“Dylan, sit down.” That was Ford.
“No. Because not only did we have a drug addict running rampant when we were out of the way, but two of the girls felt comfortable enough to walk into Jess’s room and take her camera. ‘Just borrowing,’ they said. Right.”
“Becky and Lizzie?” Caroline asked, her voice shaky.
“Of course. Because Lena and her boyfriend are always around some corner, making out.” That wasn’t precisely true...
...and they let him know it. “They’ve been cooperative.”
“We keep a close eye on those two.”
“They understand the rules.”
“The real problem—” Dylan’s voice cut through the protests “—is that you all are willing to take the risks. First, because you care. And that’s admirable. But second, I think you’ve each got some pride involved here in making this project turn out well. You want to be able to say that you saved these kids from disaster.”
Heated denials rang through the house.
Dylan spoke over them again. “And third, because you don’t care about the damage. Wyatt hardly uses his cell phone. A computer is easy enough to replace. We pay Jess for hers, and she’s taken care of. But nobody else has put hundreds of hours into building statues that can be destroyed in the blink of an eye. Thank God, Roberto is a lousy arsonist, or I might have lost almost every piece of work I’ve done in the last two years. The entire exhibit for the Denver showing is sitting in my studio. Not to mention that studio is my home.
“But for you guys, my art is a hobby. A sideline. Something I can do to keep me occupied and out of your way. That was the plan when I was a kid, right? ‘Here’s some paper and crayons, Dylan. Go draw something. We’re busy.’”
“You know it’s more than that,” Wyatt said.
“I do. You don’t. You don’t understand the need I have to create. The burn to shape and mold and carve and bend, to watch meaning come into existence beneath your hands. It’s not fun, it’s not entertaining or soothing. It’s vital.”
Jess found herself wiping tears off her cheeks.
“You don’t understand that this—making art—is the only connection I have to my past. I can’t remember our mother. Not the flicker of an image, not a sound or a smell. I have one sketch from her as my childhood memory. But when I draw, when I build, I am grounded. I’m certain of where I come from.
“Having the kids here threatened me in a way that none of you has experienced. And so you want to go on the same way, with the same possible outcomes. But I can’t do it anymore.”
His boot heels sounded on the wood floor. Jess headed for the living room.
Caroline and the other Marshall brothers were on their feet. “Where are you going?” Ford asked. “What are you planning to do?”
“Dylan, settle down,” Garrett ordered. “We can work this out.”
Wyatt cut across them with a single question. “Are you leaving?”
Dylan paused at the door and turned around with a surprised expression on his face. “No, of course not. This is home.”
“Then what do you mean when you say you can’t do it anymore?”
“The art. I’ll stop.”
“You can’t do that,” Jess blurted out. She looked at Wyatt and then Ford. “Don’t let him stop.”
Dylan’s face was surprisingly calm. “It’s okay, Jess. I told you—if it came to a choice between family and art, I choose my family.”
“But you don’t have to choose,” she said.
All of the people in the room stared at her. “It’s not just about the vandalism,” Dylan said. “The time demands, the fragmented attention—I can’t keep struggling between the ranch and sculpture.”
She stepped next to him and put a hand on his arm. “I know. But what I’ve come to realize is that the art you make is all about your family. For the last two years, every sculpture you’ve built has been an aspect of your brothers and the life you share with them. Not just the forms of the creatures you observe here on the ranch, but the spirit you embody as you work, the aspirations you have for the land, the animals and each other.
“Do you think it’s a coincidence,” she said, gazing straight into his eyes, “that your most recent piece is a mare and foal? That image of nurturing reflects what’s going on at the ranch now, as your family works with these kids and strives to help them grow up into strong, healthy adults.”
“That makes sense,” he said slowly. “What I do in the studio isn’t in spite of the family and the ranch. It’s my way of expressing what’s important to me. Which is the family.”
“But you don’t have to be a cowboy,” Jess said more softly. “The choices you make and the values you cherish join you to this family.”
Dylan shook his head. “The ranch is who we are. It’s what we do.”
“We’re brothers, first and always,” Wyatt said. “The ranch came after.”
“Long after,” Ford agreed. “Henry MacPherson saved us by bringing us here, without a doubt. But that doesn’t obstruct our personal choices. I’m an attorney, remember?”
“And I serve a church,” Garrett added. “We don’t take these careers any less seriously because we’re also involved on the Circle M. Even this summer, when Wyatt’s out of commission, I’m still preaching, still visiting members.”
“And I’m meeting with clients,” Ford said. “We all work around each other’s commitments. You’ve been here every day. You know how it goes.”
“But you left your San Francisco practice,” Dylan said. “You gave it up for the ranch.”
“I chose to rejoin my family. The same way you did, two years ago.” Ford put his arm around Caroline and pulled her close against his side. “I love the land, don’t get me wrong. But it’s the people that matter.”
Hands on his hips, Dylan dropped his chin to his chest. “I get consumed by the process. Walking out of the studio just kills me when I’m so deeply involved.” He lifted his head. “That’s what I mean. This isn’t a hobby, something I can do in my off-hours. I need...more time. All the time there is.”
