The Bride Wore Denim (12 page)

The moment he caught sight of her across the room, his heart slammed into his throat. He’d never seen Harper in anything other than jeans and ranch clothes or the long shapeless skirts and dresses she favored. Tonight she’d transformed herself into unique perfection, without a traditional ball gown
or
bohemian layers.

She smiled at a visitor, holding herself like a Wyoming princess. An ultra-dressy, multilayered skirt in some kind of snowy-white fancy fabric frothed around her hips and legs like a prom dress made of whipped cream. Her top, completely opposite, was a close-fitting denim shirt, with silver collar points and intricate white top-stitching. Cinched around her waist, setting off her curves, was a wide, tan belt with some kind of fancy edging. Sexy as that was, the whole beautiful picture was perfected by her cowboy boots—a classy, high-topped pair the same color as the belt.

His body’s reaction was swift and shocking. He’d always thought of Harper as sexy. This . . . This was over the top.

He watched, mesmerized, for several long minutes, letting his reaction cool and his pride grow. To see her like this, animated and confident, was exactly what he’d always wanted for her. He understood in that moment why she said she didn’t belong at Paradise.

After an embrace from the woman and a two-handed handshake from the man, the couple talking to Harper left. She stared at the painting they’d been looking at and ran a hair through her black hair, curled in long waves for the occasion. She smoothed her skirt and, with a squaring of her shoulders, straightened. Her eyes locked on Cole’s.

Pleasure spiraled through him as her lips formed a sweet
O
.

Five seconds later she was in his arms, and he lifted her sweet, cotton-candy curves six inches off the floor.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked, her voice squeaking in excitement. “You’re here? What are you doing in Chicago?”

“C’mon, Harpo. You couldn’t go through your first art exhibition without any representation from the hometown.”

Tears glistened in her eyes, with no hint of annoyance or residual anger. “I can’t believe it. You just put the cherry topping on the night.”

“I have to be honest. I imagined something a tenth this size. This is impressive.”

She wiped a forefinger carefully beneath one eye and then the other. “I feel the same way. I figured five or six people might show up—pity visits, you know? Instead, Gil and his partner went above and beyond for me.”

“Oh, yes. I met Gil.” He laughed. “He’s a big fan.”

“He is. And I’m very lucky.” She squeezed him again, hard. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was feeling like that white feather in Forrest Gump—floating all over the place and not knowing where I was going to end up. There must be a hundred people here. And they act like I know what I’m doing.”

Cole glanced around the room. “Have you
seen
the paintings?”

She smiled. “Thanks, but I don’t mean the paintings. I mean people who collect art asking me the meanings of what I’m doing or how I chose my color palette. I’m sort of making this up as I go.”

“You got a hug from the last lady. You must be saying something right.”

He kissed the top of her head, wishing he didn’t have to let her go, loving the feel of her in his arms.

“Show me around,” he said, after reluctantly letting her loose. “My turn to learn about how you chose your color whatevers. And do you think you could tell me what your paintings mean?”

“You’re cruel.”

“Heard that before. But at least you didn’t punch me when you saw me or run me off with a sharp brush.”

“Or a palette knife?”

“Whatever that is.”

“A dull blade. Very painful.” She took him by the hand and led him to their left. “But no need to worry. You are officially forgiven. The fact that you’re here makes up for whatever you might really think of me.”

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t the time or the place to tell you what I really think of you.”

She stopped and peered at him, starting a slow, weird tremble in his stomach—partly because he hoped she’d ask him to tell her anyway, partly because she really was beautiful.

“You’re probably right,” she said.

His breath released slowly. “C’mon. Show me what you got.”

She was good.

Very, very good.

Cole didn’t know fine art from starving artist art, or a Monet from a Manet, but he knew that Harper had something special. That overused term he now understood: a gift.

