Crazy For You (5 page)

Cody shrugged as he looked at the car. “It’s a part of Dad and it’s a part of you, too. I couldn’t let it go.” He turned his gaze on Clint. “It’s yours, of course. Dad would want you to have it.”

Clint walked to the car and ran his hand along the side. The primer felt a little rough beneath his palm where they hadn’t sanded it yet. He suddenly itched to work on the car again, to fix it and make it whole like he and Dad had planned.

You’re not going to be here to fix anything,
Clint thought to himself, but looked at Cody and said, “Thank you for watching after her.”

Cody shrugged again. “There’s plenty of room here in the barn.” He gestured toward the car. “You have your work cut out for you, though. She’s been sitting here just waiting.”

“It would take some time, that’s for sure.” Clint smiled to himself as he thought of the work he and their dad, Ed, had done on the car.

Working on the GTO had been a bonding time for the two of them and when they’d been at it the rest of the world had seemed far away. He hadn’t touched the car since Ed had passed away from cancer, two years before Clint had headed off. Instead of working on the car, Clint had thrown himself into riding, putting everything he had into rodeo.

“You might as well stay the night,” Cody said. “I’ll drop you off at your car in the morning. You can sleep in your old room.”

Clint nodded. He’d had too much to drink today so he’d be better off sleeping here and driving tomorrow.

“All right,” he said and smiled at his brother. “Got any Oreos?”

Cody laughed. “You know I always keep a stash.”

“Good.” Clint put his hand on his brother’s shoulder as he grew serious. “Can you forgive me for leaving and staying away like I did?”

Cody grew solemn, too. “You really pissed me off—hell, I’m still pissed. But you’re my brother and damn it, I love you.”

Clint squeezed Cody’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Cody gave Clint a serious look. “That’s what brothers are for,” he said before they headed back to the house.

Ella pulled her hair back out of her face and knotted it while she looked at the drawing she’d sketched out last night when she hadn’t been able to sleep. The drawing was more detailed than usual and she studied it with a critical eye before turning her gaze back to the armature she’d created that was partially covered by clay.

This morning she’d woken early, and after taking care of chores around the ranch, she’d gone to the cabin that housed her studio. The cabin was a ways from the ranch house, back in a secluded area surrounded by oak and mesquite trees. There were three entrances to the cabin—one through her studio and two into the main cabin, front and back. There was also a door that she could go through from her studio into the main cabin if she wanted to use the small kitchen where she kept some of her favorite snacks.

Itching to get started, she’d stripped down to her black panties and pink tank top before sitting on her stool, inserting her earbuds to listen to music, and getting to work. She didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing her because no one ever came up to the cabin or entered her studio without knocking. She enjoyed the freedom from the restriction of clothing. Somehow that feeling transformed her, allowing her to escape the bonds of everyday life and fall into her creations.

When she was in her element, she was at her happiest. She could forget everything stressful in her life and just enjoy. She loved the feel of the clay in her hands, the satisfaction of bending wires to her will and creating something out of nothing but a lump of clay and wire. She even loved the smell of clay that filled the studio.

While she worked she listened to country music. Kenny Chesney, Keith Urban, Carrie Underwood, Scotty McCreery, and Joe Nichols were a few of her favorites.

She smiled as she turned her gaze from the drawing to the clay and metal. First thing, she’d opened a new bag of clay and had rolled and pummeled it to make it soft and malleable. She’d then transferred her drawing, sketching the picture into the clay. When she’d finished that, she’d gone to work on the armature, bending and shaping the wires to fit her design.

Next, she’d started to form the clay around the wires, her drawing beginning to come alive as a three-dimensional work of art. She hummed to the music as she molded the clay and tapped one bare foot in time with the tune. When clay completely covered the armature, she leaned back and looked at what she’d done. She’d been at work for hours and it was coming along fine.

She looked at the drawing again and her forehead wrinkled as her smile turned into a frown. The drawing was of a rodeo cowboy riding a bronc bareback—the horse kicking, its hind legs high in the air, the cowboy holding on with grim determination on his face.

