A Husband In Wyoming. Lynnette Kent
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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.”
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.”