Her subjects ranged from close ups of flowers to landscapes he actually recognized. She did especially well with skies and horses and mountains. But what stood out to him was the combination in each painting of reality and dreamlike fancy. A stalk of columbine bathed in reds and purples like it was framed by a sunset. A barn, very similar to the Paradise horse barn, haloed with bold, rather than soft and gentle, streaks of morning light. And his favorite—a grazing horse with hot patches of color bursting from the sky and mountain behind it.

“Lord, Harpo, when did you learn how to paint like this?”

“During my life when people were telling me I was wasting my time.” She allowed a half-smile that told him she didn’t mean the words with any kind of malice. “Which, I suppose, in a practical sense, I was.”

“Not if you were doing this. Nobody saw this talent in you?”

“My mother always liked my paintings. Grandma Sadie, too. After a while, though, I didn’t show very many people, until I moved away. I’ve read a lot artists’ bios. I’m not alone in this. You’re rarely accepted at first in your hometown. The Beatles, way back in Liverpool, might have been. Maybe Beethoven. A few authors. That’s good company, I guess. And it’s not like I’m famous. A lot of these people here tonight are bodies who like Gil and come to his openings for the champagne.”

“They maybe came for the champagne, but they’ll be won over.”

They finished the upper gallery and the ten paintings that hung there. Then she accompanied him back to the first floor and showed him the eight pieces there—these with more urban settings and themes.

The biggest canvas was a cityscape about four feet wide by two feet high. The buildings in the background didn’t give away any particular city, but they were detailed and interesting, even without identifying features. In the foreground was a playground with old-fashioned metal swings and a spinning merry-go-round. Rain poured through the scene, and what Cole now thought of as the signature swashes of Crockett colors in the sky hinted at a rainbow growing within the storm. Beside the swings, small, almost missed in the beautiful picture as a whole, a child, in rain boots and an open raincoat, leaped into the air, arms raised, feet clearly about to come down in a wide, shiny puddle. Harper had managed to make it all look like a misty, dreamy photo.

While Cole stared, two people joined them, another dapper man in a suit and bowtie, and a woman perhaps in her late fifties or early sixties; her chin-length black hair was frosted with gray.

“Ah, Harper, I’m glad to find you,” the man said. “I have someone I think you’ll very much enjoy meeting.”

“Hi, Gareth,” Harper replied, and turned expectantly toward the woman.

Cole studied the staid partner of the flirtatious Gil. He looked like a forty-year-old college professor right down to the bowtie and horn-rimmed glasses.

“This is Cecelia Markham,” he said. “Cecelia, I present Harper Crockett.”

Harper’s body straightened, and her eyes lit as if Gareth had handed her six Christmas presents and a cookie. Cole shifted his attention to the woman, who smiled like a loving grandparent as she took both of Harper’s hands in hers.

“I can’t tell you how excited I am to meet you, Harper.”

“Mrs. Markham. I’m honored. I hear so much about you. You’ve been a great friend to Gareth and Gil and a huge supporter of all our local art programs. I’ve wanted to meet you.”

“Please, call me Cecelia. I’ve heard quite a lot about you, too. And I really think we’ll all be hearing more after tonight.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so.”

“I admit. I came tonight purely to see what all of Gareth’s fuss was about. I expected to have a lovely time. What I didn’t expect was to fall in love.”

“Love?” Harper asked.

“With your paintings. I haven’t seen anything that’s touched me this much in years. It’s fresh and different and yet classic.”

Harper’s eyes widened in astonishment. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say thank you.” Gareth’s happiness was infectious. “Cecelia has purchased two of your paintings.”

Cole couldn’t help it. He knocked Harper in the upper arm with his elbow. “See? Told you so,” he whispered.

“Oh, Mrs. Markham . . . Cecelia. I am flattered. Yes, thank you. Goodness that hardly seems adequate. Which paintings did you choose?”

“This one, for starters.” Cecelia nodded at the cityscape. “It simply makes me happy. I love the rain, and this work captures perfectly why I do. The other is your Larkspur. The colors in that one are wildly perfect for my home.”

“I’m completely flattered,” Harper said again, and this time turned to Cole.

