Wearing his shirt and nothing else, she stepped out into the upstairs hall, found the French doors thrown open. He was seated on the balcony, barefoot and hatless, wearing nothing but his jeans. She watched the muscles of his back alter and flex as he worked at his easel, his right hand securely wielding a paintbrush while his left held the palette. She didn’t need to see his eyes to know how deep in concentration he was. And she feared speaking, didn’t want to distract him.
“I can hear you breathing, sweetheart,” he said, startling her. “Come out here and join me.”
She stepped gingerly onto the painted hardwood, took a seat at the matching stool. “Sorry I was gone when you woke up. I was exhausted and figured you would be, too, so I picked up our clothes and tossed them in the washer when I dragged my tired ass to the kitchen and got something to eat.”
She smiled at him, hoping he could see it from the corner of his eye. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“You’re welcome.” A self-satisfied laugh escaped his mouth. “I found my Wranglers in the library. I don’t even wanna speculate on how they wound up there.” Their eyes met in a moment of recognition.
“Yesterday is kind of a blur, Chandler. I felt great when I woke up just now, but details escape me.”
He responded with a gentle smile. “Same here. These bite marks on my shoulder tell me something happened, though—something good.” His head motioned toward a red blotch on his right shoulder. Her face screwed up in mild disgust.
“I can’t believe I did that to you. I mean, I can, but I can’t.”
His gaze returned to the canvas and he dabbed on a few spots of paint. “We lose ourselves when we’re together, T. It’s primal and visceral. No one gets hurt. It’s raw and intense but it’s also tender and sensitive. It’s a paradox like nothing else in the world.”
She hand-brushed her hair, which she knew probably could’ve stood a good washing. “What do you think it means?”
“That we’re too mild-mannered in our everyday lives and need to learn how to let loose?” He exhaled a sharp breath. “We each know what the other needs,” he said thoughtfully. “We’re attuned in a special way. People spend their whole lives looking for a connection like that.” He set down the palette and reached for her hand. “The sex is great. I think we both know that.” She nodded in accord. “You know what else is great, though? This. Spending time together. Holding you in my arms. Feeling your hand on the side of my neck. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you all of that.”
He angled toward her and she stood, taking a position between his knees. He gripped both of her hands in his. “I wonder if it’s always like this?” he asked. “I wonder if love is always so all-consuming. I feel like we could be together for fifty years and there’d still be things about you I wanted to learn.”
“Love is always like this, Chandler,” she replied confidently, “but only when it’s real.”
He gave her his best perplexed look. “What does that mean, sweetheart?”
“I hope it means we’re going to be together for a long time.”
“For as long as you want, Miss Holt.” He held her against his chest and they kissed. “Maybe even after that.” He felt her nod against his shoulder, the soft brushing of hair across his skin sending a tremor down his spine.
“Could I watch you paint, Chandler?”
His blue eyes sparkled with radiant warmth. “Of course. Then we’ll head downstairs and I’ll make dinner.” She agreed and took her place atop the stool, the warm wood chasing the chill away from her bare legs. She watched him work in silence, took in the measured rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He painted in an unhurried manner, not wanting to render a mistake on the canvas—but when he did, he simply wiped it away and moved to another portion of the board for a while. He watered the colors expertly, each shade carefully mirroring those on the horizon. She wondered how his eye did it—the shade and hue of the landscape were constantly changing, a shard of sunlight turning the mountains from a deep emerald to a spring green, and seemingly on Mother Nature’s whim. The sky could vary from a pale, washed out blue to a brilliant cerulean in a heartbeat.
He leaned back away from the canvas and smiled peacefully. “I think that’s enough for today. I’m gonna wash out these brushes and I’ll be back in a flash.”
“Okay,” she said softly, watching him pad barefoot toward the nearest sink. A few minutes later he returned and carried the easel and artwork into the hall, leaving them in a protected corner.
“I’ll get the doors,” she offered.