“Maybe we haven’t paid enough attention to what you need,” Garrett said.
“Could be we didn’t take your complaints seriously.” Wyatt held his youngest brother’s gaze. “That can change.”
“Nobody will ever replace you around here,” Ford said. “But we can hire somebody to handle most of your jobs.”
Dylan let his jaw drop. “You’re serious? You’d go that far?”
“You deserve the life you want to live,” Wyatt said. “If you can be satisfied here with us while you create the art that drives you, then we’ll make it happen.”
Garrett came over and put a hand on his shoulder. “And we’ll talk with the kids about security. Maybe they can try going without their phones for a day. Or a week. Who knows, maybe we can switch over to using phones only on weekends. We have been naive, as you said. We’ll beef up security, change locks, whatever we have to do to make the place more secure. Including your workshop.”
“Especially my workshop,” Dylan said. “But thanks. I appreciate the thought. And will you take over my morning feedings?”
His brother sighed. “You’re going all the way with this, aren’t you?”
Dylan laughed. “Man, you’d better believe it.”
* * *
WHEN THE MEETING finally ended, Dylan took Jess back to the studio. With the lights on, he walked around the place, taking a fresh view of his own work.
“You’re right,” he told her, still surprised. “I couldn’t see the forest for the trees, so to speak. But it’s here. All of us, our personalities, we’re here. The buffalo—that’s Wyatt. The fox is Garrett and Ford is the eagle. I’m the elk. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed this one...” He went to a spot near the end of a table, and picked up a small figure. “These are rock wrens, nesting. Reminds me of Caroline.”
“That’s very sweet. I hadn’t noticed it before.” She came to take th
e statue from him. “You’re right—that’s Caroline taking care of everybody.”
“But I believe I’ll have to create a new piece for you. An owl—a western screech owl.”
Her frown appeared on the instant. “I don’t screech!”
He tilted his head. “Can you say that a little louder?” She pouted at him when he grinned. “But you are wise, like the owl. You’ve made such a difference in my life.” Taking her hands, he pulled her to stand in front of him. “And now you’re going away. Is there anything I can say to change your mind?”
From the regret on her face, Dylan guessed the answer. “Then I won’t try. We’ll just enjoy the rest of our night. Come upstairs with me.”
He feared she might say she had to pack, or get some sleep. But Jess simply smiled and led the way. “It will be my pleasure,” she said quietly.
When he woke up in the morning, she was gone.
But lying on top of the covers were the two sketches he’d done—the bust of Wyatt and his version of his mother’s drawing. Jess must have pulled them out of the trash. She hadn’t left a note, but he got the message.
Do these, she might as well have said. It’s time.
Dylan worked through the rest of the summer, hour upon hour of focused effort he’d never before enjoyed. When he was stuck, he’d take a ride on Leo, or help the kids with their rodeo lessons, but he could walk away now, return to his studio and concentrate anew. He slept at night, his bed comfortable, if lonely. Jess’s absence was a constant ache, like a stitch in his side every time he moved. The only solace was his work.
As the fall started, he found himself spending longer hours, staying up later and feeling almost as tired as if he were still doing ranch chores. The kids went back to school and the ranch quieted down. Wyatt began picking up more of the ranch responsibilities—which was a relief to everybody because he’d become increasingly grumpy about “sitting around doing nothing.”
October brought the issue of Renown Magazine with his article in it. Kip ordered a hundred copies and managed to hang on to two—one for Wyatt, Ford and Garrett and one for Dylan. But he had already received his own copy in the mail from Jess—the first he’d heard from her since the summer. He’d thought about calling, emailing, even writing a letter...but he didn’t intend to stalk her. They’d had a summer affair, and now it was over. If he was still in love, that was just too bad for him.
The article was beautifully written, of course, and made him sound downright glamorous.
“Working in a secluded woodland setting, with Crazy Woman Creek running nearby, Dylan Marshall crafts his sculptures one meticulous piece at a time, assembling the whole image with the patience of a Zen master. Having renovated a working barn for his edgy and yet entirely functional studio, Marshall collects his materials from the landscape around him, a new approach to the concept of ‘found art.’ Although not abstract in the traditional sense, the figures emerge from his construction process in spiritual form, representative of concepts and paradigms only hinted at by his earlier nonfigurative work...”
Dylan laughed as he read the ten-dollar words, so typical of the overblown prose he’d once been used to hearing in the art world. “Doesn’t mean a damn thing,” he said to himself. “Except that she likes the way it looks.” The article skirted the whole issue about why he’d abandoned the art world—“a personal crisis of confidence,” Jess had called it, “a reassessment of his work and its place in the world.” He wondered if that had been specific enough to save her job.
She’d scrawled across the front cover of the magazine, “You’re famous... Again! Love, Jess.” He wished she meant that the way he would.
November arrived. He and his brothers spent days building custom crates for each of the sculptures, packing and padding them and moving them into a horse trailer for transportation to the gallery. He made the drive down to Denver by himself the week before, but his family would be arriving on the day of the show, as would Patricia Trevor, the gallery owner. Fortunately, the manager and the security guard at the gallery helped him unload and arrange the exhibit. It wasn’t the premium treatment he’d received when the art world thought he was on fire.