“I have someone to introduce as well,” she said, smiling and taking his hand. “This is my best friend from Wyoming, Cole Wainwright. We grew up together, and he knows the inspiration for a lot of the paintings.”

He shook hands all around, and from that point the night blossomed out of his control and into a whirlwind of greetings, congratulations, air-kisses, and Gil’s frequent smiles and pats on the arm. Harper, despite what she’d said about feeling lost, flourished in the spotlight. Cole, despite hating the city and crowds and anything fake, found himself hard-pressed not to enjoy the weird spectacle of well-to-do people discussing art and complimenting Harper.

By nine forty-five, Cole sat on a modern, black, leather-and-chrome sofa in the corner of the gallery, holding the third glass of champagne one of the circulating caterers had thrust into his hand. He hadn’t taken a sip of this one. One of the few things this shindig lacked was a good craft beer. He pushed his hat back on his head and rested his elbows behind him on the back of the sofa. The crowd had thinned considerably, but people still chatted with Harper. The less formal crowd had arrived as well, making Cole’s jeans and sports jacket less conspicuous.

“Hello, Cole Wainwright?”

He looked into the face of a man who made his clothing choice not only inconspicuous but downright elegant. The guy wore a long-sleeved, flowing peasant-type shirt with a bolero tie, and he had a shoulder-blade length brown ponytail was set off with a white bandana à la Willie Nelson. He was the most anachronistic man Cole had ever seen, stuck somewhere in a version of the sixties.

For a moment Cole stared, but suddenly, with a rush of insight, he knew exactly who the man was: Tristan Carmichael.

Harper adored him, in her words. A flash of unadulterated jealousy made Cole want to toss him out the door by his girlie shirt. Instead he smiled.

“We haven’t met, but I think I know who you are,” he said, and rose to his feet. “Tristan?”

The man offered a boyish grin, as if pleased to be recognized, and held out a hand. “I am. Harper pointed you out. It’s great you’re here. She’s pretty excited you are.”

Cole’s distaste for him eased a little.

“Mind if I sit? I was here at the beginning but had an emergency at home. I wasn’t sure I’d make it back, but it looks like it’s gone well.”

Cole indicated another chair, and they both sat. “I think they’ve sold three of the paintings.”

“That’s what Gil said. I’m so happy for her. It took me a while to convince these guys to sponsor this, but I don’t think they regret it now. Anyhow, I asked Harper to come out for a celebration dinner, and she said you’re already going down the street to Pedro’s?”

A thin, petty streak of satisfaction sliced through Cole. “Yup. I’m heading out in the morning so I grabbed her for tonight.”

“I thought I’d ask if I could invite myself along. At least for a drink. I have some things I’d like to chat with her about.”

Cole’s satisfaction died, replaced by the full force of his jealousy. He had a few things to tell her himself. The last thing he wanted was a guy who didn’t know hippies had gone the way of the dodo bird to monopolize the only chance he had at a conversation.

“I’d say that’s up to Harper,” he said, more sharply than he should have.

“Good! She said to ask you.”

Well, shit, he thought. Showed how important a night out with him was to Harper.

“Guess it’s settled then.”

“Appreciate it, man.” Tristan smiled at him.

“Don’t mention it.”

Tristan stood. “I’ve got a few people to chat with before we’re done at ten. See you in a few. Looking forward to it.”

“Sure thing. Who isn’t?”

The man had to be an idiot not to hear the insincerity in his voice, but he smiled anyway.

He stood once Tristan had melted into the small crowd, walked around a corner to the men’s room, sneaked in, and poured his champagne down the nearest sink. Somehow, the shine of Harper’s triumphant night had taken on some unwelcome tarnish.

H
ARPER KNEW
C
OLE
didn’t like Tristan. In a way his jealousy was flattering, even though it was completely unnecessary. The two men couldn’t have been more different than a stallion was from a loyal puppy. Tristan had been a very-short-term love affair four years ago, but he’d turned rapidly into nothing but an amazing mentor and friend. Cole was . . . Well, she didn’t have a clue what Cole was. She did know he definitely didn’t have to be jealous of anyone.

