Читать онлайн книгу «A Husband In Wyoming» автора Lynnette Kent

A Husband In Wyoming
Lynnette Kent
Dylan Marshall is a man of many secrets and journalist Jess Granger is determined to uncover them all. First, why did he suddenly abandon his promising art career? And why, after a two-year hiatus, did he agree to a new exhibition of his work? Jess is so busy working on the handsome rancher’s defences that she doesn’t realise he is quietly eroding her own. She came looking for a story that would save her job and do justice to Dylan’s sculptures. But, when it comes to Dylan, Jess discovers that the real story might be about finding her true home.


“This should do it.”
He placed the hat on her head, then turned her around to face the mirror above the dresser. “There you go. Looks good—you’re already a bona fide cowgirl.”
Jess gazed at their reflection, feeling the warmth of his body behind hers, the weight of his palms, his breath stirring her hair. Awareness dawned inside her.
“Thanks,” she said, appalled at the quavery sound of her voice.
“Uh … you’re welcome.” Dylan sounded a little stunned, as well. He cleared his throat and stepped away.
This new Dylan Marshall—the grown-up version—was comfortable, satisfied … solid. His sexy grin, the confident and flirtatious attitude, the broad shoulders and narrow hips all combined into one seriously hot package.
But she would fly back to New York on Sunday, giving her only four days to get what she needed for the article.
But she was tempted to want more. Very tempted.
A Husband in Wyoming
Lynnette Kent


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LYNNETTE KENT lives on a farm in southeastern North Carolina with her six horses and six dogs. When she isn’t busy riding, driving or feeding animals, she loves to tend her gardens and read and write books.
Contents
Cover (#u2173f114-5e5c-5c9a-9558-720a4580329b)
Excerpt (#u07440524-e9aa-5767-bcce-9271c53a7701)
Title Page (#u6197adec-0fd3-54f1-9fca-55e5ed4d8054)
About the Author (#ubc8281d6-ec14-582a-a01c-dd24c7653fe0)
Chapter One (#uecbb7b81-c77a-50bf-99cd-6199ea6cc61e)
Chapter Two (#uf3fd0211-a470-53c1-b0c3-d24c3b57846a)
Chapter Three (#uf5472760-1f62-5d1e-8d8c-60e6d8e5d681)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_7ea1fb8b-b626-57bb-a856-75a5a384c2f8)
June
Here comes trouble.
Standing outside the barn, Dylan Marshall watched as dust billowed up behind the vehicle approaching in the distance. He swallowed against the dread squeezing his throat. If he could have avoided this encounter by any reasonable means, he would have. The next four days were going to be absolute hell.
At last the Jeep came into full view, its dark blue paint now mottled with dirt. Going too fast, the car barreled up the last hill and hurtled along the road toward the ranch house, where it screeched to a stop with a spray of gravel.
Dylan shook his head. Somebody needs to slow down.
His boots felt as if they had lead in them, but he managed to move his feet and descend the hill toward the house. After a long day driving cattle, all he wanted was a shower. Dirt had settled in the bends of his elbows and the creases of his jeans, the cuffs of his gloves and at the base of his throat. He could taste it on his tongue.
He also wanted some dinner and a chance to sit down on a chair instead of a saddle. But most of all, he wanted to get clean.
He did not want to meet the press.
The door on the Jeep opened and a pair of high-heeled boots hit the ground. Standing up, the driver saw him coming, shut the car door and walked forward. Like two gunfighters, they moved slowly, warily toward each other, hands at their sides as if poised to draw a pistol and fire.
Dylan stopped with about ten feet between them. “Jess Granger?”
She was tall and slim, with long, shapely legs showcased by skinny jeans and those fashionable boots. Shiny brown hair whipped around her head, blown by the never-ending Wyoming wind.
Pulling the long strands out of the way, she nodded. “From Renown Magazine. You’re Dylan Marshall?”
Her face could make Da Vinci weep—big eyes, the cheekbones of a goddess and a wide red mouth that stirred a man’s blood to the boil.
He tipped his hat and then closed the distance between them, removing his gloves so he could shake her hand. “Welcome to the Circle M Ranch.” A warm, slender palm returned his grasp. Dylan let go slowly, smiling in pure appreciation of her beauty.
Spreading her arms wide, she took a deep breath and blew it out. “There’s a lot of space out here. Such a big sky.”
“Are you a New York native?”
“I’ve lived there for half my life, so it feels like it. I’ve done my share of traveling, but this is my first time in Wyoming. I’m ready for a Western adventure.”
“We’ll do our best.” A drop of sweat rolled down the nape of his neck. “Let me get your luggage.” Stuffing his gloves into a back pocket, he crossed to the car and opened the rear hatch.
She whirled to follow him. “That’s okay. I can—”
He pulled out her two bags before she could finish. “Got it. Come into the house.” Leading the way onto the porch, he set down the big red suitcase and opened the screen door, nodding her through. “Be our guest.”
He was determined to be polite. The only way to survive this interview was to keep control of the conversation, making sure Jess Granger learned only what he wanted her to. Reporters could be ruthless, but his job for the next four days was to give this New York journalist a peek at his life and his sculpture without actually revealing anything important. The gallery where he’d be showing his work had insisted on a big publicity push. Their bottom line: no article, no exhibit. After the way he’d sabotaged his career two years ago, Dylan knew he was lucky to get this chance for a significant show. If he wanted his work to be seen, he had to cooperate with the gallery—and with Jess Granger.
But he didn’t want his emotional guts dissected in a fancy magazine for strangers to read. His three brothers deserved their privacy, as did the kids staying with them for the summer. Fortunately, Dylan considered himself an expert in the art of shooting the bull. Try as she might, he’d make sure Ms. Granger discovered only the most harmless details.
He set her bags by the hallway door while she sashayed inside and circled the living room. “Nice,” she said, with a surprised expression. “Quite upscale for a bachelor pad.”
“We try to stay civilized.”
“So I notice.” She homed in on the one sculpture in the room, a bear figure he’d made while still in high school. “Is this yours?”
And so it started. “Yep. An early piece.”
“It’s...clever. Obviously talented.” Her words echoed the art critics he remembered from his time in that world—conceited and condescending. “But not at all similar to the work you were doing when you came out of college.”
Hands in his front pockets, Dylan tried to stay relaxed. “I took a different direction for a while there, exploring new materials, new techniques. I tried to give people what they appreciated. What they wanted to see.”
Jess Granger nodded, setting the bear in its place. “You certainly did that. For five years, you were the darling of the international art scene, the name everybody talked about. You had sculptures in the major art fairs and showed up at all the right parties.
“Then—” she turned around and snapped her fingers “—you disappeared. Just gone, without an explanation or a goodbye. There hasn’t been a hint of news about you in more than two years. My editor was surprised to hear that you have a new show opening, and downright shocked that Trevor Galleries would sponsor this article.”
Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, the reporter stared at him. “They sent me to get the story, Dylan. They want to read all about this comeback of yours. What does it mean, personally and artistically? What are your plans? Will you be returning to New York, or Miami? Or working in Europe? And, the most important detail... Why in the world did you drop out in the first place?”
Dylan cleared his throat. “You dive right in, don’t you?” he asked. “Would you like something to drink or eat, first? A chance to get settled?”
“No. Thanks,” she said, after a beat. “You had scholarships to European art schools. Blue ribbons at juried shows around the country. The critics all raved. You were a sensation before your twenty-fifth birthday. Why would you give that up?”
“Inspiration comes and goes,” he said. “You can’t always predict where it’ll lead.”
Jess Granger shook her head. “Artists don’t just abandon their careers. What have you been doing in the two years since?”
“Working.”
“On what?”
He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s a ranch—there’s a lot to do. In fact,” he added, “I won’t be able to sit around talking for four days. We’ve got a full schedule here in the summer, from sunup to sundown. Not including studio time.”
“I’m not here to disrupt your life.” Her hands went up in a gesture of surrender. “This article is supposed to provide positive press for you and your show. I intend to convey how you blend your art with your lifestyle.”
“Sure. ‘A Day on the Ranch’ is all you want.”
“I can’t force you to confess.” She actually pouted at him, making the most of that beautiful mouth.
Dylan only grinned at her. “With your looks, I suspect you can persuade a man to confide all his most dastardly secrets.”
Her face eased into a sassy smile. “I promise not to reveal where you hid the bodies, anyway.”
“I don’t worry about that.” Flirting was much more fun than dueling over the truth. “This is the Wild, Wild West, after all. It’s the superhero tights in my dresser drawer I’m concerned about. We artists are a weird bunch, you know.”
Jess Granger laughed out loud. “What a story angle!”
He enjoyed the sound of that laugh. “Anything to draw readers, right?”
“I do try to stay on the right side of the truth.” Her sudden frown said he’d hit a sore spot. “So you’ll have to show me the tights before I commit to print.”
Dylan chuckled. “Once you’re in my bedroom,” he promised, “we’ll see about that.”
* * *
JESS WINKED AT HIM. “An interesting prospect.” Maybe flirting was the way to get Dylan Marshall loosened up and talking. Otherwise, he’d stonewalled her so far.