But Dylan knew where this work had come from and what it meant, which was what mattered to him now. And the exhibit was beautiful—the gallery provided linen-covered blocks of different heights for the sculptures, with linen screens dividing the large space into more intimate rooms and giving the pieces the right scale. Track lighting on the ceiling ensured that beams of light illuminated the colors and grains of the woods he’d used, making every figure seem to glow on its own. The walls of the gallery itself were plate glass windows looking out on the city, adding a sense of motion and energy. Dylan couldn’t have asked for a more perfect setting in which to show off his art.
On the day of the show, he went to his hotel in the late afternoon to shower and change. After so many weeks of hard work, he allowed himself to lie down for just a few minutes to rest his burning eyes and aching back.
The ringing phone woke him up. “Where the hell are you?” Ford said. “The crowd’s here and the artist isn’t. What’s going on?”
“Ten minutes,” Dylan yelled into the phone as he dragged off his jeans. “Ten minutes!”
He arrived at his first show in almost three years with his hair still damp and the aroma of shaving cream lingering around his face. Garrett opened the door as he reached it. “Late, as usual,” he said, leaning in for a one-armed hug. “Go get ’em.”
Dylan could barely make his way across the room for the crowd. Patricia had hoped for an attendance of twenty, but this seemed to be closer to two hundred. He wasn’t sure how to find her in the press of people, but then a tiny, white-haired woman with bloodred fingernails latched on to his arm.
“Just like the old days,” she said, in the haughty tones he recognized from their two phone conversations. “Always assuming the attention will be there when you deign to appear.” Then she raised her voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, please let me introduce you to my newest protégé—renowned artist and sculptor Dylan Marshall.”
After that, he couldn’t see farther than three feet in front of him because there was always someone standing right there, shaking his hand, admiring his work, offering to pay three or four times whatever he asked for one of his statues. He probably seemed to be the arrogant artiste to them...or else really stupid. He just couldn’t think of what to stay, couldn’t take everything in. In his wildest dreams, he’d never expected—
Jess.
As one person in front of him moved out of the way, he saw her. She stood all the way on the other side of the room, champagne glass in hand, wearing a short skirt and tall heels. And staring straight at him.
Dylan started walking, brushing past people who spoke to him, sidestepping those who tried to block his progress. Jess moved toward him, and people stepped out of her way, until they were confronting each other across the centerpiece of the show—the mother and child sculpture he’d built through the summer and the fall.
“I didn’t realize you were coming,” was his brilliant opening line.
“I couldn’t stay away.” She frowned at him. “You’re thin. You haven’t been eating.”
“I’ve been working, though.”
She nodded. “I can see that. It’s...breathtaking. More beautiful than I could possibly have imagined.”
“So are you.” Dylan glanced around at the crowd, wishing for a moment of privacy. “When did you get into Denver?”
“Later than I intended.”
“How long are you staying?”
“As a matter of fact—”
At that moment, Patricia sank her claws into him again. “Come with me. The mayor wants to talk to you about a commission.”
“But—” He looked over his shoulder, flung out a hand...
...and felt Jess’s palm against his. “I’m here,” she said, when he drew her close. “I’ll be right here.”
With Je
ss’s hand in his, the rest of the evening passed easily. She had her own fans in the crowd, people who had read the Renown article on Dylan and had come because of it, as well as people who read the magazine because of Jess Granger’s writing.
There were conversations about abstract versus representational art, carving versus mosaic, different woods and glues and stains—Dylan maintained his focus through them all, remembering names and faces, accepting compliments and the occasional criticism with assurance. He didn’t require anyone else’s good opinion. His brothers were here. Jess stood by his side. His world was complete.
The chaos began to subside about 9:00 p.m. “We have dinner reservations,” Garrett said as his brothers prepared to return to their hotel. “We’ll wait for you at the restaurant.”
“Right...” He’d lost Jess for a moment in the bustle, but then found her in a corner, engaged in serious conversation with a man whose face people across the country had seen many times on their television and theater screens. Waving goodbye to the stragglers just leaving, Dylan made his way over and stood nearby, trying not so subtly to eavesdrop.
But they’d finished their talk. “I’ll be in touch,” the actor told Jess, and gave her his card. Then he shook Dylan’s hand. “Great exhibit. I bought two of the pieces—love that screech owl and the mare and foal. I’ve got just the places for them in my new house.” In an instant, he slipped out the door and into a limousine waiting at the curb.
Dylan looked at Jess. “Was that really—”
She nodded. “He offered me a job. As the editor of a new magazine.”
“But...you have a job.”
“Um, no. I resigned.”
He cleared his throat. “Why?”
“I realized I wanted to do something more than entertain, or even inform. Working with the kids...even for just a few days...that changed me. I want—I need to do something that makes a difference in people’s lives. Maybe even grumpy teenagers’ lives.”
“Do you know what that is?”
Jess smiled. “I’m not sure. Teaching, maybe?”
Dylan took her hands in both of his and raised them to his lips. “You would be an amazing teacher.”
A Husband in Wyoming Page 18