But tonight she didn’t worry for one second about smoothing things over. Cole would be fine. All that mattered was he and Tris were two of the most important people in her life, and they were both here after the most important event of her life. She felt the significance of this like a celestial sign. Life was about to change.

All the memories that had held her down—the childhood teasing about having her head in the clouds, her bad choices and weak-minded mistakes and missteps, her father’s lack of belief in her talent, even the way he’d pulled the plug on her official studies—had taken a back seat to the thrill of Cecelia Markham telling her she’d bought the paintings.

Suddenly Chicago seemed shiny, and her dreams seemed possible again. Even having Cole here, which should have reminded her of her earlier doubts and her homesickness for Wyoming, only told her that it was possible to hang onto both worlds. He’d come, after all. She could go back there, too.

She took in Cole’s boredom with Tristan’s lengthy description of his latest trip to South America with amusement. Even grumpy and with his blunt cowboy sarcasm at the ready, he was the sexiest man in Pedro’s by far. Maybe the sexiest man in all of Chicago. In fact, the way her blood zipped through her body just looking at him, she believed he might be the sexiest man anywhere.

For tonight only, she didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. Mia didn’t have to know he’d come. Or maybe she already did know. He’d come as a friend, that was all. Her zooming pulse was her own problem. None of the reasons it was a bad idea to be with Cole had disappeared. But tonight, she couldn’t make herself follow those bad ideas to their ending places.

Tristan held up a glass of gin and tonic. “And the guy says, ‘that burro won’t take you to the corner, much less the border.’ Proof, I guess, that you shouldn’t go car shopping in Brazil after four
caipirinhas
and a tequila shot.” He took a swig of his drink.

“I’m writin’ that down, buddy.” Cole lifted his tall stout to his lips and downed three inches, rolling his eyes at Harper over the rim of his mug.

She laughed. “I’m glad you didn’t buy either a car or a burro,” she said. “And I’m glad you’re home. Sounds like an amazing trip. You brought back some nice art pieces and learned a new fiber dying process. We all win.”

“So, Cole my man,” Tris asked. “Where are you off to so early tomorrow? Too bad you can’t hang around a while and absorb some of the Windy City’s culture. Go to an art class taught by our girl here. She’s got some talented kids in the shelter program.”

Cole looked uncomfortable. Harper set her hand over his and squeezed, loving the hard prominence of his knuckles and the soft patch of masculine hair beneath her fingers.

“Don’t listen. I know how busy you are at the ranch this time of year. It’s nearly time to gather the cattle and start the shipping. I’m sure there’s no time to goof off in Chicago.”

“Not that I wouldn’t love to see what you do,” he said.

“I teach a bunch of inner-city kids and adults to use paints and brushes. It’s fun for them, but not all that exciting to watch.”

“I’m sure it’s fun to watch you.” He winked, and her cheeks heated in pleasure. “But I promised not to hide things from you anymore, so I have to admit that I’m not headed straight back to Paradise.”

“Oh?”

“I’m headed for a conference trade show in New York City. Something called the Atlantic International Oil and Gas Expo. For no other reason than I can gather information from neutral parties without pressure from Mountain Pacific.”

Her stomach lurched in dismay. She struggled to keep her hand on his, but slowly it slid away. She felt bereft. “I see. So Joely’s made a decision?”

With swift deftness he caught her fingers again, flipped her hand into his and held it tightly. “You don’t see. And Joely doesn’t seem prone to making any more quick decisions, so no, nothing’s been decided.”

“What’s Mountain Pacific?” asked Tristan.

“A gas and oil company that wants to drill on the family ranch,” she said.

“Ooh.” He wrinkled his nose as if warding off a foul stench. “Bad karma if you go that route, man.”

“I agree.” Harper left her hand in Cole’s this time. It turned out, even if she disagreed with him, as long as he held her hand, there was safety in her world.

“Before Joely and your mother make any decisions they want all the facts,” Cole said lightly. “That’s all I’m going after. What exactly is involved in the search for oil or gas? What happens to the land?”

