes was a luxury she didn’t usually enjoy.
On the other hand, telling this particular story without having all the information proved quite a challenge. She had checked her research of the women he’d dated while in the limelight, but no one stood out as a potential heartbreaker. Noelle Kristenson had been his last girlfriend mentioned in the gossip columns. But she’d remained prominent on the social scene after Dylan left. Jess couldn’t establish any kind of connection between his abrupt departure and their relationship.
Unless she asked. “Do you remember Noelle Kristenson?”
“Um...sure. Pretty lady.” He didn’t look up from his sweeping.
“You dated her.”
“I did.”
“Right before you came home.”
“If you say so.”
“Did she have anything to do with why you left?”
He was quiet for a full minute. “Yes.”
Finally. “You had a fight?”
“Yes.”
“You were so in love with her?”
“No!” He rubbed his hands over his face. “No, I didn’t love Noelle. But what she did—I couldn’t deal with it.”
“What did she do?”
This silence lasted much longer, as he stood motionless with the broom. “Most men probably wouldn’t care. It’s a choice, right?”
“Dylan, what happened?”
“Noelle got pregnant.” He pulled in a deep breath. “She didn’t tell me. Until after she’d had an abortion.”
Chapter Nine
“She wouldn’t surrender her lifestyle,” he continued. “Not even for nine months. I would have taken the baby to raise, but she didn’t give me the chance.” Raw pain roughened his voice.
“That’s terrible.” Jess immediately thought of the drawing of mother and baby he kept above his drawing table. Now she knew who the artist had been. “Children are so important to you.”
“They should matter to everyone. And I kept thinking that my parents could have made the same choice. They had three sons and not much money. Mom was already sick. They could have eased the load.” He lifted his chin to meet her eyes. “What if your mother had made the same decision? Would you trade your life, hard as it’s been, for...nothing?”
“Of course not. Life is always worth living.”
Dylan nodded. Then he walked over to a window, standing with his back to her. “The worst part—the despicable, shameful part—is that when she told me, for just a second...I was relieved.” After a pause, he said, “I hate myself for that.”
“You’re human.”
His shoulders rose on a deep breath, and he turned to face her. “So there you have it, Ms. Granger. My deep, dark secret. I went to see my piece in the sculpture garden in Paris that afternoon and I didn’t recognize anything about it as belonging to me. I couldn’t imagine how I’d ever believed that kind of work meant something. And I realized I didn’t want to be the person I’d become, who could dispose of a child as easily—more easily!—than a hunk of concrete and iron. So I caught the first flight out and came home.” He held his hands out from his sides. “End of story.”
Jess watched from across the room as he faced the window again. She had the truth now. With such great material, the article would write itself. Her editor would be thrilled with this kind of sexy, emotional twist. She wouldn’t use Noelle’s name, of course. Her job would be to protect the woman, while exposing Dylan to public scrutiny.
“Why reveal this to me now?” she asked him. “Why put such a weapon in my hands?” Then she had an insight. “Your brothers don’t know what happened, do they?”
“No. I wouldn’t give them the pain. I’m telling you because I love you. I want you to have the truth about me.”
“Dylan—” Her heart thundered in her chest. “You can’t fall in love in four days.”
“Maybe you can’t. But I did.” His grin was a ghost of its usual self. “I’m not expecting anything, Jess. I understand you’ve got a life you intend to return to. I’ll enjoy you while you’re here, and when you go, I’ll have some great memories. Don’t worry—I won’t be maudlin about it. That’s not my style.”
“No.” She couldn’t catch her breath. Her hands were cold and her face blazing hot. Maybe she would pass out. Shock did that to people.
Dylan didn’t come across the room and attempt to persuade her. “I’m going to take Leo out for a ride,” he said instead. “Give you some breathing room. I’ll be gone a couple of hours.” He picked up his hat from the table and waved briefly before letting himself out the blue door.
Jess put her head down on her arms. This was worse than waking up in his bed that first morning. Today she’d woken up to find herself in his heart.
And it would be so terribly easy to stay there. So comfortable to let herself love him in return.
In fact, despite what she’d told him, she already did. She’d loved him under the stars by the creek, and all during the passionate storm they’d raised in each other throughout the night. She’d loved him on his knees in the dust beside a fallen Lizzie, and riding off across the field on Leo’s bare back. As hard as she’d fought not to, Jess might have loved Dylan Marshall from the moment she saw him, not quite five days ago.
But he could never find out. The worst thing she could do for Dylan would be to confess that she loved him, too. He would want to build a future for the two of them, together.
And Jess was certain that she was the last woman Dylan Marshall should marry.
With her back aching from the uncomfortable chair, she got up and walked around the studio, hardly noticing all the exquisite sculptures she passed. She ended up, as she’d probably subconsciously intended, at the drawing table and the beautiful sketch above it. If she had to bet, she would wager a month’s pay that the drawing had been done by Dylan’s mother, capturing a moment between them when he was an infant. Something about those wide dark eyes had always reminded her of him.
