Rodeo Family

He stood with the easy, loose-hipped grace of a man comfortable in his own body. And what a body it was—lean but strong, and muscled in all the right places. His dark hair curled over his collar. It had fallen forward across his forehead while he painted.

She’d caught a rare glimpse of an unguarded moment. He’d been focused and contained and lost somewhere deep inside. Still waters had never run so deeply.

She opened the bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out her small voice recorder. “I have to warn you that I’m going to record the interview.”

He frowned at the device, eyes piercing.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. Did he think she had a perfect memory? All journalists used some kind of recording method.

He kept staring at it.

“I can’t remember everything and it’s hard to take notes out here. May I record or not?” What an odd thing for him to object to. Maybe he didn’t like the actual formality of an interview. Maybe he was more comfortable just talking. Some subjects were like that.

He took his time, but eventually Zach shrugged and said, “Okay.”

She pressed Record. “When did you first realize you wanted to paint? And how did you get started?”

He turned to stare at his horses and settled the black cowboy hat in his hand onto his head. “I can’t remember how old I was when I first started to draw. I assume I was very young or I would remember. Maybe my father can tell you more about that.”

“I’ll ask him.” She waited, but he said nothing more. “And how did you start?” she prompted.

“I assume with crayons.” A hint of sarcasm colored his tone.

“Don’t you know? What did your parents tell you?”

“Nothing. I’ve never asked. I don’t know how my artistic drive started because it has just always been part of me.”

“It sounds like I’ll get more information out of your father than out of you.”

He smiled. “In that area, yeah.” He pushed away from the fence. “Let’s walk.”

Nadine hitched her bag higher onto her shoulder.

Zach took it from her and said, “We can come back for this.”

“But—”

“Isn’t the tape recorder enough?”

She studied it. Why did she need anything else right now? “Yes. I guess it is.”

Zach hung her bag from a fencepost and started to amble along the side of the corral.

Her wistful glance lingered on her bag. She didn’t need it at the moment, but this interview seemed to be moving out of her control. But that wasn’t Zach’s fault, really, was it? Lee had done that to her. He’d rattled her.

Struggling to regain some semblance of her identity as a reporter, she asked, “What motivates you, Zach?”

He swept his arm wide. “This is it—all the motivation I need.”

They rounded the back of the stable and started into a field. Nadine pointed to the low mountain in the distance. “I recognize that. That’s what you were working on in the studio.”

He nodded. “My favorite part of the ranch. The view from the top is spectacular. We’ll head up there at some point. You need to see it to understand my paintings.”

She stumbled and he caught her elbow. “Okay?”

When she was steady, she shied away from his firm touch. “I blame the mismatched boots.”

He frowned. “Do you want to go back for yours?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. What do you see when you look at your land?”

“I imagine the same thing you do. Maybe my brain interprets it differently, that’s all.”

She stopped. “You aren’t giving me much.”

He held up his hands, palms out. “What do you want me to say? I see the land. I paint it. It’s that simple.”

Nadine struggled to rein in her frustration. Maybe she wasn’t asking the right questions. “But where does the depth come from?”

“From a love of the land.”

If he didn’t give her more than one-sentence answers and circular explanations, she wasn’t going to end up with much of an article. She glanced around.

“Tell me,” he said. “What do you see?”

“A pretty landscape, but what I see doesn’t matter, does it? This article will be about you. How does the vision for your paintings develop?”

“It doesn’t develop. It just is.”

“Do you mean you see the world differently than other people do?”

“Differently than you do, that’s for certain,” he said under his breath. “When I’m out on my own, I’m aware of every little thing. I can’t be articulate and poetic about the land. Words aren’t my forte. Painting is. So how can I describe the process to you when there isn’t one, when what you see on my canvasses is the answer to all of your questions?”

She frowned. At least he was talking more. “I can’t write an article on so flimsy an account. I can’t just publish photographs of your work.”

“Why not?”

“Because the public wants to know who you are, the man behind the paintings.”

“Everyone in Rodeo already knows who I am.”

“The Rodeo Wrangler’s readership spreads through the entire county. You know that.”

“They don’t need me to explain my paintings to them.”

“That’s my job. I can explain that to them.”

“I doubt it. You don’t know me from Adam.”

She choked out a sound of frustration. “That’s why I’m here today. To get to know you better.”

He didn’t respond.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I saw while you were painting.” She sensed Zach becoming still beside her, but she pushed on. “I saw such intensity. You don’t seem like an emotional man, but I sensed an emotional connection to the land.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“But it’s also a spiritual connection, I think. You looked...at peace, Zach.”

If she sounded a little envious, it was because she felt that way. How did a person find that connection to the world? How did a person find where they belonged?