And she certainly had no objection to trading banter with such a gorgeous specimen. He’d always been handsome, thanks to those long-lashed, dark chocolate eyes and a sensitive mouth framed by a square jaw and determined chin. Three years ago, though, he’d seemed too young to take seriously, wearing designer suits and an edgy haircut, dating top models and rich socialites. Observing from a distance, she’d considered him a brat. Talented, but spoiled.
Today, Jess had to admit that his exile had caused a huge change in Dylan Marshall, on the outside at least. There was a maturity in his face she found immensely appealing. With his narrow hips, long legs encased in snug jeans and broad shoulders under a blue-checked shirt, he could certainly lay claim to the legendary cowboy assets. He even wore a white hat, to finish off the hero image.
But her assignment was to get behind that image and discover the truth. Judging from his evasions so far, an aggressive approach did not bode well for the interview. She would have to handle him carefully, or she wouldn’t get the details her editor demanded.
Before she could renew her offensive, a husky blonde dog padded into the room from the rear of the house followed by a big man with light brown hair and dark eyes like Dylan’s.
“Welcome to the Circle M,” the man said in a bass voice. “I’m Wyatt.” He wore jeans and boots but had a back brace fitted over his chambray work shirt. “Make yourself at home.”
Jess shook his hand, noticing calluses indicative of physical labor. “That seems pretty easy to do. I appreciate your hospitality.”
“No trouble.” He glanced at the canine standing beside him wagging her tail. “This is Honey. She runs the place.”
“She’s beautiful. Can I pet her?”
“She’ll be insulted if you don’t.”
Bending over, Jess carefully stroked the tawny head. “Nice to meet you, Honey. You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” She didn’t have much contact with animals, so she was never quite sure what to do with them. But Honey’s brown eyes seemed friendly. Her tail wagged and she licked at Jess’s wrist with her long red tongue.
“Wyatt’s on restricted duty,” Dylan explained as she straightened up. “He took a fall and broke a couple of bones in his spine. We’re attempting to fill the gap he’s left, but that’s about as easy as trying to drive a truck with the engine missing.”
“An exaggeration,” Wyatt said, giving her a slow smile. “I understand you’re from New York. Have you traveled much in the Western states, Jess?”
“I’ve visited Colorado and New Mexico for interviews, and I’ve skiied in the Rockies. But I’ve never had the chance to experience authentic ranch life.”
“You’re in the right place,” Dylan said. “We’re about as authentic as it gets when it comes to cowboys.” He paused. “Well, unless you consider that Ford’s a lawyer and Garrett’s a preacher. They’re a little out of the ordinary. Wyatt’s the genuine article, though. A rancher through and through.” He obviously admired his brothers and wasn’t afraid to say so.
Footsteps sounded on the porch outside. “Hey, Dylan, get your butt out here. You’re supposed to be—” Another cowboy in a white hat stomped into the house, but stopped short when he caught sight of Jess. “Oh...sorry. I didn’t realize we had company.”
“This is Jess Granger,” Dylan said. “The reporter I mentioned would be here. Jess, meet my forgetful brother Garrett.”
Garrett Marshall took off his hat and smiled as they shook hands. “I wasn’t expecting you to arrive today. There’s been a lot going on.” As handsome as his brothers, he shared the same strong face and athletic build, but his eyes were blue, and his build was somewhere in between Wyatt’s and Dylan’s. He wore his light brown hair in a conservative cut and the uniform that ranch life apparently called for: jeans, boots and shirt. “I guess this means you won’t be supervising the dinner detail,” he told his younger brother.
“We’ve got seven teenagers staying on the ranch,” Dylan explained when Jess glanced at him in question. “A sort of summer camp for some of the troubled kids in the area. My sister-in-law-to-be talked us into helping her out. So there’s a bigger crowd than usual on the premises.”
“That’s quite a project.” She didn’t expect to be impressed with their efforts. In her experience, damaged kids couldn’t be changed with a few weeks of attention, no matter how well-intentioned. “Sounds like a lot to fit in around ranch work and getting ready for an art show. When do you sleep?”
“Whenever he sits down,” Wyatt said.
“Or stops moving,” Garrett added.
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Thanks, guys. Just label me lazy in front of a reporter for a national magazine. No problem.”
“We’ll keep it off the record,” she promised him. “What do the kids get to do while they’re here?”
“Come observe for yourself,” Garrett said. “They’re not quite finished for the afternoon.”
A distraction might ease Dylan’s resistance. “Can I take pictures?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Let me get my camera.”
“And a hat. That creamy New York complexion will burn in the Wyoming sunshine,” Dylan said as he placed her bags in a cool, shadowed room off the hallway in the back of the house. “I hope you’ll be comfortable in here.”
The room had been furnished with rustic simplicity, soothing and peaceful, and the connecting bathroom was clean and bright. “I’m sure I will.” She pulled her camera out of her shoulder bag. “But I didn’t consider bringing a hat.”
He nodded. “I figured you probably hadn’t. Wait here just a second.” The thud of boot heels retreated down the hall and then returned. Dylan appeared in the doorway with a white Western-style hat in his hands. “This should do it.” Standing in front of her, he placed the hat on her head. Then he spun her around to face the mirror above the dresser. “There you go. Looks great—you’re already a bona fide cowgirl.”
Jess gazed at their reflection, feeling the warmth of his body behind hers, the weight of his palms, his breath stirring her hair. Awareness dawned inside her. She had to think about taking a breath.
“It’s a new approach,” she said, and was appalled at the quavery sound of her voice. “Thanks.”
“Uh...you’re welcome.” Dylan sounded a little stunned, as well. He cleared his throat and stepped away. “You might want your hair in a ponytail—it’s always windy on the ranch. I’ll wait for you outside.” In an instant, he was gone.
Releasing a big breath, Jess took off the hat and went to her suitcase for a brush and an elastic band. She took extra moments to thoroughly smooth and braid her hair, recovering her equilibrium in the process.
This new Dylan Marshall—the grown-up version—wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d come prepared for a sulky, reclusive artist, someone hiding away from the world he’d once conquered.
The rumor at the time was, of course, that a love affair gone wrong had sent young Dylan into exile. No woman ever claimed to be the cause of his disappearance, though, and the attention of the art scene quickly shifted to a new talent.
The man she’d just met didn’t appear to be pining away. He seemed comfortable, satisfied...solid. His sexy grin, the confident and flirtatious attitude, the broad shoulders and narrow hips—all combined into one seriously hot package. And there was chemistry between them. Those moments in front of the mirror had affected them both.
But she was flying back to New York on Sunday, giving her only four days to get what she needed for the article. With his three brothers as well as seven teenagers on the premises, there wouldn’t an opportunity for her to get beyond a professional acquaintance with Dylan Marshall. Which was too bad, because she was tempted to want more. Very tempted.
But even if she had been staying longer, she’d reached the point in her life where a simple fling just wasn’t enough. A few days...weeks...even months of good times and good sex didn’t compensate for the emotional quagmire she went through when the relationship ended.
And it always ended.
Besides, her life was in New York. Her apartment and her job, her favorite coffee shop and the laundry that folded her shirts just right—all were in New York. Fun and games with the world’s handsomest cowboy wasn’t enough to make her give up her laundry service.
So she would keep her dealings with Dylan Marshall strictly business, and she’d leave with a well-written article and no regrets.
Above all, no regrets.
* * *
DYLAN FOUND HIMSELF out on the front porch without realizing quite how he got there. His brain had switched off, and all he could do was feel. Those seconds with Jess Granger’s slender shoulders under his palms, her scent surrounding him and her eyes gazing through the mirror into his, had been...well, cataclysmic. He’d walked away a little disoriented.
Women didn’t usually befuddle him like this, even beautiful ones. Ever since he’d discovered the difference between boys and girls, he’d made a point of getting to know as many of the opposite sex as possible—as friends, as lovers, as human beings. He considered women to be a separate species and thoroughly enjoyed all their unique, feminine attributes.
Somehow, he would have to maintain his usual detachment when it came to Jess Granger. He had to keep their relationship under control, avoid letting her get too close. She was, after all, a journalist. She’d come specifically to delve into his life and, more important, to reveal to the public as many of his secrets as she could discover.
Because of the person she expected him to be. The person he’d once been.
At eighteen, he’d left home determined to “make it big.” He’d had talent but he’d also gotten lucky and done some sculpting that the “right” people thought they understood. They’d invited him to their playgrounds and he’d gone along because he was young and stupid and flattered by the attention. To a kid from tiny Bisons Creek, Wyoming, attending art parties in Paris, France, appeared to be the pinnacle of success.
He knew better now. His life in that world had come to a screeching halt one chilly afternoon during a conversation that lasted maybe five minutes. Later, standing in a Paris sculpture garden, he’d surveyed his own work and felt completely detached from its purpose, its meaning, its origin.
All he’d wanted at that moment was to go home. To be with his brothers, inside the family the four of them had built together. After years away, he’d craved the life he’d once worked so hard to escape.
He’d been on a plane less than twelve hours later. And once he got to Wyoming, he hadn’t left in more than two years. He certainly hadn’t courted the attention of anyone in the art world. But then Patricia Trevor called him, having seen a piece he’d donated to a Denver hospital charity auction. She suggested a gallery exhibit of his recent projects, and he was vain enough to say yes. He wanted exposure for his ideas as much as ever. If he didn’t have something to say, he wouldn’t spend time or effort on the process.