The vandal had taken some of the drawings from the table and used them to set the fire. But the trash can, pushed inside the kneehole of the desk, had escaped his notice. On a hunch, Jess crouched over the container and fingered through the pages, curious to see what Dylan had thrown away. Most of the sketches were of sculptures he had already shown her.
But he’d thrown away the two drawings of people—his copy of his mother’s picture and the bust he’d done of Wyatt. At least he hadn’t crumpled them up. Jess pulled them out of the trash still smooth, with only a single crease in the center.
Why would he discard work with such potential? Why wasn’t he dying to translate these images into solid form? What kept him blocked?
Taking the sheets to the table where she’d been working, Jess slipped them behind some pages in her notebook. She wasn’t sure if she wanted them for Dylan or for herself. But she couldn’t let them disappear.
Then she sat down at the table again and pulled the computer in front of her. She had a challenging task ahead—to salvage Dylan’s current career, restore his reputation and somehow convincingly relate his story without ever hinting at the truth.
* * *
WHEN DYLAN BROUGHT LEO back to the barn after their ride, the kids were out and about, hanging around in the general vicinity. As soon as he got off they started gathering around him—they all seemed to love his flashy, spotted horse, and Leo was a sucker for being spoiled, so the combination worked out well. Even Thomas and Marcos liked taking Leo to the wash stall for a rinse, drying him off and combing out his mane and tail. Becky and Nate, the real horse lovers, cleaned the horse’s feet and fed him treats while Lena and Justino used the gathering as an excuse to be together. Today, there didn’t seem to be as much comfortable chatter as usual, but the past days had been busy with the cattle drive and the rodeo. Everybody might just be t
ired. Dylan knew he was.
Lizzie, he noted also, didn’t participate. She sat on a hay bale at the front of the barn, playing a game on her phone. She’d never been comfortable with any horse except Major, and now that trust had been broken, which set her apart from the rest of the group.
Dylan walked over and leaned on the wall next to her. “Having a nice day?”
She shrugged a thin shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“I have to say, I’m very impressed that you’re a writer.”
“I’m not a writer. I just write stuff down that I make up.”
“As far as I’m concerned, that qualifies you as an official writer. I write when I have to, but I’ve never been good at it.”
“But you make sculptures. And you can draw. You’re an artist.”
That wasn’t the direction he wanted to take with the conversation. “Yes. We’re all born with certain talents, I guess, or maybe certain ways we choose to express ourselves. I couldn’t write a poem in a month of Sundays.”
“But you can ride a horse.”
That was the opening he wanted. “So can you.”
“I wasn’t born wanting to ride.”
“Funny thing, neither was I.”
She frowned up at him. “You weren’t? I thought all of you started being cowboys when you were little.”
“Nope. Wyatt was sixteen when he rode his first horse. I was eleven. We lived in town and never even saw horses, except from a distance, until then.”
“Did you fall off?”
“I’ve probably fallen off a hundred times, and that doesn’t even include when I was learning to ride bucking broncs. We all fall off. The trick is to get back on.”
Lizzie shook her head. “I was so scared those cows would run right over me.”
“That didn’t happen, did it? Major kept you out of the way.” He crouched down in front of her to look into her face. “I have a trick we could work on, just you and me. I think it would help you stay on. It’s the way I learned.”
She eyed him with suspicion. “What is it?”
“Can you trust me? We’ll go try it out right this minute, while everybody is busy.”
“Will I get hurt?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay.” She followed him down the aisle to pick up a halter and a helmet, then across the corral to the pasture fence.
“Major’s right there, waiting for us,” Dylan pointed out, and went to bring the pony in. “Now we’re going over to the mounting block.” Once there, he positioned Major beside it. “All I want you to do, Lizzie, is get on.”
“There’s no saddle!”
“That’s right. I want you to get on his bare back.”
She retreated almost to the fence. “I can’t do that. I’ll slide right off.”
“No, you won’t, because you can hold on...” He grabbed a handful of Major’s black mane. “Right here. He’s got a nice flat spine and a good solid handle attached to his neck. You won’t fall.”
Dylan waited through her indecision. He figured she hated being the only one who wouldn’t ride. Facing the coming week isolated from her companions couldn’t be a pleasant prospect.
Finally, she took a step forward, and another. She got to the mounting block and stood on the top. “Now what? Where do I put my feet?”
“He’s going to stand real still. Bend over and grab some of his mane with both hands and hold on tight. Then just swing your leg over, like you would with a saddle, and sit down.”
Lizzie took a deep breath, grabbed Major’s mane and then threw her leg about halfway over.
“Keep going,” Dylan told her quietly. “That leg’s gotta hang off the other side.”
With the next try, Lizzie ended sitting on Major’s back, hunched over close to the pony’s neck.
“Straighten up,” he instructed her. “Let your legs stretch all the way to the ground.”
“They won’t do that.”
“Pretend they will. It’ll help you keep your balance.” She pushed her heels down. “That’s exactly right. So now keep those legs stretched and those hands in his mane. We’re going to go for a slooooow walk.”
