Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (18 page)

The whole piece had taken him less than twenty minutes to complete. But when he’d finished, he’d realized that he could scour Europe for another fifty years and he still wouldn’t find the answers to what he wanted to do with his art. Those answers could only be found at home. Because everything he wanted to draw, paint, and sculpt were within a hundred miles of Taggart Valley.

And this same picture was the one that struck a chord with his father.

“Why didn’t I ever know he saw this?” Jace asked, his voice husky and raw.

“Because one afternoon, I was playing baseball with some friends out back, and I hit a perfect fast pitch . . . right through the window of Dad’s office.” He pointed to a crack in the glass that ran from one corner to the next. A spiderweb of smaller cracks and portions of missing pieces testified to the strength of the speeding ball. “Dad nearly skinned me alive—not so much because of the window, but because the impact on your painting put a nick in the paper.” Bodey pointed to the spot. “Dad was going to take it and get the glass repaired so he could hang it up again, but you know how things get in the summer and fall. Eighteen-hour days don’t allow a whole lot of time for running into town.” He cleared his throat. “By that time, the painting had taken second place to finding you.”

Jace frowned. “What do you mean?”

“After that crack happened”—Bodey said, pointing to the piece—“Dad hired a private detective to track you down.” He walked to the door, pausing only long enough to say, “How do you think we were able to contact you in Germany so quickly after the accident?”

Jace stood stunned, everything he thought he’d known about his father falling away much like the shattered glass in the frame he held.

His father had seen his work.

He’d been proud of him.

Tears sprang to his eyes and clogged his throat and he
impatiently scrubbed them away. Hell, he was thirty-one years old, nearly thirty-two . . .

But you were never too old for your father’s approval.

Jace rested his back against the wall, still staring at the painting. Slowly he sank to the floor, resting the frame on his knees, tracing the crack, the frame, the last few pieces of remaining glass as if he could absorb his father’s spirit.

“Jace?” Barry’s voice floated to him from deep in the house. “Jace, where are you? Can I get out of bed and get a drink?”

“You don’t need a drink, you little outlaw,” Bodey interjected before Jace could compose himself enough to respond. “You want to check what’s on television.”

“Do not. I’m thirsty.”

“All right, my man. We’ll get you some water, then you can go right back to bed.”

“I might need to go to the bathroom first.”

“Naturally.”

His brothers’ voices faded as they disappeared downstairs and Jace tipped his head back, resting it against the wall.

The Taggart brothers were a team, he realized. All this time, he’d thought he was holding things together on his own. But his own misery had blinded him to the fact that his brothers had always been there, waiting in the wings, willing to help. Jace only needed to ask.

All at once, he realized that
he
was the only person responsible for the way he’d turned his back on his art. Maybe, unconsciously, he’d thought it was a form of penance for leaving home the way he had. Nevertheless, he suspected that if he announced tomorrow that he needed to go to Timbuktu to commune with nature and finger paint, they might not understand it, but they’d do everything they could to help him get there.

He touched the nick that Bodey had shown him, that tiny imperfection that had concerned his father the most. The regret was still there. Jace couldn’t change the fact that the last words
he’d shared with his father had been in anger. But at least he knew that his father had accepted him for who he was.

Maybe it was time for Jace to start doing the same.

*   *   *

BRONTE
felt her pulse quicken when she rounded the bend leading up to Annie’s house and saw a familiar ranch truck parked near the front stoop. Even from a distance, she could see that the new concrete ramp and porch had been finished and a stout railing had been fastened into place.

Immediately, her gaze skipped over the figures of Tyson and another of the teenage hired men. But when her search finally settled on the familiar frame of a Taggart, she felt a rush of disappointment when she realized it was Bodey who was overseeing the work, not Jace.

As soon as he heard the sound of her car, Bodey straightened and handed the socket wrench he’d been using to Tyson. After a couple of murmured words to the boys, he walked to intercept her.

Bronte braked the car and rolled down the window.

“Hi, Bodey.”

He grinned, tipping his hat back so that she could see his eyes. “It’s shaping up pretty quick, isn’t it?”