But he didn’t expect his former fans to understand or appreciate this current approach. Jess Granger’s article supposedly launching the show would probably bring down a hailstorm of derision on his head. That was the way the art world worked—you gave them what they wanted or they cut you off at the knees. In spite of her beauty—or maybe precisely because she was so beautiful—he expected the same treatment from her.
The screen door to the house opened and the lady herself stepped onto the porch, a high-tech camera hanging around her neck. “There you are.” She squinted against the sun. “It is bright out here. Thanks for the hat.”
“You’re welcome.” A compliment on how she looked in the hat came to mind, but he ignored the impulse. “Let’s go watch the kids.”
Walking side by side up the hill, Dylan found himself searching for something to say. “We took them to a rodeo and most of them decided they wanted to compete.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Not so far.” They crested the hill and approached the group of kids gathered on the other side of the barn. “They’re still at the learning stage.” In the natural way of things, he would have put a hand on her shoulder to bring her closer to the action.
“Come watch,” he said, keeping his hands at his sides and feeling as awkward as he probably sounded. “You can meet everybody. They’re practicing on the bucking barrel.”
The bucking barrel was a fifty-gallon drum suspended sideways by metal springs from four sturdy posts. With a rider sitting on the barrel, the contraption tended to bounce around, mimicking the motion of a bucking horse or bull. Ropes could be attached at various points, allowing spectators to increase the range of motion and the unpredictability of the ride.
“That’s Thomas Gray Cloud.” Dylan pointed to the boy currently riding the barrel. His dirty T-shirt testified to a fall or two already.
“All he holds on to is that one rope?” Jess shook her head. “I can’t imagine. At least he wears a helmet.”
“Ford, the legal eagle, made sure of that. But the secret is balance. You try to stay flexible and move with the animal, keeping your butt in place and using your arms and legs independently.”
She looked over at him, her golden gaze intent on his. “Is this the voice of experience?”
He nodded. “I rode saddle broncs. The horses wear a special saddle—with stirrups—and you hold on to a rope attached to the horse’s halter. It’s slower than bareback riding, but style counts a lot more.”
Her attention shifted to Thomas. “I think you’re all crazy.”
As they reached the group around the barrel, Thomas lost his balance and fell off to the side. He pounded a fist on the ground, but rolled over and got to his feet right away.
“My turn.” A bulkier boy stepped up to the barrel. Thomas gave him a dirty look but backed out of the way, dusting his hands off on the seat of his jeans.
“Marcos Oxendine,” Dylan told Jess. “One of our more challenging kids.”
But today Marcos seemed to be on his best behavior. Grinning, he climbed onto the barrel, wrapped the rope around his gloved hand and yelled, “Let’s go! Aiyee!”
The kids on the four corners began pulling their ropes, causing the barrel to tilt and sway in all different directions. Their encouraging shouts rang out in the afternoon air, recalling the roar of the grandstand crowd at a real rodeo. Marcos stayed on for nearly eight seconds, using his upper body to counter the motion of the drum he rode. When he finally did come off, he sat up laughing, while the spectators around him applauded.
“Again!” he demanded. “I’m doin’ it again!”
Dylan glanced at the reporter beside him to gauge her reaction. What he noticed was that she stood with her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, and the stance did great things for her figure. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat and refocused his attention on the kids.
Marcos’s second ride didn’t last as long, but he moved away agreeably enough when Lena Smith marched up and announced that she wanted to go next.
Jess turned to Dylan with a shocked expression. “These events allow women to compete?”
“Yes, and there are a couple of women out there today riding against men. Lena is interested, so we wanted to give her a chance. And she’s actually pretty good.”
The girl proved his words, staying on for a full eight seconds, though Dylan suspected the rope pullers were going a little easy on her.
Still, she grinned when she got down. “That is so cool.”
Beside Dylan, Jess Granger shook her head. “This was not what I pictured when you said you were conducting a summer camp. I thought, you know, arts and crafts—collages made with pinecones and sticks they pick up on a hike.”
“Nope. We’ve been working on their riding skills—none of them could sit on a horse when they showed up here. On Friday we’re taking them on their first cattle drive. You’ll have to come along and observe.”
“Um... I’m another one who’s never been on a horse before I got here.”
He gave her a wink. “We might have to work on that.”
“By Friday?”
“There’s a full moon tonight.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Could be. In the meantime, come meet my brother Ford and his fiancée.”
Introductions took place as the kids dispersed, the boys heading to their bunkhouse and the three girls to the cabin they shared with Caroline. “They get an hour or so to reconnect with their phones,” Caroline explained to Jess. “We wouldn’t want anybody going into withdrawal.”
“I certainly would, without mine. Dylan said that these are some of the troubled kids in your area.”
“That’s right. Most of them have had some kind of run-in with the legal system.”
“They seem pretty cooperative, overall. Not as resistant as I would expect.”
“Today’s a successful day,” Ford said. Caroline nodded. “And we’ve been together for a few weeks, developed some relationships. Do you have experience working with teenagers?”
“No, not really. But I have known some kids with problems.” Jess Granger gave a short laugh. “In fact, I guess you could say I was one. I grew up bouncing in and out of the foster care system. At about the same rate my parents jumped in and out of jail.”
Dylan swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. The Marshall brothers had lost both their parents before Wyatt turned sixteen, but they’d always had each other to depend on. He didn’t want to consider how hard life might be without some kind of family you could trust to take care of you.
After a few seconds of silence, Ford found the right words. “You’ve obviously not only survived that experience, but thrived.”
Caroline put a hand on the journalist’s arm. “I would love to have you talk to our kids, especially the girls. You’re such a great example of what responsibility and persistence can accomplish. Please say you’ll spend some time with them while you’re here.”
Jess Granger looked surprised. “If you think it will help, I’d be glad to.”
“You have to be careful around Caroline.” Ford put his arm around his fiancée and squeezed her shoulders. “If she can find a way to use you in one of her causes, she will. That’s how the Circle M ended up hosting this camp in the first place.”
“The world needs people who push for ways to help others,” Jess said. “They’re the ones who make a difference.” She turned to Dylan, still speechless beside her. “Would this be a good opportunity for the two of us to talk? I was hoping to see your studio, get some insight into your new work process.”
He had plenty of reservations about that plan, but no valid reason to refuse. “Sure.” To Caroline and Ford, he said, “We’ll catch up with you two at dinner.”
Then, with a sense of dread, he headed toward the studio, leading the enemy directly into the heart of his most personal territory.
* * *
JESS CAUGHT UP with Dylan as he angled away from the ranch house, across a downhill stretch of grass toward what seemed to be another barn, though this building was gray, not red like the one at the top. “You haven’t said anything.”
His handsome face was hard to read. “I admire your achievements, against such odds. Were you close to your foster family?”
“Which one?” She wanted to push his buttons, shake his self-control. “I lived with five different couples. Ten brothers and sisters. Not all at once, of course.”
“That sounds pretty tough.” They reached the corner of the building but he continued past it, toward a stand of trees where the land flattened out. The grass was longer here and greener than on the hill, bending and swaying in the ever-present wind.
Jess stopped to take some pictures, and had to catch up with him again. “Where are we going?”
“To the creek.”
“Why?”
“You wanted to understand my process.”
They stepped under the shade of the trees and the temperature dropped about ten degrees. Jess removed her hat to let the breeze cool her head. “That feels so good.”
Dylan nodded. “Part of the process.”
He’d taken his hat off, too, letting the wind blow his wavy hair back from his face. There was a straight line across his forehead where the dirt from his morning’s work had streaked his skin below his hat. It looked funny, yet also appealing, since it spoke of the physical effort he’d made. Jess was suddenly aware of his bare forearms, his flat stomach and tight rear end. Taking a deep breath, she pivoted away to study the scenery.
Trees and shrubs grew right up to the edge of the water. Along the edge of the stream, the trees were interspersed with rocks and boulders, some as big as cars. The creek bed itself was covered with smaller rocks and stones, which created a sparkling music as the water flowed over them.
“Beautiful,” she said, snapping more photographs, moving around to get different angles and light levels. “Like visiting a national park somewhere, but it’s all yours. No noisy, nosy tourists traipsing around to spoil it.” She grinned at Dylan. “Unless you count me.”
“You’re definitely nosy. Not too noisy, so far.” He gestured to the big, level rock he stood beside. “Come sit down.”
“Okay.” She sat on the rock and he joined her, leaving a space between them. Shadows from the leaves above danced across them, a flicker of gold and gray on their faces. “Now what?”
“Be still for a few minutes. Listen.”
Being still wasn’t Jess’s habit. Most of the time when she was sitting down, her fingers were flying over the keyboard, typing an article or doing research on the internet. Now, with nothing to do, she had to grip her hands together to keep them off her camera—there were several terrific shots she could get from this position, including some close-ups of Dylan himself. Profiled against the trees, he radiated a calm control that was the essence of the cowboy ideal.
An essence very different from the frenetic artist he’d appeared to be three years ago. What had changed him? Or perhaps the question was, what had driven him in the first place? How did a boy who’d grown up in this setting, with the kind of values his brothers clearly considered important, end up in the limelight of the contemporary art scene? How would his work be different now? Was he ready to step back onto the international stage? Or did he have a different plan?