In New York City, Nadine. Remember?

Nope. Not anymore. She brushed aside the sadness that thought brought on, ruthless in her need to deny and forget.

Her stomach rumbled. She had a bad habit of skipping breakfast before heading out to interview or write an article. This morning had been no different.

Zach heard and steered them back toward the house. “Sorry about the painting. I took so long we’re going to miss some of today’s interview time. Dad will have lunch ready by now.”

“But I need more, Zach.”

“I understand. You’ll get more. You’re coming back tomorrow to ride, remember?”

He grinned and she swore her heartbeat stuttered.

But she wanted this all settled quickly. As much as she wanted to avoid Lee’s angle, she couldn’t. Only when it was written and published could she move forward. One more life destroyed. But it was the price she had to pay if she wanted her life back. Wasn’t it?

Oh, God.

Her fingers tingled with the need to learn the awful secret and type up everything, finish the article and then crawl into bed to hide from the fallout that was sure to follow. How had her life become so screwed up?

They entered the house together. Zach toed off his cowboy boots while Nadine left the rubber boots he’d given her neatly on a mat.

“Lunch is ready,” his father called from the back of the house.

Zach led her to the kitchen where the two boys already waited at a large wooden table. Three other places had been set. Zach pulled out a chair for her and she sat.

While Zach and Rick served canned tomato soup and basic grilled cheese sandwiches, Nadine thought back to some of the amazing sandwiches she’d had in New York City with all of its different restaurants and cuisines. This didn’t begin to compare.

Zach sat down and met her eye. Had he guessed what she was thinking? She should be careful that she didn’t let that kind of attitude bleed through. Why should she compare the two? Rodeo, Montana, was valid in its own right. She’d been raised on canned soup and white bread sandwiches, even if her tastes had changed.

Fortunately these days, she could indulge her new tastes at the Summertime Diner. Violet Summer did an amazing job of elevating old classics.

Who knew? Someday Nadine might be working for Vy. If Nadine couldn’t get the information Lee wanted, she could kiss her career goodbye, a thought that pained her deep in her soul. She probably would end up working as a waitress for Vy.

Not that there was anything wrong with the job, but it wouldn’t fill her passion for reporting, interviewing and writing, would it?

She wasn’t meant to do anything other than report on people, places and things. Journalism had saved her life. It had made her adolescence bearable. It had made life with her aunt less devastating.

How could she give it up now? Writing was her only purpose in life. Her passion. Without it, she would be aimless and lost.

A part of her would die.

Throughout the quiet, uncomfortable meal, the children stared at her. Her smiles for them, while genuine, were restrained. She just didn’t know what to do with children. How should she talk to them? What should she say?

In high school, while other kids were earning money babysitting, she had been writing articles for the high school newsletter and for the Rodeo Wrangler.

She was more comfortable with her friends’ children, maybe because they were little pieces of her friends in miniature form. She wasn’t comfortable with Zach, so perhaps there was a double whammy thing happening here. She couldn’t relax around Zach. It made sense she couldn’t relax around his children, either.

After what felt like an eternity, Nadine put down her spoon, her soup bowl empty. It might have been plain food, but it brought back memories of lunch in the high school cafeteria with her friends, and that wasn’t a bad thing. She wondered if they were still serving the same food or if they’d updated it by now. Teenagers were a lot savvier than they used to be.

Funny, she’d enjoyed the soup and sandwich after all.

If only the children would stop sneaking peeks at her. She wanted to ask Rick questions about Zach, but would rather not do it in front of the children. Instead, she engaged him in chatter about things going on around town.

Eventually, one of the boys—Ryan, maybe?—piped up.

“You write?” he asked. He’d been fidgeting throughout lunch.

“Yes. I write articles for the Rodeo Wrangler about all the things that go on around town.” She cursed the sound of her voice, too fake and hearty. Even to her own ears, it betrayed her unease with the little boys.

The child fixed her with an intent gaze. “Can you read my story?”

“You wrote something?” she asked. “How wonderful.” She, too, had written stories at that age.

He nodded. “Can you read it?”

“I guess that would be all right.”

“Great.”

He got up from the table, but Zach said, “Aiden,” in a quiet but firm voice.

Aiden stopped and looked at his father.

“After dessert.”

“Okay, Dad.” Aiden sat back down.

Obedient kids.

Throughout a long dessert—long to Nadine, at any rate, with Zach quiet and intense at the opposite end of the table and the two boys fidgeting until the last mouthful was swallowed—she tried to relax.

Was that what children did, fidgeted, or were these two unusually active? Zach didn’t seem to notice or mind.