She eyed all of the changes that had been made. The house looked nothing like the dilapidated building she’d been dismayed to find nearly a month ago. Now, the two-story dwelling sported a new coat of paint, bright trim, and a refurbished porch and stoop. The grass was freshly cut and the flower beds were weeded and ready for annuals as soon as the weather permitted.

“It’s looking wonderful. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“Our pleasure. We’ve been looking for a chance to help Annie for some time. We simply didn’t want to dent her pride.”

Bronte nodded. Her grandmother might still balk at the repairs that had been done, but Bronte had warned her about all of the changes, and she’d caught the hint of relief in Annie’s eyes.

“I think she’s going to love it all.”

“Hope so.” Bodey swept his hat from his head and raked his fingers through his hair. Unlike Jace, his was straight and a caramel brown. His eyes, rather than being lake blue, were flecked with green.

“Will you be coming to the party on Saturday?” Bronte asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He gestured to the house. “I hope you don’t mind, but I put some beef in your freezer—a few roasts, some hamburger, and a package of steaks. It’s the least we can do for the way you’ve been feeding us off and on.”

She opened her mouth to refute his statement, then realized he was speaking of the lunches she’d brought to Jace. Her cheeks flamed when she remembered that Jace had said they’d been eaten by Elam and Bodey.

“You probably should be thanking P.D. since my latest efforts came from Vern’s.”

“Even so.” His smile was rife with mischief. “You’ll be feeding Jace and Barry often enough, I suppose. So I thought I’d contribute to your efforts.” He pointed in the direction of the Big House. “Speaking of which, Jace would have been here himself to finish this up, but he got . . . distracted. Why don’t you go see if he’s come up for air yet? He’s in the shed.”

Bronte felt her cheeks grow even warmer. It wasn’t as if she and Jace were trying to keep their relationship a secret. It was . . . new and still felt private. But when Bodey offered her a wink and said, “Don’t worry about the kids. I promised Barry I’d take everybody to the Corner for a drink and a burger. I’ll bring them all back to the Big House around five. We’ve got a couple of new colts they might want to see.”

Since Bronte wouldn’t be going to visit Annie in Logan until later that evening, it offered Bronte and Jace several hours alone.

Bodey settled his hat on his head and touched the brim. “Try to sneak up on Jace if you can. You won’t want to startle him,” he said cryptically. Then he returned to the finishing touches on the stoop.

Bronte drove along the service roads to Taggart Hollow.
Following Bodey’s advice, she parked near the Big House, then made her way to the shed on foot.

Even before she reached the huge building, she could hear the hiss and staccato stutter of someone using the acetylene torch. As she grew even closer, amber sparks spit through the opening. Then they disappeared to be replaced by the clang of metal on metal.

Mindful of Bodey’s advice, she silently moved into the huge, arching doorway—one built to allow the larger equipment to be driven directly into the welding bay. But it wasn’t a tractor or a swather that was being repaired. Instead, she could see the skeletal beginnings of iron beasts that already seemed to fight for dominance. They curved in on one another, some on two legs, some on four. There, at one end, she could see the outline of a horse in the scraps of iron that were being welded onto the armature. Its head was arched, twisting toward the shape of another animal behind it. Its mouth was open, its nostrils flared. The eyes were wild and lifelike, the ears flattened in warning, and the mane flew wildly about its neck, giving the illusion of wind and movement.

Even with so little of the massive sculpture completed, Bronte could already see the raw power of the piece. The thought of what it would look like when it was finished was mind-boggling.

In a rush, Bronte was reminded of several sculptures she’d seen in Rome on her honeymoon. Phillip had timed their trip to coincide with a multinational conference being held in Italy, so while he’d attended his meetings, she’d spent her time sightseeing. There was something about the forcefulness of Jace’s animals that reminded her of the vibrant ocean horses of the Trevi Fountain.

Why hadn’t he ever said anything about being an artist? Judging by what she was seeing, the man had an incredible amount of talent. He had to be a professional. Yet, he’d never mentioned anything about needing time to work or preparing for a show.

Not wishing to disturb his work, Bronte moved to the shade inside the doorway and perched on a folding chair.
But soon, it wasn’t the art piece that captured her attention. It was the man who made it.