“Thank you, honey.” At the sound of the latch closing, he scooped her into his arms and carried her, laughing, toward the bedroom.
“I thought we were going to eat,” she asked breathlessly. He smiled warmly at her, his eyes speaking volumes.
“We’ll work up an appetite.”
Chapter 21
A few days later, Taylor stepped into his office to find some surprising faces behind the desk. Three small faces, to be precise, painting quietly, uttering nary a sound. Chandler stood at the sink with his back to the room, rinsing something unseen.
“Am I in the wrong office?” she quipped. Chandler closed the distance between them and placed a light peck on her lips.
“I’m on babysitting duty for a while. Mark and Christa took Matt to one of his regular checkups, Alison is busy next door, and CJ is running the ranch.”
Taylor shot him a look of admiration. “Where are your Mom and Dad?”
“They’re at the Fort Worth Stock Yards with Sam and Susan.”
“Now that’s what I call a romantic trip.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “How’d you get them so…calm?”
He chuckled under his breath. “I’m like three times as tall as they are. There’s a serious intimidation factor at work here.” He gave her a subtle wink. “Don’t forget we have dinner with CJ and Alison tonight.”
“We have to go to bed early,” Little Chase added without raising his face.
Taylor rounded the desk and placed a kiss atop his flaxen head. “I’ll make it up to you someday, cowpoke. I promise.” And for good measure, she kissed Bree and Max, too. “Could I see what the three of you are painting?” It had been a painfully long time since she’d enjoyed the artwork of a child, tacked it to her refrigerator.
“I made a pretty horse,” Bree said. It was white, with a long, flowing mane.
“Very nice,” Taylor complimented. “He looks kind of like a unicorn.”
“I painted a cowboy,” Little Chase said.
“That must be your daddy. He’s even got the big buckle on.”
Little Chase laughed. “You know it.”
“What about you, Max?” she asked gently, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.
“It’s a herd of cows,” he explained in a clear, true voice. “My daddy is moving them, but the page wasn’t big enough so he’s outside the picture.”
“I’ve got three budding artists on my hands,” Chandler said modestly. “Although I can assure all of you that ranching is much more fun and rewarding.”
“There’s no smog on a ranch,” Little Chase said. Taylor tried to stifle the laugh building in her throat, and she raised a hand to cover her mouth.
“Now how do you know about smog, cowboy?” Chandler asked, tousling his nephew’s hair.
“They taught us everything in first grade, Uncle Chandler. I don’t even need to go back for second grade, but Mom says I have to.”
“You’ve got a younger sister and two more cousins coming up behind you,” Chandler enlightened him. “Lead by example, young man.”
He lifted his chin in that patented Chase Adams way and smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Chandler ushered her across the room and she stood alongside as he dried a few plastic tumblers and placed them in the upper cabinets. “They’re a precocious bunch, aren’t they?” he joked in a whisper. She looked back over her shoulder and smiled.
“I don’t know, Chandl
er. They seem like a bunch of sweethearts to me.”
“Woman’s touch.” She looked back toward him, stared at his face in profile and saw the edge of a mischievous smile form.
“I’m gonna have to throw together something at your house soon. Everyone keeps cooking for me but I haven’t returned the favor.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Chandler assured her. “If you want help, you know I’ll be right there. One word of caution, though?”
She wrapped her hand loosely over his wrist. “What’s that?”
“Save it till after the 4 of July. That’s Mom’s day to stuff us silly.”
“Got it,” she replied.
“And don’t forget to invite Miss Alice, too,” he reminded her.
“I won’t.” She placed her hand along his right jaw. “You seem a little preoccupied today. Need any help?”
He shook his head now, but couldn’t hide his frown. “I’m fine, sweetheart.” His thumb massaged her palm. “Just go about your normal day and I’ll pick you up at home around six.”
