The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) (17 page)

“It’s a hard book.”  He brushed a loose strand of hair away from her eyelashes, pushed it behind her ear.  “Mark’s been there every day and he still doesn’t get it. Listen, we’re going to study all weekend, and the teache
rs are letting you make up all of your work.”  He was confident in his words, because he respected her too much to allow her to believe anything different.  Her father had been dead for a few weeks, but he struggled with the right things to say.  He’d never lost anyone close to him.

Her face lowered to the floor, and he wondered what, exactly, she was studying.  “What if we lose our ranch?” she asked.  “We’d be homeless.”

“You’re not going to lose the ranch,” he replied.  “Trust me.”

“Easy for you to say, c
owboy—you’re rich.”   

He pulled her into his arms, holding her the way he might a small child.  He didn’t view her in childlike terms, but neither of them was of legal age.  For all intents and purposes, they might as well have been kids.  “You and me
buy our clothes at the same stores, we eat at the same restaurants, we go to the same school…we’re not that different.”

“Maybe.”  He unfastened the top two buttons on her shirt and rested his hand atop her heart.  They’d been sexually active for a while,
but his touch was one of emotional intimacy, reassurance.  There was nothing he could do to take away her pain—he could only be there for her, a shoulder to cry on.  Her skin was cool to the touch, but as he soothed her, it grew warm.  A single tear trailed down her cheek, and he moved to kiss it away, feeling the salty warmth evaporate quickly from his lips.

“Do you feel better?” he whispered.

“Some.”  She smiled warily.  “What if your mom walked in here and caught us like this?  We are in her office.”

He
returned with a buoyant smile.  “She wouldn’t do that.  She’s no pushover in the parenting department, but she yells rather than sneaks up on you.  She makes her presence known.  She and Dad like their privacy so I guess that’s part of it.” 

His arm encir
cled her shoulders and he pulled her into a kiss—gentle, torrid, then tender again. “I’m so lucky to have you,” she said when they’d come up for air.

“I’m the lucky one in this relationship,” he contended. 

“What if…”

“Shh,” he whispered.  “I’ll take care
of you, no matter what.”

“Chandler?”

Mark’s voice stunned him, threw him back into the real world.  The memory had been so vivid, detailed, lifelike…he could practically feel the imprint of her hand on the back of his neck, could sense the warmth of her tanned skin under his palm, tucked inside her open shirt.  The remembrances worried him, frightened him, because they were real enough to be tinged around the edges with the aching sting of lost love.  This was no drawing he could sketch or paint.  This was no horse he could break or tame.  This was full-bodied, consuming passion, and it shook him to his core.

“You look a little green around the gills,” Mark observed, barely concealed worry flanking his tone.  “Maybe you got too much cold air this morning.”

They were sitting halfway up the curved staircase, on different risers, and Mark’s assertions, delivered in a soft manner, nonetheless echoed around the empty space.  Chandler leaned forward, rested his elbows atop his knees, linked his hands together, and took a deep breath.

“I was just thinking about
The Scarlett Letter
,” he revealed.

Mark waited for the rest of the story, but it was slow in coming.  “God, I hated that book.  Christa wanted to watch the movie on TV and I refused.  I used some pretty color
ful language to make my case, too…wait a minute.”  Their eyes met.  “That was around the time Mr. Holt passed away.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mark replied with the ghost of a smile.  “When Christa and I were having problems—or, more accurately, when I was being a jackass—I’d have those, too.  I’d think about times in the past when we were closer, more in love.  At first it made me think there was no getting that back, but I began to realize that we were on this journey for a reason.”  One corner of his mouth quirked up hopefully.  “Your memory sounds a little different, though.” 

“Disturbing is what it is.  It’s like being kissed and then slapped across the face.”

“Yeah I don’t know about all of that kinky stuff, man.”  Chandler simply rolled his eyes at Mark’s retort.  “But for what it’s worth, I’ve been there.”

“I know.”  Chandler smiled reluctantly.  “I know.”

Chapter 12

“How was your weekend?”

Chandler’s question was his easygoing, delicate way of skirting the elephant in the room.  Taylor’s hair was pinned back, the strands loose at the bottom and swept across her right shoulder.  Her green sweater looked more comfy than form-fitting, and brought out the woodsy hue of her eyes.  In the dead of winter, that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“It was fine,” she replied,
choosing each and every word with precision.  “Restful, relaxing.”

“Am I working you too hard?”   He winced, regretting the words as soon as they’d left his mouth.

“No,” she replied firmly.  “I love my job here.”

“Good.”  He stood, towered over her, but ne
ver menacingly.  The sound of his boots reverberated across the floor as he drew near.  “I may be out of my gourd here, but...how’d you like to have dinner with me Wednesday night?”

“Fancy dinner?” she asked, ducking the question.

“Casual,” he drawled out quickly.  “I’ll take you for something easy on the stomach and on the wallet.”

She placed a hand across her lips, unable to stifle a small laugh.  He smiled at her awkward expression.  “Yes,” she said.  She watched as his shoulders went slack and he offere
d his hand, pulling her into a tender hug.  “I told your sister that we kissed.”

He laughed, the sound passing over her head.  “And I told Mark, which means they’ve no doubt told each other.  Let the plotting begin.”

“Are we…?” she asked, so low he thought as first it was just his imagination.

“No,” he replied after a silent minute.  “Just feeling it out.  Nothing’s set in stone.”

She backed gently out of his embrace and looked up into those denim eyes.  “Have anything on the agenda for me today?”

Chandler
cocked his head to the left.  “Alison is ordering some new shirts and was wondering if you’d drop by and help her pick the right colors.”

