A Husband In Wyoming. Lynnette Kent
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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