She pulled her hand away and kissed him on the cheek. “Sounds good, cowboy.” He watched her say goodbye to each of the children and disappear through the exit. He sighed, wondering what the hell was wrong with him—maybe nothing, or maybe everything.
***
“Sorry about the weather,” he apologized yet again, sounding like a whiner even to his own ears. He turned up the wipers, the huge drops of rain spattering loud enough to echo off the truck’s roof. It had been dry and cloudless when they left town, but the closer they got to the ranch the worse the sky looked, until the heavens turned black and opened with a crack of lightning.
“It’s not your fault,” she replied in an even tone, “and really nothing to even worry about unless the road washes out.”
“That shouldn’t happen,” he countered. “It’s well-maintained.” What the hell were they talking about? Dirt and gravel? He silently cursed himself and focused both eyes on the road ahead. He heard the familiar change in surface as he turned into the ranch entrance, taking a right turn toward CJ and Alison’s house.
“I brought an umbrella,” Taylor added quietly, her eyes staring out the passenger side window. A trail of outdoor lights came into view through the glass, turned wavy by the torrents of water. She’d been there, maybe once or twice when it was brand new, and a few times beforehand, finding a bare-chested Chandler standing behind an unfinished wall with a few nails in his mouth and a hammer in one hand. The weather had been far better back then than it was tonight, and each of them, she thought, had possessed a better mood. Chandler had brooded all day, at least in her presence, and continued to do so. She didn’t bother to ask why—if he wanted her to know, he’d volunteer his feelings. He almost always did.
He hopped out of the truck and ran around to her door, flinging it open with a little too much force. Once the umbrella was open, they ducked underneath it and fled the rain like two people running from volcanic magma. They dumped the umbrella on the varnished wood of the porch and Chandler knocked on the door.
Taylor looked up at his features, softened in the yellow light. “Thank you.”
He smiled at her. “For what?”
“For being you.” He smiled again, struggled with an appropriate response. Luckily CJ saved him by swinging open the door and greeting them with a friendly look.
“Get on in here and out of this miserable weather, you two.” He grinned and stepped aside for them before closing the door. “Alison is just finishing up now,” he said gesturing toward the kitchen.
“And what is your role in the evening?” Chandler asked with feigned concern.
“Oh, I was assigned to put the kids to bed and answer the front door,” he answered in his usual nonchalant manner. “But maybe I oughta lock you back outside, guide Taylor toward the dining room, and have a pleasant evening.”
“Mm-hmm,” Chandler scoffed. “Let’s focus more on the eating and less on the talking.” He placed his hand between Taylor’s shoulders and they followed CJ to the back of the house. It was pretty much as she remembered it—white walls and pale wood trim, warm and inviting, probably a nice place for a kid to grow up.
They found Alison in the dining room, lighting candles in the middle of the long table. She looked up at them and smiled. “Welcome, you two. I worried about you in the weather.”
“We made it here without too much trouble,” Taylor replied.
“It was just a summer storm,” Chandler supplemented, looking at the rivulets of water on the window pane. “I’m sure it’s already on its way out.”
“I hope so,” Alison said. “Why don’t you take your seats? I have one last dish waiting in the kitchen.” Chandler pulled out a chair for Taylor; she noted that neither brother would be seated until she was. In the wisps of light, she watched Chandler remove his hat and rest it in an empty chair, brushing droplets of water away from his hair. She found herself distracted as Alison dragged in a dish of potatoes, so fragrant they made her mouth water. Food was passed around and they all settled in for the meal.
“This is the most tender brisket I’ve ever eaten,” she remarked a few minutes later. “How did you manage that while working all day?”
Alison looked up from her plate and replied with a very small smile. “That’s a family secret,” she said, directing her eyes toward Chandler. “Maybe someday, I’ll reveal it.” If he caught the implication to her words, he outwardly ignored it.