When he stood, Nadine breathed relief. His father collected dirty plates and cutlery. When Nadine offered to wash dishes, he waved her away. “Go read Aiden’s story.”

Zach led her to the living room and motioned for her to sit on the sofa. Aiden and Ryan ran into the room and jumped up beside her, nestling as close as they could on either side.

“Oh!” She wasn’t used to children crowding her. Nadine tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go, bracketed as she was by the boys. She allowed Aiden to insert his head up under her arm so she had no choice but to put her arm around him.

Friendly little guy. His twin did the same on the other side.

Aiden retrieved something from the small table beside the sofa.

“Here.” He thrust a folder at her, homemade from yellow Bristol board and decorated with a drawing of a boy on a horse. She smiled, wondering if he wanted to be a painter like his dad one day.

She took her arm from around Ryan’s shoulder and gingerly accepted the story from Aiden, avoiding the small blob of cheese still stuck to one of his fingers. Her dress had been expensive when she’d bought it three years ago. She couldn’t afford to replace it if grease from that cheese stained it.

Go clean your hands. Where do you think we live? In a barn?

Nadine shut out that voice so she could give Aiden’s story her full attention. She opened the folder. Large, childish printing covered four sheets of lined paper, front and back.

“Read it out loud,” Aiden ordered.

With the boys’ warm weight tucked close to her sides, she read Aiden’s story...and was charmed. The story of what he knew—life on a ranch—delighted her.

When she closed the folder, he leaned forward and twisted around until he could look up at her. “Is it good?”

“Yes, it is.” How could she deny that earnest gaze anything? “It’s a wonderful story.”

His smile warmed her heart. “What was the best part?” he asked.

“When the boy rescued the pony from the crevasse he’d fallen into.”

“Yeah! That’s my favorite part, too. Boys are good at rescuing.”

“Girls, too,” Nadine said, but Aiden’s returning look was dubious.

Oh, dear. She shot a glance at Zach who said, “Girls, too.”

“Dad, tell her,” Ryan ordered. “Boys do the rescuing. Not girls.”

“Son, this is a conversation we need to have later.” His eyes met Nadine’s. “And we will.”

His promise eased her concerns. “Girls can be anything they want to be,” Nadine said.

“Anything?” Aiden asked.

“Anything.”

The earnest, matching expressions on the twin’s faces were reminiscent of their dad’s even if their eyes were a lot darker than his. Their mother’s, perhaps?

She’d never met Zach’s ex. Had never even seen her.

Aiden touched Nadine’s chin to bring her attention back to him. She wondered whether the presence of a woman was unusual enough for them to vie for her attention.

“Tell me what else you liked,” he said.

She outlined all that she thought was strong about his writing. Aiden watched her without a word, his serious attention charming her.

When she finished, he asked, “Can you put it in the paper?”

“The newspaper?”

“Yeah.”

He’d surprised her. She had no idea what Lee would think. “I can ask the publisher, if you like.”

He nodded so hard a hank of hair fell across his forehead. “I’ll write another story,” he said. “Just for you!”

Nadine looked at Ryan on her other side. “Do you write, too?”

“No, but look what I can do!”

He jumped up from the sofa and did a somersault across the carpet.

Aiden joined him and they started to roughhouse.

They rolled around on the floor like a pair of bear cubs in freshly fallen snow, so much like two halves of a whole it was hard to tell where one started and the other ended.

Zach and Rick carried on a conversation with Nadine, asking questions about how the fair was coming along—Nadine was on the Rodeo Revival committee, and the event was only a month away—while she kept her eye on the two boys grappling and giggling.

Apparently, this was normal. Neither Zach nor Rick batted an eye. But Nadine noticed...and remembered the admonishments she’d received as a young preteen.

Don’t slouch. Stand up straight.

Only speak when spoken to.

Don’t get your clothes dirty.

Put your books away now. Cleanliness is next to godliness.

Tidy up. Tidy up. Tidy up.

Do better.

Brush out those ridiculous curls.

Be a good girl.

And the worst of all: You’re just like your mother.

Considering that she’d always adored her mother, Nadine hadn’t understood what her aunt meant by that. Not when she’d first arrived in town as an eleven-year-old, at least. But in time, her aunt had made certain Nadine was clear that it wasn’t a compliment.

The loop of recriminations hadn’t stopped, even with her aunt’s death four years ago. Like a Möbius strip that never ended, Nadine had internalized her aunt’s voice.

God, she was tired of it.

The twins stopped fighting and ran from the room. They pounded up the stairs. Nadine meant to get her story as quickly and painlessly as possible and then stay far, far away from Zachary Brandt and his enchanting boys.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.