Would he answer her questions honestly, or leave her to draw her own conclusions? How well could she get to know him before she had to leave?
Dylan turned his head to look at her. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m dying to see your studio.”
He glared at her with narrowed eyes. “Are you ever distracted?”
“Not if I want to keep my job.”
“Does your job depend on my article?”
Jess shrugged. “I’m as useful to the magazine as my latest work. And there are lots of hungry writers out there hoping for a break. I’m the only support I’ve got, so staying employed is kind of a high priority.”
After a long moment of stillness, Dylan sighed and got to his feet. “Well, then, Ms. Granger, I guess we’d better get down to business.”
Chapter Two (#ulink_aabea7bd-1de0-5980-8791-585e23c086e2)
The door to the barn was blue, in contrast to the weathered gray boards of the exterior, with a full panel of glass panes. Dylan walked inside, then faced Jess and held out an arm. “Be my guest.”
Cool air greeted her as she stepped over the threshold. “Air-conditioning?”
“Wood stays more stable at a constant temperature.”
The scent hit her all at once, a combination of varnish and glue and trees that cleared her sinuses. “It must make you drunk to spend time in here. That’s a powerful room deodorizer.”
He grinned. “I guess that’s why the hours go by so fast when I’m working. I’m always a little high.”
“So this used to be a regular barn?” The space was huge, open from wall to wall and clear to the ceiling, except for the supporting posts. A staircase in the corner led up to a railed loft stretching halfway across, where she could see a bed and a couple of chairs. “You sleep here, too?”
Dylan shrugged. “I remodeled over the years after we moved out here—with help from my brothers, of course. It’s convenient not to walk out into a snowstorm in the middle of the night when I’m falling asleep.” Then he hunched his shoulders again, and grimaced. “You know, I really would like to take a shower. Why don’t you look around the place while I do that? Then we can talk some before dinner.”
“Great.” Jess watched him jog up the steps, then turned to survey the workshop around her. Tables of various sizes, most hand-built of unfinished boards, filled the space. Dylan’s work area appeared to occupy the center of the room, where hand tools lay neatly arranged by size and use—saws, chisels, screwdrivers and other arcane devices she’d didn’t recognize. Several surfaces held pieces of wood, also organized by size, from the smallest chips to branches four feet long. Some tables held sticks and limbs that had been sanded, stained and finished to a smooth shine. They were beautiful elements, but not the kind of material Dylan Marshall had utilized in his popular, critically approved sculptures.
What had he been up to?
For an answer, she moved to the tables lining the walls of the barn, which held figures of varying sizes—from a slender, twelve-inch form to a massive piece at least four feet square.
“Oh, my God,” she said, in shock. “What in the world has he done?”
She recognized the animal she was staring at as a buffalo, about two feet long and not quite as tall. A collection of sticks and branches had been fitted together to create the figure, each curve and hollow of the body being defined by a curve or hollow in the wood. Every piece had been separately finished and polished to a deep sheen, allowing all the natural variations in color and grain to contribute to the texture of the image as a whole.
“Amazing.”
She moved to the next sculpture, a fish twisting up out of a river. The scales of the fish’s skin, the lines of the body and the base of splashing water had all been created with the same technique, fitting hundreds of tiny sticks together to produce a unified whole.
Jess ran a finger along the fish’s spine. “Incredible detail.”
On the next table there was a stalking wolf, almost half life-size, and a rabbit stretched out at a run, both executed with enormous visual talent and technical precision. Walking around the room, she appreciated the many hours Dylan had poured into these sculptures. That bear she’d seen in the living room at the house had been an early prediction of this full-blown talent. No doubt there would be many buyers for these beautiful works of art.
But... She covered her eyes with her shaking fingers.
The response of the art world Dylan had once conquered would be scathing. Cruel. Because of who he’d been and what he’d done, when the critics evaluated these pieces, they would laugh. Then attack.
And her article, the one Trevor Galleries had sponsored as a comeback announcement, would be the call to arms.
Jess dropped her hands to her sides and shook her head. “Artistic suicide.”
Why would Patricia Trevor, the owner of the gallery, choose this kind of work to exhibit? Her showrooms were known for presenting avant-garde, cutting-edge art. Surely Dylan was aware of that. Why would he expose himself to ridicule this way?
From the loft above, she heard the shower cut off. He would be coming down soon, wanting to get her reaction to his pieces. Expecting her to appreciate his output of the past two years.
She needed some time to frame a response. Panicked, Jess ducked under the loft and headed for the shadows along the rear wall of the barn. One of the tables she passed held small clay figures, probably models he’d made as he planned the larger wooden pieces. The entire surface of another table was stacked high with books—anatomy manuals, collections of wildlife photographs, volumes on working with wood, finishes and stains.
The table in the corner under the stairs was illuminated by a large hanging light and covered with sheets of paper. These were his sketches, Jess realized as she came closer, three-dimensional drawings of animals in different poses, from different angles. Some of the studies she recognized from the sculptures she’d already viewed, but not all. He clearly had ideas for more work.
Footsteps sounded on the floor above her. “Be down in a couple of minutes,” Dylan called. “Just making myself presentable.”
“No problem,” Jess said loudly. “Take your time.” She’d inadvertently glanced up as she spoke, but as she brought her gaze down again, a picture on the wall behind the drawing table caught her attention. She hadn’t noticed any other hanging art in the studio, so this one must be important.
The drawing was deceptively simple—a woman with a baby in her lap. Looking from behind the woman, over her shoulder, the viewer could see the very young child with its feet tucked against the mother’s belly, its head resting on her knees and its tiny hands curled around her two middle fingers.
It’s a boy, Jess decided. Something about the baby’s face convinced her of that fact. The delicate lines and shadings were so persuasive, so filled with emotion, she felt as if she was indeed standing in that room, visiting with mother and child. She could almost hear the woman’s voice, singing a nonsense song, and her son’s infant gurgle in response.
Suddenly, Dylan spoke from right behind her. “What in the world are you doing back here?”
* * *
JESS GRANGER WHIRLED to face him, her mouth and eyes wide with surprise. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
He hadn’t expected her to get this far into the studio. No one but him came into this space. “I can be sneaky. There’s nothing important here in the dark under the stairs.”
“Except for this wonderful sketch.” She nodded toward the frame on the wall. “Is it yours?”
“No.” Dylan pulled together a bunch of the papers spread over his drawing table and started to straighten them. He shouldn’t be such a slob, especially with nosy reporters showing up to investigate.
She wouldn’t let the subject drop. “It’s not signed. Did you know the artist? Have they done other work?”
How was he going to get out of this? “We’re here to talk about sculpture, right?”
“Right, but—” She gasped and then leaned over to pick up one of the papers on the table. “What’s this?”
He saw the sketch and swore silently. “Not much. Just an...idea I was playing with.”
When he reached for the sheet, she held it away from him. “This is your brother. Wyatt, right?”
“At least you recognize him.” He wasn’t sure how to get the drawing away from her, short of wrestling her to the floor.
And now she was in full journalist mode. “Are you working on this as a sculpture?”
“Just considering it.”
“You haven’t started. Why not?”
“What did you think of the stuff that’s done?” Dylan said desperately. “Isn’t that what you’re here to write about?”
“It is.” She blew out a breath and put the sketch on the table. “But you won’t want to talk about that, either.” Stepping around him, she went toward the main part of the studio. Dylan followed, as prepared as he could be for what lay head.
“These are fantastic sculptures,” she said, walking along the line of display tables to survey the various pieces. “Lovely representations of the wildlife you obviously value.”
“But?”
“But, Dylan, this is nothing like the abstract work you were doing in college and afterward—the cerebral, confrontational pieces that got you noticed. You know as well as I do, the art that gets talked about isn’t a reproduction of reality. Nobody on the international art scene will be interested in a statue of a buffalo.”
Truth, with a vengeance. He shrugged. “That’s not my problem. This is what I came home to do. I won’t apologize for it.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. The question is, what am I doing here? Any article I write about your new style is going to bring down catastrophe on your head.” She paused for a moment. “And mine, for that matter. My editor will not appreciate a neat-and-tidy piece about a wildlife artist. It’s just not what Renown readers expect.”
“I can understand that.” He stroked a hand over the head of a fox on the table near him. “So cancel the article.” That would mean she had no reason to stay, of course. He didn’t acknowledge the sense of loss that realization stirred inside him.
But Jess was shaking her head. “Magazine issues are planned long in advance. I’ve got a certain amount of space in this issue. I have to write an article. And after my last assignment...well, I need to turn in good copy.”
“What happened?”
She gave a dismissive wave. “I showed up to interview the next country music legend and found him having an alcohol-fueled meltdown. Smashing guitars, punching walls, throwing furniture. I waited two days for him to sober up. But then all he wanted to do was get me into bed. My editor was not happy. I need to revive my career with this piece.”
“No pressure there.” Now he felt responsible to help her keep her job.
“Exactly. Anyway, Trevor Galleries paid for ad space because we were doing an article on you. It’s a complicated relationship, advertising and content.” She continued walking, examining his work.
“No,” she said, finally, “you won’t be coming back to the contemporary art scene. Not with these sculptures. I’m going to have to find some way to slant this, make it work for my editor. I’ll have to find another hook.” She stared at him with a worried frown. “Any ideas?”