She squeaked as Major took his first couple of steps, and she wobbled a little. But the pony did have a flat back and a smooth gait, so in a matter of minutes, the girl started to adjust. Dylan didn’t say much, just an encouraging comment here and there as he led Major slowly around the corral, changing directions occasionally, going in straight lines and circles, as Lizzie rode.
When they came to a stop, he grinned at her. “Look at you—a bareback rider! How does it feel?”
Being fourteen and “cool,” she couldn’t admit how much she’d enjoyed the experience. “Okay, I guess. But how do I get down?”
“Pretty much the same way. Lean forward, bring your right leg over and slide off.”
She practically bounced when her feet hit the ground. “Wow. That was...” She glanced at Dylan and away again. “Pretty good.”
“I’m glad you think so. We can do some more work, getting you better balanced and more comfortable out of the saddle. Then getting into the saddle again will be easy.” He stepped close and bent to whisper in her ear. “Hey, Lizzie. You got back on the horse. You’re a rider.”
Despite herself, she grinned. “I am, aren’t I?”
* * *
JESS STOOD IN the barn, watching as Dylan and Lizzie high-fived each other out in the corral. She’d been planning on talking to one or more of the teenagers about their writing this afternoon, but had found them all occupied with Dylan’s horse. And then she’d watched the man himself rehabilitate Lizzie, teaching her to ride without a saddle, of all things.
His brothers didn’t even realize what an asset they had in their little brother. Of course, they’d probably take the credit for having been the ones who brought him up. But Jess thought Dylan’s best qualities—caring, commitment and honesty—were choices he’d made for himself. He wasn’t simply a product of his environment and his family. He’d deliberately decided what kind of man he intended to become and then arranged his life accordingly. She could only admire that determination.
Even if she couldn’t share that life.
Lizzie didn’t see her in the doorway as she slipped out the side gate of the corral. While watching Dylan lead the pony back to the pasture, Jess became aware that a squabble had broken out between the kids working on Leo. Well, two of the kids, anyway.
“I’m walkin’ him out,” Marcos said. “It’s my turn.”
“Who says?” Thomas had a snarl in his voice. “Nate did it last time. I haven’t done it. It’s my turn.”
“Come on, guys.” Becky sounded almost like one of the adults. “Do you have to argue about everything?” Justino and Lena sat on a nearby bench, absorbed in one another and their phones.
“When somebody takes advantage,” Thomas growled, “then, yeah, you have to argue.”
Jess walked through the barn until she found the big concrete-floored stall where they had rinsed the horse. “I’m not an expert, but angry voices don’t seem like the right choice when you want the animal you’re working with to stay calm. Maybe you guys should chill out.”
The two boys glared at each other across Leo’s back. Meanwhile, Becky untied the horse and walked it between them. “I’ll take him to the pasture. I haven’t done it, either.” She grinned at Jess as she passed.
The anger level hadn’t receded much. Jess thought fast. “Thomas, I wondered if we could talk about your writing and reading this afternoon. I’m really interested to hear how you’re enjoying the book you chose. Would now be a good time?”
“Do I have to?”
Jess couldn’t say yes, but she stared him down.
“Okay.” He headed toward the exit.
“We have to clean the place up,” Marcos yelled after him. “I’m not doin’ it by myself.”
“I’ll do it,” Nate said quietly, from the rear corner of the stall. “Just go on.”<
br />
“Hey, man. That’s great.” In the next instant, Marcos had disappeared.
“Sorry,” Jess told the boy. “Do you want some help?”
He smiled, and suddenly he looked like his mother. “I enjoy doing it without them. It’s a lot more fun without all the complaining.”
She laughed with him, and went to find Thomas, hoping this session wouldn’t be the struggle she anticipated. He had waited for her at the dining table in the bunkhouse, as sullen as a student sentenced to stay after school for bad behavior. Jess recognized the demeanor, having often been one of those kids herself.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” she said as she sat across the table from him. “I appreciated what you had to say in the paragraph you wrote. And you write very well.”
His dark gaze was cool as it met hers. “Just because I’m Indian doesn’t mean I can’t speak and write the English language.”
“That’s true. You have a strong sense of the injustice that’s been done to Native Americans.”
“That happens when you live on the rez. You get to see how far a treaty goes.”
“What do you think of The Last of the Mohicans?”
“Kinda slow.”
“It was written almost two hundred years ago.”
“Yeah. But what happens in the story is interesting. A lousy ending, though.”
“You’ve read the entire book?”
He shook his head. “No, but when you put Indians and whites together, the ending is always bad for the red man.”
* * *
PEACE REIGNED ON the ranch that evening, as kids and adults gathered in the living room. Wyatt had started a nice blaze in the fireplace and Susannah brought out the makings for a treat involving marshmallows, chocolate bars and graham crackers.
“They’re called s’mores,” Dylan informed Jess when she asked. “You roast the marshmallow, then close it with a chocolate bar between two graham crackers. Here.” He gave her a skewer with a marshmallow on it. “Take this to the fire and get it nice and brown.”
Before she could decide it was brown enough, though, the marshmallow caught on fire. “Dylan! Help!”
A Husband in Wyoming Page 15