Taylor smiled.  “But you’re the artist—why not ask you?”

He grinned.  “She wants the female touch and I was decidedly lacking in that area.”

“Should I go right now?”

“If you want.”

Her face scrunched up in confusion.  “Are you sure?”

He cocked his head amiably.  “Go on—get out of here.  I’ve got some paperwork to take care of.”  She smiled at him, knowing she didn’t need his permission but glad to have it anyway.  He may have been a lot of things, but he was still the man who signed her paychecks.  She waited till he was seated back at the computer, watching her with subtle curiosity, before she finally passed through the doorway.

Alison was folding shirts into piles, arranging them in careful rows, and singing to herself.  Very few people, certainly no one outside the family or ranch hands, were privy to Alison’s vocal talent.  Even Taylor was
merely acquainted with it, a nearly forgotten nugget from another era, a different life.  Alison stopped mid-lyric, smiled, and examined her friend thoroughly.

“There’s something different about you,” she said, cutting straight to the point.  “Like the world has been turned onto its s
ide, but you’re still standing upright.”

Taylor frowned.  “Idle gossip or thin walls?”

“Neither.  I just recognize the expression of a woman in love.  Your face is flushed.  Your eyes are bright.  And I overheard Chandler whistling this morning.  He never,
ever
whistles, and I know you’re the only woman on his radar.”

“You’re not wrong,” Taylor admitted sheepishly. 
“He just asked me out on a date…”

Alison did a double take.  “He asked you out on a date?”

“Is there an echo in here?”  Alison smiled at her rejoinder.  “Yes.  Do you think he feels the same about me as I do about him?”  Her question came in a whisper, as though she feared Chandler might be waiting on the other side of the door jamb.

“I doubt he ever stopped feeling that way,” Alison surmised.
“But that’s just one woman’s opinion.  And speaking of which…”  Taylor followed her over to the counter, where five shirts of similar design but varying hue rested.  “What do you think of this one?”  She held one of indeterminate color up to her chest.  “I think it might be puce.”

Taylor shook her head in disgust.  “Burn it.”

Alison nodded, laughed, and dumped it on a shelf beneath the counter.  “How about this?”  The fabric was emerald green, the kind of color that looked good on almost anyone.  “It would go well with your eyes.”  She handed it to Taylor, who carefully placed it atop her chest.

“Do you think so?”

“Absolutely.  Keep it.”

“Thank you,” she said, startled by the amount of gratitude she felt.  “What do I owe you for it?”

Alison shook her head. “It’s a sample, and now that I’ve seen how good it looks I’ll be ordering plenty.  It’s on the house.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, folding the long-sleeved shirt with a slight V-neck and resting it atop her forearm.  “So what else do we have?”

In the end they selected three out of the five colors, and Taylor helped Alison package the remaining two—puce and mauve—for return to the manufacturer.  Afterward she gave Chandler a customary wave—he was still hard at work at the computer—and returned to her workstation at the front of the gallery.  She resumed the project she’d been dedicated to, in secret, from the day she began working there.  Her instincts, and the email, told her that she was approaching success.  She just wasn’t sure how Chandler would feel about her clandestine act.

She and Alison went out for lunch—Chandler declined to join them, but requested they bring something back for him.  He hadn’t, to Taylor’s knowledge, left the computer all morning.  She showed a few customers around the gallery and
before she knew it, her workday was nearly done.  CJ pushed through the front door with the requisite huge grin on his face and headed straight for her.

“Hey, you,” he said genially. 

“Hey CJ,” she replied.  “What brings you in here today?”

“Picked up
the kids from school and dropped them off next door with my beautiful wife.  Now I’m gonna bug the hell out of Chandler.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It is.”  He paused, gave her a thoughtful glance.  “Little brother treating you okay?”  She nodded and, because it was hard not to with his infectious, relaxed personality, smiled back.  “Good.”  He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops.  “‘Cause if he doesn’t, just say the word and I’ll kick his scrawny ass.” 
She knew he was joshing her—his grin was only growing larger, and Chandler was always going to be three inches taller.  She knew they’d had their squabbles over the years, but loved each other furiously most of the time.  She remembered well a time when Bryn locked the two of them—knuckles raw, mouths bleeding, testosterone racing like a freight train—in a bedroom until they’d made up.  She imagined the threat still held; when your mother put the fear of God into you, you never forgot it.

“I’ll try to remember that,” she assured him.  He touched the brim of h
is hat and grinned like a Cheshire cat.

“Catch you later, Miss Holt.  I’m headed back to see Picasso.”

She nodded.  “Have fun.”

***

Chandler looked up from his computer when the door opened.  A smile passed between the two brothers before his gaze returned to his work.  “Hey, Junior.  Aren’t you on the wrong side of the building?” 

CJ heard the teasing inflection in his tone and noticed the barely visible, but nonetheless upturned, corners of his mouth.  “I know what side my bread’s buttered on,” he joked
.  “Anyway, I heard you were out at the house this weekend.  You could have invited me out to help.”

“You were busy,” Chandler surmised.  “But I could use your strong back when the appliances come in.”

“When’ll that be?” he asked, barely able to conceal his excitement at his brother moving back to the ranch.

“When I get them ordered.”  He folded his hands together and looked up at his brother.  “To be honest, it’s a lot of house for just one person.  Not exactly a mansion, I mean, but…”

CJ propped his fists on the desktop and leaned forward slightly.  “You’re hedging.  Which is cool.  But it would also be cool to have you back within spitting distance.”

Chandler found himself unable to suppress a smile.  “Maybe by this summer.  We’ll see.”