From being the subject—victim—he’d become a coconspirator. “All I can do is talk about what I know.” He couldn’t believe he was giving her a reason to stay, offering to expose himself like this. “Try to explain the changes I’ve made, the reasons I focus on wildlife now.” Not everything, of course. Some secrets weren’t meant to be revealed. Ever.
She didn’t seem to be convinced. “That might work. The ‘soul of an artist’ kind of thing. But you have to be honest and open with me. I can’t turn in a bunch of clichés. Not if I plan to keep my job.”
“Got it.” He would be spilling his guts so Jess Granger could remain employed. That was not at all what he’d planned to do with this interview. There would have to be some kind of payback. “But I want something in exchange.”
“And what would that be?”
“The same access. To you.”
Her hazel gaze went wary. “You’re not writing an article.”
“If I have to drop my defenses, you should, too.”
“I don’t have any defenses.”
“Right. No problems at all with the foster care issue.” Her cheeks flushed. He stared at her until she looked away. “Deal?”
A long silence stretched between them. “Okay. Deal.” She pulled in a deep breath. “So tell me something I can use. Something about your abstract work. What were you thinking when you created those pieces?”
Dylan propped his hip on the corner of the table under the fox and drew a deep breath of his own. “Okay. My second semester in college, I took a sculpture class with Mark Thibault. You know him?”
“Sure. He’s a well-respected critic in contemporary art. He introduced you to the scene. ‘The biggest talent I’ve come across’ was the quote, I believe.”
“Yeah, well. Mark exaggerates. Anyway, he challenged me to explore abstraction. No figures, no representative stuff. If I submitted that kind of project, he promised to fail me for the semester.”
“You cared about grades? Artists are usually rebels in that respect.”
He chuckled. “I had three older brothers who were paying, in one way or another, for that class. I owed them good grades. So I worked my butt off for Mark, but he was never satisfied. He kept criticizing, rejecting, pushing me harder and harder. The deadline was approaching for the final project, and I still didn’t have a passing grade.”
Her hands went into her back pockets. “What happened?”
Dylan gazed up at the ceiling he and his brothers had insulated and paneled with finished boards. “I was sitting in the dorm with some friends, drinking beer out of cans. As guys do, we’d squash the cans when we emptied them and pile them on the table.” He cleared his throat. “In my intoxicated state, I started studying the cans, the shapes of them after they’d been deformed. I chose three that seemed interesting and worked on sketches, playing with their relationships to each other. When I sobered up, I figured out how to make forms using rusted oil drums and a hammer, filled them with concrete and then ripped parts of the drums off.”
Jess was grinning. “And Mark loved it.”
“Oh, yeah. I did, too—it was great to work on a larger scale, to physically manipulate such harsh materials. I felt like I’d opened a door and found a wild new world.”
“Did Mark learn the source of your inspiration?”
“After that sculpture won a blue ribbon, I confessed. He just said, ‘Whatever works, son. Whatever works for you.’”
She gave another of those rich, deep laughs of hers. “And an art prodigy is born.”
“There you go.” He glanced at the window and saw with surprise how long the shadows from the trees had grown. “We’re going to miss dinner if we don’t head for the house.”
“Dinner sounds terrific.” She brought her hands out of her pockets, relaxing the pose that distracted him. “Something about all this fresh air makes me hungrier than usual.”
“Wyoming affects people that way.” He opened the door for her to walk through. “But afterward,” he warned her as they walked up the hill, “it will be your turn to bare your soul.”
* * *
WHEN SHE AND DYLAN entered the house, Jess saw all the Marshall brothers in the same room for the first time. Four handsome cowboys, cleaned up and smiling at her, was enough to set her heart to pounding.
She fanned her hot face with her hand. “Taken together, you guys are a little overwhelming.” Dylan looked especially fine, something she’d been trying to ignore ever since he’d surprised her in the studio.
Cheeks flushed, every one of the brothers hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and gazed down at the floor. Jess chuckled. “There’s definitely a family resemblance.”
An expression of horror crossed Dylan’s face. “Say it ain’t so!”
Garrett snorted. “You should be so lucky.”
“Caroline’s supervising cleanup in the bunkhouse,” Ford said, ignoring his brothers. “She’ll be over when the kids are done.”
A voice spoke up behind Jess. “Dinner’s ready. You all should come sit down.”
Hearing the unexpected voice, she pivoted to find a blonde woman standing in the doorway to the dining room. A curly-headed little girl peeked around her hip.
“Susannah and Amber Bradley are staying with us for a while,” Dylan explained as they moved toward their seats. “And Susannah’s making sure we’re all going to have to buy a larger size in jeans.”
Jess couldn’t believe the table full of food, all for an ordinary evening meal. A steaming bowl of stew occupied the center of the feast, surrounded by dishes of mashed potatoes, rolls, green beans and a tossed salad. “I can see why. I’m sure it’s all delicious.”
Before she could pull out her chair, Dylan had done it for her. Garrett did the same for Susannah, after she’d gotten the little girl settled in a booster seat. Opening doors, pulling out chairs—compared with everyday manners in New York, all this chivalry would take some getting used to.
A sense of unreality stayed with Jess as she ate. When had she last sat at a family table? For Thanksgiving or Christmas, maybe, at the last foster home she’d lived in. Not in the middle of the week, though. And that foster mother hadn’t been very skilled in the kitchen.
“I was right. This food is amazing,” she said, taking another helping of stew. “It’s a lucky thing I’ll only be here a few days.” She met Susannah’s gaze across the table. “You’re a wonderful cook. Or maybe I should say chef.”
Susannah laughed. “Cook, definitely.” Her crisp accent hinted at an East Coast upbringing. She wore her fair hair in a knot at the crown of her head, with wisps escaping to frame her face—a beautiful woman in a household of handsome single men. The possibilities for romance were certainly plentiful, but she must already be married.
“Does your husband work on the Circle M?” Jess asked, following that train of thought.
Susannah winced. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, till Dylan stirred in his chair. “Susannah’s husband is...trouble. She and her kids are here to stay safe.”
She felt her cheeks heat up. “I’m so sorry. Being nosy is a job qualification. But I didn’t mean to touch on a sore subject.”
“Of course not.” The other woman had recovered her control. “You couldn’t possibly have known. Don’t worry about it.” She glanced around the table. “Can I get anyone more to drink? Do we need more food?”
Groans answered her and for a few minutes they all concentrated on their meals, which Jess figured was a polite way to allow her to save face. She was quite sure she’d never met a family so mannerly.
But then, the families she’d grown up with weren’t always the most respectable members of society. Some of them had tried. Some...had not.
“Jess, you’re from New York, is that right?” Garrett sat directly across from her. “You’ll find it a lot less crowded out here.”
She nodded. “Wyoming has the smallest population per square mile of any state, doesn’t it? I’m not used to walking around without dodging other people.”
“When the teenagers congregate, you can find yourself doing some dodging.” Ford winked at her. His dark gold hair glinted under the light of the chandelier. “They take up a lot more room than you might expect. Especially now that they’re more comfortable with the place.”
“How long has your program been operating?” Surely that would be a safe topic, after the disaster she’d created with Susannah.
“This is the first year,” he said. “And we’re in week three. The first days were pretty rough—”
“Try ‘impossible,’” Dylan said in a low voice.
Garrett glared at him. “We got through them. And things get better every day.”
“Till the next disaster,” Dylan nodded, as if he agreed. “You can bet there will be one.”
Garrett started to respond, but Wyatt spoke first. “What about this cattle drive you’re planning to take the kids on?” His deep voice broke up the tension. “Where do you intend to go?”
Jess couldn’t follow the references to different fields and pastures and fence lines and gates, but the brothers evidently reached a consensus about the route they’d be following with kids and cows. Susannah and Amber would be driving to meet them on the way with lunch.
“Wyatt can ride with you to give you directions,” Ford said. “Think that’ll work, Boss?”
“Sure.” His glance across the table seemed almost shy. “If Susannah doesn’t mind.”
She gave him a soft smile. “Of course not.”
Jess raised her hand. “Can I ride in the truck, too? I’d hate to miss the excitement.”
Dylan frowned at her. “Now, I was planning to teach you to ride directly after dinner. You should be ready to join us on horseback by Friday.”
Ford grinned. “In case that doesn’t work out, you’re certainly welcome to a seat in the truck.”
“Thank goodness,” Jess said with relief, and earned a general laugh.
Susannah stirred in her chair. “I’m amazed at how well you all understand the land and its character. What a privilege, to take care of your own piece of the earth.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ll clear the dishes. Garrett, the ingredients for ice cream are ready.”
Jess started to rise. “Let me help.”
But Dylan put his fingers over hers on the table. “Not a chance. You relax.” The skin-to-skin contact shocked them both, and they jerked their hands apart again. He cleared his throat and reached for her plate. “We’ve got minions to spare.”
“Everybody should have minions,” she said, and he smiled without meeting her eyes. Jess realized she was holding the hand he’d touched in her other palm, and quickly laced her fingers together, setting both hands on the table.
Caroline appeared in the doorway of the dining room. “The kids are ready for ice cream,” she said. “More than ready.” To Jess, she said, “Come outside and meet everybody. They’re pretty mellow after dinner.”