They returned to their food, CJ and Alison livening up proceedings by filling in what they perceived as gaps in Chandler’s backstory. Along the way they spoke of their marriage, Alison’s writing career and CJ’s incredible horsemanship. If anything was different about them, Taylor mused, it was that they’d found happiness together while retaining the better parts of their personalities. They were a matched set in every sense of the word, but not in a syrupy way—they contested each other at every turn, sparring partners who had no interest in drawing blood. It was more like something out of a screwball comedy than a real-life marriage, and yet it just worked; there was a warm, symbiotic harmony in the way he’d gaze at her, or the way she’d finish his sentences, drawing a smile from his lips. Alison was on the tail-end of a story, and laughter had erupted around the table. Chandler, subdued for most of the evening, had joined in a half-hearted manner, but at least, Taylor thought, he was making an attempt.
“So I found the three of them, drunks as skunks, laying on the back porch here, laughing at absolutely nothing. It was black as pitch outside. Mark and Chandler had their shirts on inside-out, and CJ…why don’t you tell them that part of the story?” she implored gently.
He shook his head, his face turning a pale crimson. “My boots were on the wrong feet,” he finished for her. “To this day, I have no idea how that happened.” He lifted his finger to make a point. “But I was the first one to sober up—I do remember that much.”
“There was a reason for that, CJ,” Chandler recalled. “But it’s too stomach-churning to discuss over dinner.”
CJ responded with the edge of a frown. “Anyway, that was one hell of a bachelor party. I’m sure Mark remembers nothing about it.”
“If I wasn’t sworn to secrecy, I’d mention something about one or two or us jumping out of the barn and into a pile of hay,” Chandler murmured.
“Good grief,” Alison said, the reproach in her tone betrayed by a smirk on her face. “CJ?”
He looked at her, no doubt anticipating a moment of censure. “Hmm?”
“Why don’t you show our dinner guest around the house? Chandler and I need to talk shop, literally.”
“Yes, boss,” he deadpanned. “Shall we excuse ourselves, Miss Holt? These two aren’t a barrel of laughs on a good day, but even less so on a full stomach.” Taylor lifted to her feet and fell in step alongside him. They made their way into the foyer, and he angled their path into the living room. Their journey led, unsurprisingly, to a tall, slender glass case filled with
trophies, awards, even a gold buckle or two. Her mind, however, wasn’t focused on anything so frivolous.
“You really like to get under Chandler’s skin, don’t you?” she asked pointedly. She watched him jump in surprise.
His head rotated slowly, deliberately, until their eyes met and his mouth formed a curious grin. “That’s just the nature of our relationship,” he reasoned. “We used to tease him like crazy, all in good fun. And then one day, out of the blue, he was tall enough to bust my lip if he didn’t like what I had to say.” He gave her an easy smile. “We’re on an even playing field. My time in the spotlight is over,” he said, alluding to the trophy case, “and I’m damn glad to be a family man, but he still has so many great things in store for him. A bright future.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t think I’m an asshole. I’d throw myself in front of a bullet for that kid if worse came to worse.”
She hadn’t expected CJ to reveal quite that much, but was glad that he had. Sibling relationships were a foreign concept to her, no matter how much time she’d spent on this ranch. “I understand. And I hope you won’t think I was sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Not at all,” he assured her. “Y’all seem happy together. I know you only want the best for him, and he wants the same for you.”
She nodded, wishing she felt better about the status of their relationship. Maybe they were just moving past the honeymoon phase, where couples still had those feelings of attachment but started to grate a little on one another. Her eyes drifted over to the case. “So how’d you win that buckle?” she asked. “The one with the pinpoint rubies?”
He laughed and shook his head. “My brain was scrambled for a week after that one, so forgive me if some of the details seem exaggerated,” he cautioned her as he launched into the story.
***
Chandler helped to stow leftovers in containers and load the dishwasher while he waited for Alison to begin her line of questioning. But so far, nothing was forthcoming. His words had been prescient; the weather had passed, water dripping from the gutter the only auditory reminder of the storm.
The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) Page 22
