Читать книгу A Husband In Wyoming - Lynnette Kent - Страница 8

Chapter Three

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.”