Outside, a group of boys was playing catch in the open space in front of the ranch house. Three girls sat on the floor of the front porch staring at their phones. “Lizzie Hanson, Becky Rush and Lena Smith,” Caroline said, indicating which name belonged to whom. “Girls, this is Jess Granger. She’s a journalist who’s come to write an article about Mr. Dylan.”
Lizzie, a slender blonde wearing far more makeup than necessary, looked up from her phone. “A journalist? You mean, a writer?”
Jess nodded. “Yes. I write articles for a magazine.”
“Did you have to go to school for a long time to do that?”
“Four years of college.”
The girl heaved a sigh. “That’s a lot.”
Redheaded Becky nudged Lizzie with an elbow. “You could do it. You like to write.”
“Do you?” Jess sat in the nearby rocking chair. “What do you write?”
Lizzie shrugged one shoulder. “Just stuff. Things I make up.”
“Well, that’s the way to start. The more you write, the better you get at it.” She caught Lena’s gaze. “You were riding the bucking barrel this afternoon, weren’t you? That’s pretty impressive.”
The girl shrugged. “It’s fun. Women can do the same things men do.”
“Absolutely.” Jess grinned at Caroline when Lena’s attention returned to her typing. “Are the teenagers churning the ice cream?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I’ve seen pictures,” Jess confessed. “But I’ve never actually eaten homemade ice cream.”
“That’s okay,” Becky told her, with a grin. “I never had any till I came here, either. But it’s awesome.”
“Thanks.” Jess grinned back at the friendly girl. She really didn’t seem to be the troublesome type.
Garrett had carried the ice-cream maker out to the area in front of the porch and was adding ice and salt to the bucket. “Okay, guys,” he called. “I need some strong arms over here.”
The boys sauntered toward the porch. “Not exactly a stampede,” Jess commented. “Typical adolescents.”
“They wouldn’t want you to believe they were enthusiastic.” Caroline smiled while shaking her head. “Cooperation is not cool.”
“How well I remember.” Jess caught Caroline’s quick glance in her direction, but she didn’t say anything else. She didn’t want her memories to disrupt the peaceful evening.
Thomas, one of the boys she’d watched this afternoon, took the first shift on the ice-cream crank. Caroline introduced another boy, Justino, who gave her a solemn “Hi,” before sitting down next to Lena. They immediately became completely absorbed in each other, locking gazes and murmuring a conversation for their ears alone.
Jess looked at Caroline with a raised eyebrow.
“They kept it a secret,” Caroline said quietly, “until after they got here. Ford and I have been standing guard duty to be sure they stay where they’re supposed to be after lights-out.” She gave a mischievous grin. “That has its pluses and minuses.”
Ford opened the screen door at that moment and came to stand beside Caroline. Although they didn’t touch, the meeting of their gazes was as warm as a hug.
With an uncomfortable fluttering in her chest, Jess shifted her attention to the ice-cream process.
“It’s getting hard,” Marcos said.
“Let me,” Thomas ordered. “You been doing it forever.”
Marcos shook his head. “You started. I’m still doin’ okay.”
The other boy pushed at his shoulder. “Give somebody else a chance.”
Marcos rounded on him, fists clenched.
Seeming to come from out of nowhere, Dylan stepped between them. “It’s my turn, guys. Stand aside.”
Both boys retreated as Dylan bent over the ice-cream churn. He grabbed the handle but groaned as he cranked it. “This is hard. Can’t be too much longer till it’s done.”
Jess couldn’t decide if he was faking it to make the boys feel better. He did continue to rotate the handle for a while. But he’d averted a fight. She had to admire his presence of mind.
Once the churn was open, he came across the porch to hand her one of the two bowls he carried. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks.” She sampled cautiously, discovering a rich, smooth treat that rivaled any vanilla ice cream she’d ever tasted. “Wow. You must have the magic touch.”
“A great recipe helps.” Dylan settled into the rocker beside hers. “Lots of eggs and sugar and cream. Susannah makes a mean custard.”
“Mmm.” Jess didn’t want to confess she didn’t understand what he meant.
“What’s your favorite flavor?” he asked.
“At home by myself with a movie? Mint chocolate chip. For my birthday, I go to a shop in Brooklyn and order Earl Grey tea ice cream. How about you?”
“As far as I’m concerned, the more chocolate, the better. Dark chocolate with dark chocolate chunks and dark chocolate syrup. On a dark chocolate brownie.”
Jess found herself watching as he licked his spoon clean. Swallowing hard, she shifted her gaze to the darkness beyond the reach of the porch light. “I believe I get the idea.”
Most of the kids had settled down separately to eat their dessert, except for Justino and Lena, who sat hip to hip. Susannah Bradley had brought Amber outside to sit on the other side of the porch, where they were joined by a boy Jess hadn’t seen this afternoon.
“That’s her son, Nate,” Dylan said, when she asked. “He’s a natural horseman—has taken to riding like he was born in the saddle. Speaking of which...” He grinned at her. “Are you ready for your riding lesson? The moon’s rising.”
She decided to call his bluff. Standing up, she said, “Sure. Let’s go.”
“Great.” If he was surprised, it didn’t show. “I’ll take our dishes inside.”
In a moment, he reappeared. “Right this way, ma’am.”
As they walked away from the house, she frowned at him. “Do I remind you of your mother?”
“I don’t remember much about my mother. She died when I was six.” His solemn expression revealed more than he probably realized. “Why?”
“You called me ‘ma’am.’” Now she felt foolish. “I’m not that old.”
“Sorry. It’s just a habit—we tend to say it to women of any age out here.” He sent her a smile. “I’ll try to remember you’re sensitive about that.”
“I’m not sensitive.”
Dylan gave a snort.
“Just accurate,” she insisted. “I’m only thirty-five.” Eight years older than he was, in fact, which was another reason to keep their relationship strictly platonic. Except her reactions to him weren’t following that rule.
Jess decided to change the subject. This was supposed to be an interview, after all. “I understand both your parents passed away when you were all quite young.”
He nodded without turning his head. “Wyatt was sixteen and I was eight when our dad died.”
“You didn’t have family to take you in?”
“Not that we knew of.” He shrugged one shoulder. “We did okay by ourselves.”
“Have you always lived on the Circle M?”
“Not in the beginning. Wyatt got a job with the owner, Henry MacPherson. We all eventually came here to live and work.”
They reached the top of the hill and headed toward the barn. Dylan strode ahead to reach inside the big, open door, and light poured out into the evening.
Jess stepped through and then stopped in surprise. “I’ve never been in a working barn before. In fact, this is only the second barn I’ve ever entered in my life.” A high-ceilinged aisle stretched along the side of the building, its beams and paneling aged to a rich, deep brown. She took a deep breath. “What is that sweet smell? Kind of grassy, only...more, somehow.”
“Hay.” Dylan pointed up to a loft filled with stacks of rectangular bundles. “About five hundred bales of grass hay.”
“Ah. Bales. No wonder horses enjoy eating it. Must be delicious.” Walking forward, she started down a cross-aisle with partially enclosed rooms on each side. The lower halves of the walls were built of boards, but the upper halves consisted of iron bars. The entrance to each room was a sliding door. “These are stalls where the horses stay?”
Dylan had followed her. “Yes, they’re stalls, though we don’t usually keep the horses in here unless they’re hurt or sick. They prefer being out to roam around.”
Along the rear of the barn were compartments with full walls and regular doors. “Feed room,” her guide explained, showing her a space that resembled a kitchen, minus the oven and dishwasher. He opened another door. “Tack room—for saddles and bridles, horse equipment in general.”
“Oh, wow.” Rows of saddles lined one wall, with racks for bridles on another. Jess took a deep breath. “I love the scent of leather. Mixed with hay, it’s a very evocative aroma.” Sensuous, even. But she kept that impression to herself.
“The essence of a barn, as far as I’m concerned.”
When they walked around the corner, they arrived at the other end of the aisle from where they’d started. A double half door looked out into a large dirt area ringed by a wooden fence. “That’s the corral,” Dylan said. “The site of your riding lesson.”
Jess leaned her arms on the top of the door, relaxing into the warm, breezy night. “Where’s my horse?”
He joined her to gaze out into the darkness. “On the other side of the fence, in the pasture.”
“And this full moon you talked about?” The indigo sky was dotted with more stars than she’d ever witnessed. “I’m not finding it.”
Leaning over the top of the door, he pretended to search. “Yeah. That’s a problem.”
“I guess I’ll settle for a barn tour instead of a riding lesson by moonlight.” Facing into the barn again, she leaned against the door and surveyed the interior of the building. “It’s beautiful. And so neat. No dust or dirt anywhere.”
“Old Henry MacPherson was a bear about keeping the place tidy. Now it’s second nature to all of us.”
“He didn’t have a family?”
“No kids, and his wife died in her fifties. We’re lucky he took us on after our dad died.”
“That must have been especially tough, since you’d already lost your mom.”
“Wyatt kept us together. He’s one determined cowboy.” Dylan leaned sideways against the door, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze intent on her face. “But it sounds as if you were on your own. No brothers or sisters?”
Her whole body tensed. “Is this my interrogation?”
He frowned at her. “I was thinking of it as getting to know you.”
Jess blew out a short breath. “No siblings by birth. Some of the families I stayed with had more than one kid.”
“I guess it would be hard to get close to anyone if you weren’t sure how long you’d be staying.”