She studied the features, the strength in the cowboy’s profile down to the cleft in his chin. And then her body warmed when she realized what she’d done. The sketch looked remarkably like Clint McBride. She straightened in her chair and turned her gaze on the beginnings of the clay sculpture. Even her subconscious was thinking of Clint. For one moment she was tempted to throw the whole thing across the room and against the wall.

Instead, she took a deep breath and let out a slow exhale. This could easily be the best sculpture she’d ever created if she continued with it. The drawing was one of the best she’d ever done and she’d begun the process of turning it into something tangible and filled with life.

She would spend many long, tedious hours sculpting the piece until she felt she got it right, but she would love every minute of it. Each sculpture would end up approximately twenty-two inches in height and fifteen to sixteen inches in width.

Then would come the process of casting the piece into bronze, and it would weigh around fifty pounds once cast. It would take four to six months to complete a single bronze. Considering patience had never been one of her virtues, it was a wonder she’d fallen in love with an art form that took so much time to complete.

With renewed determination, she worked a little more on forming the clay around the armature until she was satisfied with that step. It would take some time before she would be satisfied with the clay sculpture itself.

With her additional ranch duties, now that Pistol had moved on, she wasn’t left with a lot of time to work in her studio. She treasured every moment she did have to spend on her work.

As she used her sculpting tools, her thoughts returned to Clint. She clenched her teeth and had to focus to keep her hand steady. He hadn’t bothered to come to the ranch to see them—she’d had to track him down and tell him to come to Sunday dinner.

An image came to her of Clint joining her family for dinner in just a few days at the round table…Clint sitting next to her while the four of them ate.

In the old days, when Bucky had been there, laughing, teasing, and goading had gone on incessantly. Sometimes Bucky made her so mad and had embarrassed her in front of Clint. But she’d take those days back readily just to have her brother with them again.

An ache formed at the backs of her eyes and her vision blurred slightly and she had to stop working on the sculpture. For a long moment she bowed her head, struggling to compose herself. It had been seven years since her brother had died during the rodeo, but sometimes it was as if it had happened yesterday. Her heart squeezed, the pain a reminder of what they’d lost.

Why couldn’t he have played it safe? With his condition, riding was out of the question, so why did he do it?

Taking in a deep breath as she raised her head, she composed herself. She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and straightened on her stool. She took another deep breath and slowly exhaled.

Forcing herself to concentrate on her sculpture, she took a tool and worked on one of the cowboy’s arms after covering the rest of the piece to make sure the clay didn’t dry out.

As she worked, her thoughts drifted to Clint. He’d looked so damned good when she’d seen him in the bar. Muscular and powerful. But there was something in his eyes, a hardness that hadn’t been there before.

Does he smile anymore?
she wondered once again. She wanted to see him smile, and wanted it to be for her.

Her attraction to him was almost unbearable. This time it wasn’t a teenage crush, an infatuation. This time she was a woman who desired a man so much that she ached inside. She wanted him in more ways than she could think of.

But he’d also told her he didn’t plan on sticking around Prescott for long. Heat flushed through her and she clenched her teeth as her whole body tensed.

Part of the hand she’d been working on snapped off, jerking her back to the moment.

“Damn it.” She held the piece of broken clay in her palm and looked at the cowboy’s arm. It had been coming along nicely but now she was going to have to rework it from the elbow up.

She pushed loose strands of hair from her eyes then removed the clay down to the cowboy’s elbow. Just as she started to put more clay on the sculpture, her cell phone vibrated on top of the nearby table. She glanced at the caller ID and saw that it was her mom.

Ella sighed. She knew her mother wouldn’t call her while she was in her studio if it wasn’t important. Her hands were dirty from clay and she hurried to wipe them off with a cloth before taking out her earbuds, grabbing the cell phone, and answering it.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” Alice said, “but the fence is down in the north pasture and the cows are on the road. I’d help your dad if I could—”

“I know you would,” Ella said as she started to put away her things one-handed. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll head down there now and help get those cattle back in and repair the fence.”