She knew this was a reasonable business practice. Sound and smart, in fact. It didn’t make her feel any less betrayed by her family. Was she truly the only one who didn’t look at this as a dollars and cents issue?

But she wouldn’t lose her cool with him tonight. Not when everything had been so perfect, and not with Tristan sitting feet away.

“Fair enough,” she said. “I wish you good luck getting straight answers from people who want what you have to give.”

“Harpo.” Cole placed a finger beneath her chin and forced her to look up. “This
is
fair enough. It’s common sense, that’s all.”

“You’re right.” The words weren’t as difficult as they’d seemed in her head. “I wish someone besides me would say no just because.”

“Why don’t you put up some windmills?” Tristan sipped from his glass without looking up, as if he’d spoken absently to the liquid and not the others present.

Harper sat back into the booth with a thump.
Windmills. Solar power. Isn’t that a brilliant idea?

“Now, hang on.” Cole, peering at her, seemed to read her mind. “One of the big reasons you don’t want oil extraction at the ranch is because it will uglify the landscape. You tell me a whole regiment of those giant, alien-looking windmills isn’t going to spoil the view of Grand Teton.”

That was true enough. Windmill farms stretched for acres and weren’t exactly natural-looking either.

“Thing is, man, you can put windmills anywhere, relatively speaking. You aren’t beholden to pockets of dwindling resources in the ground.” Tristan spoke again.

“Exactly,” she said. “And the bottom line is, it’s more than the ugliness. Windmills won’t spill oil and ruin groundwater. If the view across Paradise land has to be spoiled, I’d choose a hundred acres of windmills over five acres of oil wells.”

“Well.” Cole sat back in the booth and grabbed his beer. “I gotta admire the way you stick to your guns.”

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to discuss this anymore—it had taken the glitter off the evening way too abruptly.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t be spouting off at all. I left. I live here. I don’t have a say.”

“Sure you do. Until Paradise isn’t yours any longer, if that even happens, you get an opinion.”

“Harper Crockett have an opinion?” Tristan grinned from across the table.

“You aren’t funny. I’m a mild-mannered little farm girl in the big city,” she said.

For the first time, the two men exchanged actual looks of camaraderie. “Whatever you say, Mama.” Tris held up his glass again. “Then how ’bout we forget the windmills and toast three sales?”

“Hear, hear.” Cole hoisted his beer.

“Toasted.” She raised her half-gone Long Island ice tea.

With one last shock for her system, Cole leaned forward and kissed her, slowly, chastely, but hard enough to send her insides tumbling like Jack and Jill down their nursery-rhyme hill, and leave her shaken and confused at the bottom. He raised his head and smoothed the skin beneath her lip.

“I’m proud of you, Harpo. Really proud. May you end up in the Louvre.”

“To the Louvre,” Harper agreed, while his hands trailed fire across her cheeks and then fell away.

H
E WOULDN’T STAY
overnight with her. After the Champagne, more drinks, the heady sensation of being Queen for a Night, and the sale of her work to people who loved it, Cole’s self-control was probably smart. She’d have thrown all her caution to the wind in the wake of the unfamiliar giddiness of success. It was better one of them remembered they were just friends.

He came from his hotel at eight o’clock the next morning to say good-bye. The world still felt shiny, and her newly discovered belief in herself hadn’t disappeared. She greeted him at the door of the house she shared with four other people, her emotions a mixture of gratitude and sadness.

“I still can’t believe you came,” she said. “It means so much.”

“I’m glad I was here. You are an amazing woman.”

“I wish you could stay a while.”

“You know what?” He took her into an embrace. “I do, too. But maybe it’s better this way. We might do something we’ll regret if I stay this time.”

“Would you regret it?” The innuendo didn’t need to be explained.

“Honestly?” He pulled back and asked the question with his eyes as well. “No. But you would. I’m not what’s good for you right now. I saw that last night. You’re on the brink of getting exactly what you’ve dreamed of, and what I want is for you to go for it.”

She didn’t want to admit it was true. “Will you come and visit again?”