This was not something she ever talked about. “Yes.”
“Was this in New York?”
“I grew up in Connecticut. Different towns, depending on who I was living with.”
“Do you still enjoy snow?”
She couldn’t help laughing at the question. “I do, as a matter of fact. It makes the world all fresh and clean, at least for a little while.”
“Me, too.” He was quiet for a moment. “So you went to college, got your degree and now you’re a staff reporter for a glossy, upscale magazine.”
Jess let herself relax again. “Pretty much, I suppose. If you skip all the unsuccessful rags I wrote for during the first eight years or so.”
Dylan’s brown gaze focused intently on her face. “Where did you get your drive to succeed? We had Wyatt—he was just born responsible, I guess, and he made sure the rest of us grew up that way. Now we’re trying to give these camp kids a chance to understand how they can succeed in life. Who did that for you?”
“Nobody did that for me.” The confession broke some kind of dam inside her. She gripped her hands together, trying for control. “Sometimes they made the effort, but I wasn’t ready. Or I’d get kicked back to my mother, have to start taking care of her again. One couple didn’t have time—six kids in a two-bedroom house make for a lot of work. One couple was only in it for the check. And I was never in the same school long enough to get a teacher on my side.”
When Dylan started to speak, she held up a hand. “I raised myself, reading stories that showed me how kids are supposed to grow up. Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Ann Martin and Madeleine L’Engle—I guess you could say they raised me. I grew up to be a writer because they showed me how to live. Libraries were my true home.”
Pushing away from the door, she stalked down the aisle toward the front of the barn.
“Jess, wait.”
She stopped halfway but didn’t turn around. “I never saw ice cream made at home. Till tonight.” Shaking her head, she waved him away and stepped out into the night.
Chapter Three (#ulink_3854dc4d-af6b-5bf1-bc35-fac88a93f5b8)
Dylan let her get about halfway down the hill before he went after her. “Jess, hold up.”
She didn’t stop until he grasped her upper arm. By then they’d reached the front porch. Fortunately, the crowd had dispersed and there was no one to watch.
“Haven’t you heard enough?” Her hoarse voice held tears. “What else do you want?”
“Just to make sure you’re okay.”
Her shoulders lifted on a deep breath. “Of course. More courtly manners from the Marshall brothers. ‘Chivalry ’R Us.’”
“That’s right.” Under his palm, her arm was slender, but the muscle was strong. “Why don’t we sit down for a few minutes?”
Without answering, she stepped up onto the porch. Dylan let her go, though he wasn’t sure she would sit down until she actually did so. He dropped into the chair next to her and set his elbows on the arms. “You owe me one.”
She sent him a sideways glance. “One what?”
“One probing question requiring a self-immolating answer.”
That got a ghost of a laugh. “Oh, good. I’ll give it some serious consideration.”
“It’s a golden opportunity.”
“I’m sure. You were never very open with interviewers back then. Always the same flip answers.”
“They didn’t want to hear the truth.”
“I would have.”
“Maybe. And then you could have torpedoed my brilliant career.”
“Instead, you did it yourself.” The ensuing silence was filled with expectation.
Dylan understood he had only himself to blame for the direction the conversation had taken. But no matter how beautiful Jess Granger might be—and she was damn beautiful, with light from the house windows glinting on her hair and shining in her eyes—he wasn’t about to tell her everything.
“Artists change direction all the time. I’d said all I wanted to with that approach.”
She raised one eyebrow. “After five years? When you were only twenty-five?”
“I have a short attention span.”
“Which is why you now build sculptural mosaics with small pieces of polished wood.”
“There’s this medicine...”
Jess slapped her hands on her knees and stood up. “I get it. You’re not going to give me the truth about what happened to drive you away from abstract art.” She walked to the front door. “Then I’ll say good-night. It’s been a long day.”
Dylan joined her at the door, putting his hand on the frame. “I bet it has. You’ve come two thousand miles from your world to mine.” Through the screen, he saw that the living room was empty. “And I should do some work.”
She gazed up at him, though not very far, because she was tall. “That would be interesting to watch.” Then she put her hand up to hide a yawn. “But I was up at four. I’d probably fall asleep with my head on a table.”
“You can save that for another night.” That full, rosy mouth tempted him mightily. Was it as soft, as sweet, as responsive as he imagined? It would take just a light taste to find out.
Jess’s hand landed flat against his chest. “You’re not doing that, either. Good night.”
Before he could react, she opened the screen door and walked inside, then disappeared into the shadows of the hallway. He heard a door shut firmly.
“Guess she told you.”
Dylan jumped at the sound of Wyatt’s voice. “What are you doing sneaking around?”
“Taking a walk. How’s the interview going?”
“Rough. She wants more than I’m willing to say.”
The Boss stepped onto the porch. “What have you got to hide?”
His brother was another person who didn’t have to know everything. “I don’t want you and Garrett and Ford pestered with the kind of attention an article in this magazine can generate.”
“What kind is that?”
“Condescending, disparaging, disrespectful. Or, worse, you could start getting calls from women who want to hook up with a single cowboy who owns his own place. They might even arrive unannounced.”
Wyatt grinned. “Could be a way for Garrett to find a wife.”
“You, too, for that matter.” An instantaneous frown greeted that suggestion. “Even more important, these kids shouldn’t be advertised across the country as problems. That label would stick with them for the rest of their lives.”
“Excellent point. So how are you planning to handle this situation?”
“We’re working on an angle, Jess and I.” Though he had a feeling that she hadn’t given up her basic agenda any more than he had.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” Dylan raked his fingers through his hair. “The work I’ve been doing the last two years is...different from what she expected, which is another problem. I guess it’s up to me to figure out an explanation she can use that doesn’t drag my guts out in the open for everyone to study.”
“I can see how she’d be surprised—that oversize concrete-and-metal style you worked with in college doesn’t mesh with the figures you’re making now.” The Boss tilted his head. “For the record, I like the new stuff better.”
“I’m sure you do.” Dylan put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “The Renown readers won’t, but they’ll recover. Meanwhile, if I’m going to make some progress tonight, I’d better begin.”
Wyatt closed the screen door between them. “Hope you get some sleep.”
“Me, too.”
Once in the studio, though, he couldn’t settle down. The latest piece waited—a mare and newborn foal he’d started building only a few days ago. He’d meant to avoid cuteness, intended to convey the perilous nature of birth in the wild—of life in general. A happy ending wasn’t guaranteed. For animals or humans.
Dylan paced between the tables as his thoughts ricocheted around his skull, which was not at all conducive to creativity. On this kind of night, he often went down to the creek for a little while and let the water’s silvery chuckle soothe his mind.
Or would he just spend those minutes mooning over Jess Granger?
“Damn it.” He stalked to the rear of the studio, under the loft, and went to the drafting table. She would be in here sometime in the next day or two, so he might as well get this mess straightened up. No one was allowed to view his sketches. They were for his use alone.
But as he organized the papers—a stack for the ones he had sculpted, a stack for the ones he might get to, the trash can for failures—he came across the drawing of Wyatt that Jess had found. In a moment, another human figure surfaced from the pile—a woman with a baby in her lap. Dylan sat down in the chair and laid the two sheets on the surface in front of him. He should throw these away, too.
But if he did, he would only draw them again, as he had so often over the years, always determined that this time he would take the project all the way. This time he would create the sculptures that lived in his brain.
He never had. And he wasn’t sure why...except that when he tried, he came up against a mental brick wall that stretched higher, wider and deeper than he could reach. What he wanted to create stood on the other side. And he couldn’t get through.
With a sigh, Dylan stacked the two pages, folded them in half and dropped them in the trash. There was no point in beating himself up over what he couldn’t produce. He had plenty to do over the next couple of months to get ready for the gallery show, and he was comfortable with the work that had to be done. Letting go of those images would free up more energy for the tasks at hand. Artistic and otherwise.
With the remaining sketches neatly slotted inside a file folder, Dylan made his way to the mare and foal and sat down, forcing himself for the first few minutes until the process started to flow—
A knock on the door jerked him around and he swore as he dropped the piece of wood he’d just glued. What had happened now? His brothers rarely bothered him at night except for an emergency.
Through the glass, though, he could see this was not a brother. He opened the door. “Jess? What are you doing here?”
Her hair was loose again, rippling around her shoulders and lifting with the wind. She wore a bulky blue sweater over a T-shirt and what appeared to be plaid flannel boxer shorts, with sneakers on her feet. Her legs, minus jeans and tall boots, were shapely and smooth. Gorgeous.
“I couldn’t sleep.” She’d taken off her makeup, revealing light freckles over her nose and cheeks. “I thought I would come watch you.”
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Okay. Come in.” The last thing he needed when he was having trouble working was an audience. Especially this audience. “I was about to make some coffee. Join me?”
“Yes, please.” She drifted along the display tables while he brewed two cups. “Heavy cream and two sugars, please.”
“I like mine sweet, too.” He brought her a mug. “Is your room not comfortable?”
“Oh, no, it’s great. Flying just disrupts my internal clock.”
“I remember. Eventually you stop being able to tell what time it should be.” They were standing by a bighorn ram he’d finished a few months ago. “I haven’t missed that, the last couple of years.”
“You don’t enjoy traveling?”