Jace’s head was covered by a welding helmet, but the rest of him was on display. A tight, faded T-shirt clung to his skin. Damp patches had begun to form at his neck and between his shoulder blades, attesting to the heat of the torch and the red-hot metal, as well as the exertion of positioning the heavy iron slabs that were starting to form the front breast of the animal.

As Jace moved, she found herself privy to an anatomy lesson unlike any she’d ever had before—the bunching of muscles along his shoulders and arms, the pull of tendons, the strength of bone, the supple play of his spine.

Unbidden, Bronte’s body began to prickle with awareness. She’d seen those planes and angles without the benefit of clothing only days earlier, but there was something primal, almost . . . warrior-like about a man pounding hot metal and fashioning it into another form. It would be easy to picture Jace as a blacksmith or a knight of old.

Heavens.
She was starting to sound like the historical novels that P.D. had loaned her—and she had to admit that she’d grown as addicted to them as her friend. But she liked the way that the novels—and the scene before her—played on fantasies that she hadn’t known she’d even harbored until now.

Something about her intense regard must have pierced Jace’s concentration, because he straightened, glanced over his shoulder, then apparently did a double take. He shut off the torch and set it on a nearby bench. One by one, he tugged off a pair of heavy leather gloves, then finally lifted the welder’s hood and tossed it beside the rest of his protective gear.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Bronte murmured.

Jace cast a self-conscious glance at the sculpture, then tipped his head to ease the strain of tired muscles.

“I was due for a break anyhow,” he said with a self-conscious smile.

“I meant the striptease,” she said tongue-in-cheek.

He chuckled, his head dipping and his finger rubbing his
nose—and she realized that she’d managed to catch him off guard with her bluntness.

“Come here,” he murmured.

He held out a hand, but even as she rose, he met her halfway. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, he grimaced.

“I should probably take a shower before you get anywhere near me. I’ve been at this awhi—”

Bronte kissed him—and just as before, when their lips met, the reaction was instantaneous. She stood on tiptoe, trying to lessen the space between them as his arms wrapped around her body and pulled her up.

Jace’s mouth slanted over hers, his tongue plundering inside, and she met each thrust eagerly, reveling in the way that his mere touch could send her over the edge.

Finally, he drew back, resting his forehead against hers.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re an artist?” She glanced over his shoulder at the sculpture. “Your work is . . . It’s amazing!”

He hugged her even tighter, then turned so that they could both survey the piece.

“Actually, I haven’t done any art in . . . a dozen years or more.”

“What?” she breathed in disbelief.

“It’s a long story. One I’ll tell you over lunch, if you have time.”

Bronte wrapped her arms around his neck, finding it hard to pull her mind back to anything as mundane as lunch. It was hard to reconcile the fact that this tough, hardworking cowboy had a creative side as well. Not just that, he was literally wrestling such a work of beauty into being through the use of sheer fire and strength.

She touched his cheek. “You are so amazing,” she whispered.

A touch of color tinged his cheeks. The man was blushing at the compliment. She’d never seen a grown man blush before.

“I’ve got to be honest with you,” she said, lifting on tiptoes
so that her lips were close to his ear. “This whole scenario—the horses, the welding, the pounding . . . It’s turning me on.”

A low, rumbling chuckle melted from his chest. If anything, the color in his cheeks deepened.

“It is, huh?”

“Mmm hmm. And Bodey announced he was taking the kids for sodas and burgers at the Corner. He won’t bring them back until five.”

A spark ignited in Jace’s eyes. “Really,” he drawled.

“That gives us about an hour and a half? Maybe two.”

“That long, huh?” Jace grabbed her hand. “Come on. I’ll take a shower and change. Then I’m taking you out to lunch.”

“But”—she gestured to the sculpture—“I don’t want to interrupt you if . . .”

He gently touched her cheek. “It’ll wait. It’s already waited this long”—he glanced at the piece, which nearly filled the bay—“and I’ve discovered I can come back whenever the mood strikes me.” He stroked the line of her jaw with his thumb. “Right now, I’d rather spend time with my muse.”