“Will
you
?” He winked.

“I’ll come home at Thanksgiving.”

“Let’s see where we are then. Besides, there’s this sister thing you and Mia have to work out.”

The reminder of that stung more than waiting until November to see him again. “Does she know you came to see me?” she asked.

“No.”

“You should tell her.”

“It has nothing to do with her, Harpo, can’t you see that? And I don’t talk to her. Why would I call her out of the blue and tell her I came to your show?”

“She might care.”

He sighed. “I don’t get it. If she cares, she shouldn’t. If you care, you shouldn’t.”

It was so reasonable. He had to be right. But two sisters and the same man . . . and one of those sisters was
the
Amelia Crockett?

“I know.”

It was all she could say.

H
E HUGGED HER
again, this time lifting her off the ground with the strength of the embrace.

“I’ll be there when you come in November,” he said. “I’ll be in Wyoming until they bury me there, remember?”

“With the children and grandchildren.” She forced a smile, truly sad for the first time.

“Yes. But there’ll be none of them by this Thanksgiving.”

He didn’t kiss her. And when he’d gone, she wept, because he was wrong. She did need him now. And she wanted him. But she couldn’t have him—not if she wanted to build on the amazing foundation that had been laid the night before. And she did.

But a brand-new vision of children with Cole’s stunning eyes, lying in the arms of some other woman who Cole would choose to share his dream, lodged in her mind—ghosts from a future she didn’t want to think about.

She’d pulled herself together by the time her phone rang an hour later. Her spirits lifted when she heard the cheerful voice of Cecelia Markham on the other end.

“Harper, love, when do you have a free day for lunch with me next week?”

“Me?” she asked, her brain sluggish. “Gosh, almost any day. Tuesday I have the most free time, since I’m off until evening.”

“Tuesday it is. Would you like to meet at the Chicago Cut Steakhouse on LaSalle? Unless you’re a vegetarian, dear, in which case, I have a second suggestion.”

She laughed. “No, my family raises beef. I’m far from a vegetarian. I’d be happy to meet you there.”

“It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s very nice. Tuesday then, at eleven thirty?”

“This is awfully nice of you,” Harper said. “Is our meeting about anything in particular? Can I do anything for you before then?”

“No, but I definitely hope you’ll do something for me after we’ve met. I’ll explain it all next week. Congratulations on a lovely show last night.”

Once they’d hung up, Harper looked around at the large, old living room in the house she shared with her roommates. Her sisters would call it a commune, but it wasn’t—even though all of the five who lived there contributed to the finances, the food, and the household needs. Her sales from the gallery opening would net her five thousand dollars—a fortune. Harper couldn’t remember the last time she’d had an extra five
hundred
dollars. Heck
one
hundred dollars. The deep secret she kept from her family, from Cole, from everyone but the people in this house, was that in every sense of the word, she was a starving artist.

She made barely enough at her community education teaching jobs to pay her share. The newly gained money would allow her to pay Tristan back for the plane ticket to Wyoming, for the funeral, and her housemate Sally back for the loan to buy last night’s outfit.

She danced with glee at the idea of taking her full turn filling the fridge and the pantry rather than offering her usual occasional pizza and paltry handful of groceries. What a blessing it would be to have relatively unlimited travel money for work. And maybe she’d splurge on a new easel—not that her ten-year-old faithful friend with the splints made from wooden spoon handles didn’t do the job serviceably enough.

If there was money left, she’d actually put it in her bank account. She still had one although anything she put in would have to compete with moths and cobwebs.

W
ITH A NEW
skirt and vest, a pretty scarf, and her bills paid, Harper rode to the restaurant on Tuesday with no mass-transit hiccups, no unruly passengers, and no delays. She arrived with fifteen minutes to spare and was waiting for Cecelia when she arrived. The woman greeted her as if she were royalty, showered her with more praise for the paintings she’d purchased, and described where they were already hanging. She went on to extract every detail she could about Harper’s jobs at the three community centers where she worked and the kinds of students who took her classes.