Wyoming Brave. Diana Palmer
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her knitting basket and settled back to watch the men work.
She was knee-deep into knitting a hat and watching Ren talking to a reporter about how branding was done when she heard a door open. She thought it was Delsey and paid no attention, until she heard a deep voice behind her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ren asked curtly.
She jumped, and looked up from her knitting with red cheeks. “Sorry. Was it okay if I use the DVD player?”
He scowled as he noticed her subject matter. He swept off his hat and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “I’d forgotten about that,” he murmured. “A reporter for a local station was doing a story about ranches and wanted to interview me. I don’t usually do them, but he was known for fairness in journalism.”
Her eyes asked the question.
He dropped into the leather armchair that nobody else was supposed to sit in and stared at her. “We get a lot of people who want to shut down the beef industry entirely.” He shrugged. “Opinions are like...well, everybody has one,” he said, amending what he’d been about to let out.
“I guess so,” she said. “The cattle industry may be an artificial use of land, but buffalo and other ruminants have been around for a very long time. Animal gases may contribute to climate change, but I’d put nuclear testing and volcanic eruptions at the top of any list I made about gases in the atmosphere.”
He raised one dark eyebrow. His attention was drawn to the interview she was watching. They were using the branding iron on the steers.
“That doesn’t bother you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I know about branding. Some people said freeze branding was better, but it sheds off with the coat. A burned brand lasts forever.” She glanced at him. “I even know what a running iron is. But I didn’t learn that from the video,” she said, nodding toward the screen. “I love to read Zane Grey novels. I guess I have every book he ever wrote.”
“Me, too,” he confessed. “What’s your favorite?”
“The Light of Western Stars,” she said. “You know, the hero was loosely based on a real person, Red Lopez, who fought on the Arizona border during the Mexican War in 1910.”
Both his eyebrows went up. “You know your history.”
“I would have studied it,” she said. She lowered her eyes to her knitting. “But I was tired of people shadowing me. Daddy wouldn’t let us leave the house unless somebody was with us. I took art classes at our local community college instead of doing a degree.”
“Why did he have people following you?”
“He was afraid we might meet a boy and try to go out with him,” she said on a hollow laugh. “This nice cowboy asked me out once, when I was sixteen. I’d met him in school. His sister was in my class. He worked on a ranch. He was just a little older than me.” She shifted on the sofa. “Daddy found out. The cowboy suddenly left for Arizona.” She lowered her eyes back to the hat in her lap that she was knitting while Ren gaped at her.
“Why didn’t he want you dating?”
She bit her lower lip. “He had very definite ideas about what sort of men he wanted us to marry, and when.”
“Then how did you meet my brother?” he asked curtly.
She went back to her knitting. She didn’t answer him.
He leaned forward. “How?”
She let out a shallow breath. “He had a good friend who was in my art class. I’d seen him around town when he was visiting, and when he came to see the exhibit at our college, we started talking.” She smiled. “He wasn’t scared of Daddy. Just the same, I could never invite him to the house, and I had to make sure we were always in a crowd at college when I talked to him. Daddy was...not quite normal.”
He’d already figured that out. “Your sister is married, though?”
Randall must have told him that. “Yes. Just recently. Paul’s a senior agent with the FBI in San Antonio. He used to work for Daddy, long ago.” She stopped. She didn’t want to talk about her father or his fortune.
“What does your sister do?”
She smiled. “She’s an assistant district attorney in Jacobs County.”
“Didn’t you want to have a profession? Some way to earn a living?”
She didn’t want to talk about that, especially. “I hope to do that with my art, one day,” she said. She looked up into a faintly disappointed face. She knew he thought she had no ambition. It hurt. But she wasn’t telling him anything more about Graylings. Not yet. “That reminds me,” she said softly. “Is there a room I could use to paint in? I have paints and canvases coming. I don’t want to make a mess...”
“There’s a studio,” he said. “It belonged to...my father’s wife.” He never called her his mother. “She used it for painting. There’s a drop cloth in there, as well.”
“Thanks,” she told him. She wondered if Ren had loved his mother, before their sad parting. She’d have to ask Randall. She wouldn’t dare ask Ren. He was already fuming about something; perhaps a bad memory of the woman. She was certain that he wouldn’t have referred to his mother at all if she hadn’t asked the question about the studio.
He waved away the gratitude. His eyes went to the quick, efficient movement of her hands. “What are you making?”
“Hats,” she said with a smile. “I make dozens and give them away, to children I meet on the street, to old people in the waiting room when I have dentist appointments. I gave some to a woman who helps Mandy in the house, who works with an outreach program as a volunteer.” She hesitated. “I mostly do it when I’m watching television.”
“You make hats?” Delsey asked from the kitchen. She came into the living room, stirring something she was making in a bowl. “Could you make me one?” she asked. “I’m forever going in and out to take trash, and my head gets cold even when I put on a coat.”
“Sure. You can have this one when it’s finished.” She held it up. It was green and gold and tan.
“I like that!”
She laughed. “Thanks.”
“I’ll just finish getting this cake ready to go in the oven. Apple pound cake, Mr. Ren, with vanilla frosting.”
“Something to look forward to tonight,” he said, and smiled at her.
“It’ll be ready by then.” She went back into the kitchen.
“I thought you’d be squeamish,” Ren remarked as Merrie’s attention went back to the screen.
“I like cattle,” she said sheepishly. “I don’t know much about them. There are ranches all around the house where Sari and I grew up. Most of the people in Jacobs County either run cattle or work on ranches.”
“Sari?”
She laughed softly. “Her name is really Isabel, but only Paul calls her that. To the rest of us, she’s Sari.”
“Are you like her?”
“Oh, no,” she replied. “Sari’s redheaded and has really blue eyes. Mine are sort of a washed-out version of hers. And she’s very smart. She graduated in the top of her class from college and law school.”
He cocked his head and studied her. She was pretty and sweet. Smart? He didn’t care if a woman was smart or not. He liked Merrie. Even though he really didn’t want to.
He got to his feet, slapping his work gloves into his hand. “You can come back for spring roundup,” he mused. “I’ll take you out and you can see the process firsthand.”
“You’d do that for me?” she exclaimed, her