A Gift For Baby. Raye Morgan
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waiting for the rest of her musing, he lifted the easel without effort and hoisted it onto his wide shoulder. “Top of that hill?” he asked, nodding toward the area.
“Yes,” she said, hastily gathering her other things. “Thank you so much.”
But he was already striding toward the spot and she had to run to catch up by the time he reached it. He set the easel in place and was going to take her bundle of papers from her, but as she transferred the items, a small stack of drawings fell out and sailed haphazardly to the ground. Picking one of them up, he stopped, startled, staring at the cowboy face she’d drawn. Slowly he turned and stared at her, feeling like a man walking on quicksand.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked her softly, waving the picture at her. “That’s me.”
She glanced at it, not surprised at all. “Oh. Is it? Yes, I guess it is. I was just sketching some of the cowboys a week or so ago. I didn’t remember that you were one of them.”
He stared at her with steely eyes for a long moment, then handed the sketch back to her. “Don’t do it again,” he warned, his voice low but ominous.
She looked up at him, somewhat startled by his tone. “Why not?”
Yes, why not? He could hardly explain that he was an undercover agent, could he? That he didn’t want his cover blown. “It’s an invasion of privacy,” he said, evading the real issue. That made her laugh.
“Oh, come on. I was just sketching character studies. As far as I was concerned, you were just an ordinary cowboy, no more, no less. It was nothing personal.”
He didn’t relent, and actually, he had to admit, seeing the picture of himself had been downright disconcerting. It gave him an eerie feeling, as though something were going on here that he didn’t understand. And he hated not feeling in the know.
“Still,” he said, looking at her narrowly, “you reached out and took a piece of me and I didn’t even know it. Some Indian tribes used to think you captured someone’s soul when you had a picture of them.”
She waved that theory away dismissively. “That was photography.”
He shrugged. “Same difference.” His forefinger jabbed at the picture. “That’s me, and anyone looking at it is going to know it’s me.”
And that was just the problem. She was damn good, but he wasn’t about to tell her so. Opening the sketchbook he was holding, he riffled through others that were just as welldone.
“You see,” she said, watching him, “they’re just character studies. I mean, I don’t think of you as you, whoever that may be. I think of you as Joe Cowboy.”
He nodded, studying her work. “Sort of a generic brand,” he said softly.
“Exactly.”
Looking up, he pinned her with a sharp gaze as he snapped the book shut. “Sure, I understand that,” he said calmly. “That’s kind of the way I think of you.”
That startled her. She turned slowly, keeping her face bland. “Oh, really?”
“Sure.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re the generic rich girl.”
Her eyes widened and she laughed. “Hardly.”
Straightening, he handed her back her sketchbook. “Didn’t your father buy out the place so you could have it to yourself for a month?”
She opened her mouth to protest, but after all, what could she say? He was pretty near the mark. “You don’t know the first thing about it,” she said simply.
He shrugged, his hard face unemotional. “All I know is, they booted all the other guests out so you wouldn’t be disturbed. And you have two bodyguards. Now what kind of message do you think all that is sending?”
She stared at him for a moment, then turned and began to straighten the easel, preparing it for work. “My father used to say, if you want to send a message, call the telegraph people,” she murmured as she aligned the paper guides.
He knew he deserved that, and he almost smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he told her instead. “Now, if you’ve finished with me, boss-lady, I’ll get back to work.”
She turned her green gaze on him and shook her head in wonder. “You’ve got your nerve, mister,” she said. “It’s pretty obvious you’ve never been briefed in customer relations.” She tilted her head to the side, studying him. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll turn you in? That you might lose your job?”
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, ready to make his escape. “Miss Kingston,” he drawled, “there are things in this life I am afraid of. Losing this crummy job isn’t one of them.” He started to turn away, but said back over his shoulder, “And neither are you.”
“Then what are you afraid of?” she called after him. “I’d be interested in knowing.”
He paused, still looking back. “I’m more afraid of losing my self-respect than I am of losing this job,” he told her seriously.
She laughed softly. “What is your name, cowboy?”
He hesitated. “Mitch Harper,” he said at last, rather grudgingly. “Happy sketching, Miss Kingston.”
She smiled. “Happy branding, Mitch Harper. Be kind to those little dogies.”
For a moment he stood there looking at her, like an animal poised just before flight. The picture she made with her wild blond hair and the blue sky behind her made him want to stand and stare for a long, long time. But he controlled the impulse and moved on. That was what cowboys always did, wasn’t it? They moved on, moseyed on out of there. But he knew this little encounter had changed things. She wouldn’t ignore him the next time they met. The dynamics had changed. For some inexplicable reason, he began to whistle as he made his way back to where his horse was tied.
Hailey watched him go and shook her head. Then she turned to her easel and began to sketch rapidly, first the rough outline of a man, then the details, and before Mitch had disappeared from sight, she had a new picture of him. Standing back to examine it, she smiled. Then she tore off the sheet and quickly began drawing him from another angle, forgetting all about the landscape work she’d planned to do. Was she interested in his form because of something in him that had inspired her? Or was she merely happy to do something he’d expressly ordered her not to attempt? She wasn’t sure. Maybe a little of both. Whatever motivated her, she worked for hours, and when she was done, she had ten pictures of the man, and it made her smile to think of presenting them all to him, neatly tied in a satin bow.
“Later,” she promised herself as she packed up her charcoals and pencils. Right now, she had to begin preparing for the dance she was going to attend tonight.
Tonight. Ah, tonight. Maybe a little romance. Maybe… maybe just one.
Folding the easel and putting it under a bush for future use, she walked happily back through the grass. All in all, this had been one of the least boring days since she’d arrived, and with the evening ahead of her, it promised to keep right on going that way.
Mitch left the confines of the bunkhouse and wandered out under the stars. He could hear the raucous poker game going on behind him. Ordinarily he liked to join in. But tonight he was restless. Instead of heading toward the edge of the driveway, where he could look out over the valley in the moonlight, he turned toward the house. The place was lit up as though it were full of guests, as it usually was at this time of year. But there was only Hailey Kingston. Hailey and her bodyguards and a house full of help. It seemed like a waste.
He knew only sketchy details of the case. Her father was involved in a trial in San Francisco. As he understood it, the man had gangland ties that the district attorney’s office had been suspicious of for some time, and now he was paying for his misdeeds. Just what they were, Mitch wasn’t sure.
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