“Thank you,” Alice said. “Your dad already left.”

“I’ll meet him there.”

After disconnecting the call, Ella washed her hands in the sink and rinsed off the tools she’d been using before drying everything off and putting it all away. She made sure the start to her sculpture was covered well so that the clay wouldn’t dry out, then pulled on her old work shirt, jeans, socks, and worn boots. Her work gloves had been tucked into the back pocket of her Wrangler jeans, but they’d fallen out, so she picked them up and returned the pair to her pocket.

When everything was set, not much more than five minutes had passed. She put on her western hat, walked out of the studio’s front door. She always locked it just in case a drifter came by or a storm threatened to blow it open.

As she walked away from the cabin, she thought how different the two worlds she worked in were. From the careful handed artist to the hard working, physical ranch worker.

With a sigh, she shook her head before heading to the old work truck.

The familiar sights, sounds, and smells of a rodeo stirred something in Clint’s blood that had lain dormant for years. He hadn’t planned on coming but showed up out of a sense of duty to Walt.

He moved through the growing crowd, keeping his hat low so that he wouldn’t be easily recognized. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to someone who recognized him every five feet.

Young 4-H boys and girls wore numbers on their backs, so it was easy to tell who was competing. The participants represented most of Arizona’s fifteen counties.

When Clint caught sight of Walt and his 4-H kids, Walt waved Clint over. The older man didn’t seem a bit surprised to see Clint. Likely, as far as Walt had been concerned, he’d been certain Clint would show up.

Walt whistled and caught the attention of a group of five young cowboys and cowgirls, who looked to be anywhere from thirteen to seventeen, and they gathered around him. Clint pushed up the brim of his hat with one finger and looked at each kid.

“This here is Clint McBride.” Walt gave a nod in Clint’s direction. “He was one of the best.”

“Are you the same Clint McBride who holds the high score for bareback bronc riding?” a boy of about fifteen asked.

“Last I heard,” Clint said. “I haven’t been around for a while.”

A young cowboy who had to be around seventeen spoke. “I saw you compete when I was ten. I’ll never forget how you swept all the events like you did.”

A teenage girl who held the reins of an Appaloosa smiled at him. “Are you making a comeback?”

Clint started to shake his head, but Walt nodded. “He’s workin’ on it.”

“Awesome,” a boy said.

Walt clapped his hands together. “Looks like everything’s about to start. Get ready to chase those cans, Missy,” he said to the teenage girl who’d just spoken. She nodded and mounted the Appaloosa.

She leaned forward and patted the horse’s neck before she clicked her tongue and guided her mount away, in the direction of the holding area. The number on her back fluttered in a light breeze.

Clint turned his attention to Walt, who gave a nod toward the arena. “Watch Missy. She’s first up and a hell of a barrel racer.”

When they reached the rails surrounding the arena, Clint and Walt rested their arms on the top rail and watched Missy and her horse move up to the start line. The moment the signal was given, the horse charged into the arena at full speed toward the first of three fifty-five-gallon barrels placed in a wide triangle inside the arena. Missy maneuvered the horse in a cloverleaf pattern, tight around each barrel, before shooting across the finish line. The flag dropped the moment she crossed the line and the crowd cheered even more when her time was announced.

“Fifteen seconds.” Walt gave a nod. “Damned good for this arena.”

Clint nodded. “Takes a lot of skill to ride as well as she just did. She did a fine job of training that horse.” Like a good barrel racer did, Missy and her Appaloosa had come so close to the barrels that it looked like the horse might hit one. They hadn’t knocked over a barrel, which would have added a five second penalty to her score for each one knocked over.

“I’m gonna check on Becky.” Walt pushed back from the rails. “It’ll be her turn soon. She’s a good rider, but it’s hard to beat Missy.”

While Clint watched the next competitors, his thoughts turned to how easy it would be to stay on in Prescott, then the reasons why he shouldn’t. Ella was one of the reasons why he needed to move on. He wasn’t sure he could keep his hands off her if he was around her much longer.