“I enjoy visiting new places. My preference would be staying somewhere for a month—or six—and really getting to know the people and the environment. I’m not into ‘if it’s Tuesday this must be Rome.’”
Jess eyed him over the rim of her cup. “Not just four days?”
“You won’t know everything about this place in four days or four months or years.” He didn’t mean it as a challenge.
But she heard one. “I think you’ll be surprised.”
So they were adversaries again. Dylan didn’t intend to argue with her about who would win. “Anyway, make yourself comfortable—not that there are many decent chairs to sit in around here. I’m going to get to work.”
“Thanks. Just pretend I’m not here. I don’t want to disturb your process.”
Yeah, right. Dylan lost count of how many mistakes he made in the next hour as he tried to concentrate with Jess Granger in the room. She’d rolled his desk chair out from behind the staircase and over to where he was working. He couldn’t argue that she’d picked the most comfortable seat available. The problem was the way she curled her body into its leather embrace, knees drawn up and ankles crossed, looking all warm and cozy. That blue sweater didn’t reach much below the hem of the boxer shorts, so there was a long length of leg left to view, if he happened to glance over.
Which he did, too often. And each time he found Jess’s gaze intent on his hands. She didn’t say anything, but he was constantly aware of her presence.
Eventually, though, the spirit of the piece drew him in. Dylan found his focus, fingering through the collection of wood on the table for the next element, making adjustments, setting the fragment just right. He worked until his neck began to ache, until his back stiffened and his fingers fumbled, until his eyes burned.
“Enough,” he said, capping the glue and pushing away from the table. “I give in.”
A single glance at Jess revealed she’d surrendered before him. Arms folded, eyes closed, she’d slipped down in the chair to rest her cheek on the padded arm. She was deeply asleep.
In his studio. At 3:45 a.m. What was he supposed to do about it?
He should wake her, walk her to the house and send her to bed in the guest room while he returned here. And how painful would that be, for both of them? There was a reason he’d built the bedroom loft. All he wanted at this moment was to drop onto the bed and pass out.
He could leave her in the chair to sleep, even if she might not be able to straighten up for the next three days. That would teach her a lesson, though he was too tired to figure out about what.
Or...there was a king-size bed upstairs, a place to get some real rest without taking a predawn walk through damp grass.
Dylan rubbed his eyes and then put a hand on Jess’s shoulder. “Hey, you. Bedtime.”
Her eyes slowly opened to show him the bleary, confused expression of the very tired. “Huh?”
“Let’s go.” He took her hand and pulled.
She sat up with the coordination of a rag doll. “I don’t understand.” Her eyelids drooped.
“I’m tired. We’re going to bed.”
He’d carried her halfway up the steps before his last statement fully penetrated. Jess came awake, twisting in his arms. “No. We can’t.”
“Yes. We can.” He took a tighter grip under her soft, bare knees and her arms, driving himself to the top of the staircase. Keeping hold, he walked over to the side of the bed and set her on her feet. “Crawl in.”
“No.” This protest was weaker. When he pulled down the covers, she gazed at the pillow with longing.
Dylan was about to collapse himself. Palms on her shoulders, he sat her down, slipped her sneakers off and tucked her feet under the sheet before pushing her backward. “Sleep.”
Before he made it around to the other side, she had rolled onto her stomach and burrowed into the pillow.
He scowled at all those curls flowing across his dark blue sheets. “Make yourself at home.”
Then he grabbed the blanket folded at the bottom of the mattress and flung it over himself as he sat down in the recliner by the window. He’d spent many a night snoring at the television from this spot, and it was usually only a matter of minutes until he called the day done.
This was, however, the first time he’d ever done so with a woman in his bed.
Somehow, his favorite chair just didn’t feel so comfortable tonight.
* * *
OH. MY. GOD.
Jess didn’t even have to sit up to realize where she was. From where she lay on her side, she could see the railing of the loft in Dylan’s studio, as well as the top of the staircase. In such a comfortable position, she could be only one place.
His bed.
She couldn’t recall how she got here. Her memory pretty much blanked out around two thirty, when she’d checked her watch while Dylan pursued his meticulous work at the table. Another cup of coffee had kept her awake for a little while but not, apparently, long enough.
Not remembering how she got up here meant she didn’t remember what had happened after she got here. She seemed to have her clothes on, which was reassuring, if not conclusive. No one’s arms were wrapped around her. Or hers around them. Also comforting.
If she turned over, would she be staring into his face? Gazing into those dark chocolate eyes with their teasing glint? Was he under the same sheet—was the warmth she savored the result of sharing a small, dark, intimate space with him?
Jess didn’t consider herself a coward. She’d lived in bad neighborhoods, attended schools where violence was a daily event, bruised her knuckles on other girls’ jawbones. But the possibility of confronting Dylan Marshall on the other side of the bed seemed only slightly less risky than leaping over the loft rail to the floor below.
Then she realized she could swing her legs out of bed, stand up and at least be on her feet when she confronted him. Big improvement.
When she spun around, though, she found the worst of her fears unfounded. The other side of the giant bed lay undisturbed, the covers still pulled over most of the pillow. She’d slept alone.
Blowing out a relieved breath, she ignored the regret lurking in her mind. She reminded herself that spending the night—actually having sex—with the subject of her interview violated her standards of professional behavior. Of course, she’d never been tempted before, but that didn’t matter. Rules were rules.
All she could see of Dylan, in fact, was a single sock-covered foot sticking out from underneath a blanket draped over what appeared to be a recliner facing the television. Talk about standards—he’d let her have the bed all by herself, even though there was plenty of room for two people to lie down and never touch. She didn’t know many guys with that kind of personal code—these days, everyone seemed to be looking out for their own good at the expense of everyone else.
And why not?Who takes care of you if you don’t?
Dylan would, the treacherous part of her whispered. She ignored it. She had to.
Carrying her shoes, Jess hurried quietly down the stairs, resisting the impulse to stop and make a cup of coffee. She glanced at her watch as she pulled on her sneakers and slipped out the blue door. Five fifteen. The sun had yet to rise into the sky, but there was plenty of light, a sort of golden glow that promised a beautiful day. Soft breezes rustled the tree leaves, and she could hear birds. Real birds, not just pigeons clucking on the sidewalk. Her sneakers and her ankles got damp as she brushed through the grass—when had she last experienced dew? How long since she’d walked on anything but a sidewalk?
Only when she stepped onto the porch of the house did she consider that the door might be locked. Then she’d be trapped outside, sitting in a rocking chair in her pajamas, until somebody inside woke up and emerged from the house—which was just one of the more embarrassing situations she could imagine. Especially if that person was Wyatt Marshall, the most intimidating of the four. She had a feeling he disapproved of her enough already.
But the knob turned easily in her hand. This wasn’t Manhattan, after all. Who needed to lock up in the middle of nowhere?
Slipping into the living room, Jess gently closed the front door. There was a little squeak, but surely not enough to wake anyone. Most people slept with their bedroom door shut, right?
As she crossed to the hallway, the aroma of coffee permeated the air. The Marshalls must have their pot on a timer, so the brew would be prepared when they got up. She had one on her coffeemaker at home. Of course, she usually got up about eight...
“Good morning.” Through the opening to the kitchen, she saw Garrett Marshall leaning against the counter. He gave her one of his handsome smiles and lifted his mug. “Coffee?”
“Um...thanks.” Pulling her sweater around her, Jess sat on a stool at the breakfast bar. Now she regretted not having put clothes on before going to the studio last night.
“It’s a glorious day.” He brought milk and sugar to the bar. “Been out for a walk?”
She wanted to lie. Or just run away. “Not exactly.” A sip of coffee fortified her resolve. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went over to watch Dylan work.”
Garrett paused in the act of drinking. He didn’t move, his face didn’t change—he just stared at her.
“I fell asleep in the chair. And didn’t wake up until a few minutes ago.”
“In the chair?”
“Um...no.”
He nodded. “I’m guessing Dylan slept in his recliner.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He prefers his women conscious.”
Jess sputtered her coffee through a laugh. “And you know this because...?”
“Because Dylan doesn’t take advantage of people. Well...” Garrett chuckled. “He might be a little lazy when it comes to chores. You won’t catch him making a meal. But he isn’t deceptive. What he says or does is the truth.”
“The whole truth?”
“Ah. That’s different.”
Might as well do some work, since the opportunity had presented itself. “Did you and your brothers follow his career, before he returned home?”
Forearms on the counter, Garrett palmed his coffee mug back and forth. “For the record? I did. Ford was in San Francisco building his law practice, so I’m not sure if he realized what was going on. Wyatt uses computers because they’re fast at calculations, but anything he reads on the internet probably contains the word cattle.”
“What did you think of Dylan’s work? His life?”
“His abstract work wasn’t anything I’d ever have associated with my little brother. And as far as I could tell, his life was pretty much what you’d expect from a kid given too much attention and not enough responsibility.”
“Why did he come home?”
“Because he missed us?” He shook his head and took a sip of coffee. “Although that was part of it, something else happened. Something that shook him to the very foundation of his soul.”
“But he hasn’t shared what it was?”
“No. And I wouldn’t get my hopes up, if I were you.” His stern blue gaze focused on her face. “Dylan keeps his secrets. He seems easygoing, accessible. But underneath, he’s got some solid shields. Nobody gets all the way inside.”

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