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“We’ve got seven teenagers staying on the ranch,” Dylan explained when Jess glanced at him in question. “A sort of summer camp for some of the troubled kids in the area. My sister-in-law-to-be talked us into helping her out. So there’s a bigger crowd than usual on the premises.”
“That’s quite a project.” She didn’t expect to be impressed with their efforts. In her experience, damaged kids couldn’t be changed with a few weeks of attention, no matter how well-intentioned. “Sounds like a lot to fit in around ranch work and getting ready for an art show. When do you sleep?”
“Whenever he sits down,” Wyatt said.
“Or stops moving,” Garrett added.
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Thanks, guys. Just label me lazy in front of a reporter for a national magazine. No problem.”
“We’ll keep it off the record,” she promised him. “What do the kids get to do while they’re here?”
“Come observe for yourself,” Garrett said. “They’re not quite finished for the afternoon.”
A distraction might ease Dylan’s resistance. “Can I take pictures?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Let me get my camera.”
“And a hat. That creamy New York complexion will burn in the Wyoming sunshine,” Dylan said as he placed her bags in a cool, shadowed room off the hallway in the back of the house. “I hope you’ll be comfortable in here.”
The room had been furnished with rustic simplicity, soothing and peaceful, and the connecting bathroom was clean and bright. “I’m sure I will.” She pulled her camera out of her shoulder bag. “But I didn’t consider bringing a hat.”
He nodded. “I figured you probably hadn’t. Wait here just a second.” The thud of boot heels retreated down the hall and then returned. Dylan appeared in the doorway with a white Western-style hat in his hands. “This should do it.” Standing in front of her, he placed the hat on her head. Then he spun her around to face the mirror above the dresser. “There you go. Looks great—you’re already a bona fide cowgirl.”
Jess gazed at their reflection, feeling the warmth of his body behind hers, the weight of his palms, his breath stirring her hair. Awareness dawned inside her. She had to think about taking a breath.
“It’s a new approach,” she said, and was appalled at the quavery sound of her voice. “Thanks.”
“Uh...you’re welcome.” Dylan sounded a little stunned, as well. He cleared his throat and stepped away. “You might want your hair in a ponytail—it’s always windy on the ranch. I’ll wait for you outside.” In an instant, he was gone.
Releasing a big breath, Jess took off the hat and went to her suitcase for a brush and an elastic band. She took extra moments to thoroughly smooth and braid her hair, recovering her equilibrium in the process.
This new Dylan Marshall—the grown-up version—wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d come prepared for a sulky, reclusive artist, someone hiding away from the world he’d once conquered.
The rumor at the time was, of course, that a love affair gone wrong had sent young Dylan into exile. No woman ever claimed to be the cause of his disappearance, though, and the attention of the art scene quickly shifted to a new talent.
The man she’d just met didn’t appear to be pining away. He seemed comfortable, satisfied...solid. His sexy grin, the confident and flirtatious attitude, the broad shoulders and narrow hips—all combined into one seriously hot package. And there was chemistry between them. Those moments in front of the mirror had affected them both.
But she was flying back to New York on Sunday, giving her only four days to get what she needed for the article. With his three brothers as well as seven teenagers on the premises, there wouldn’t an opportunity for her to get beyond a professional acquaintance with Dylan Marshall. Which was too bad, because she was tempted to want more. Very tempted.
But even if she had been staying longer, she’d reached the point in her life where a simple fling just wasn’t enough. A few days...weeks...even months of good times and good sex didn’t compensate for the emotional quagmire she went through when the relationship ended.
And it always ended.
Besides, her life was in New York. Her apartment and her job, her favorite coffee shop and the laundry that folded her shirts just right—all were in New York. Fun and games with the world’s handsomest cowboy wasn’t enough to make her give up her laundry service.
So she would keep her dealings with Dylan Marshall strictly business, and she’d leave with a well-written article and no regrets.
Above all, no regrets.
* * *
DYLAN FOUND HIMSELF out on the front porch without realizing quite how he got there. His brain had switched off, and all he could do was feel. Those seconds with Jess Granger’s slender shoulders under his palms, her scent surrounding him and her eyes gazing through the mirror into his, had been...well, cataclysmic. He’d walked away a little disoriented.
Women didn’t usually befuddle him like this, even beautiful ones. Ever since he’d discovered the difference between boys and girls, he’d made a point of getting to know as many of the opposite sex as possible—as friends, as lovers, as human beings. He considered women to be a separate species and thoroughly enjoyed all their unique, feminine attributes.
Somehow, he would have to maintain his usual detachment when it came to Jess Granger. He had to keep their relationship under control, avoid letting her get too close. She was, after all, a journalist. She’d come specifically to delve into his life and, more important, to reveal to the public as many of his secrets as she could discover.
Because of the person she expected him to be. The person he’d once been.
At eighteen, he’d left home determined to “make it big.” He’d had talent but he’d also gotten lucky and done some sculpting that the “right” people thought they understood. They’d invited him to their playgrounds and he’d gone along because he was young and stupid and flattered by the attention. To a kid from tiny Bisons Creek, Wyoming, attending art parties in Paris, France, appeared to be the pinnacle of success.
He knew better now. His life in that world had come to a screeching halt one chilly afternoon during a conversation that lasted maybe five minutes. Later, standing in a Paris sculpture garden, he’d surveyed his own work and felt completely detached from its purpose, its meaning, its origin.
All he’d wanted at that moment was to go home. To be with his brothers, inside the family the four of them had built together. After years away, he’d craved the life he’d once worked so hard to escape.
He’d been on a plane less than twelve hours later. And once he got to Wyoming, he hadn’t left in more than two years. He certainly hadn’t courted the attention of anyone in the art world. But then Patricia Trevor called him, having seen a piece he’d donated to a Denver hospital charity auction. She suggested a gallery exhibit of his recent projects, and he was vain enough to say yes. He wanted exposure for his ideas as much as ever. If he didn’t have something to say, he wouldn’t spend time or effort on the process.
But he didn’t expect his former fans to understand or appreciate this current approach. Jess Granger’s article supposedly launching the show would probably bring down a hailstorm of derision on his head. That was the way the art world worked—you gave them what they wanted or they cut you off at the knees. In spite of her beauty—or maybe precisely because she was so beautiful—he expected the same treatment from her.
The screen door to the house opened and the lady herself stepped onto the porch, a high-tech camera hanging around her neck. “There you are.” She squinted against the sun. “It is bright out here. Thanks for the hat.”
“You’re welcome.” A compliment on how she looked in the hat came to mind, but he ignored the impulse. “Let’s go watch the kids.”
Walking side by side up the hill, Dylan found himself searching for something to say. “We took them to a rodeo and most of them decided they wanted to compete.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Not so far.” They crested the hill and approached the group of kids gathered on the other side of the barn. “They’re still at the learning stage.” In the natural way of things, he would have put a hand on her shoulder to bring her closer to the action.
“Come watch,” he said, keeping his hands at his sides and feeling as awkward as he probably sounded. “You can meet everybody. They’re practicing on the bucking barrel.”
The bucking barrel was a fifty-gallon drum suspended sideways by metal springs from four sturdy posts. With a rider sitting on the barrel, the contraption tended to bounce around, mimicking the motion of a bucking horse or bull. Ropes could be attached at various points, allowing spectators to increase the range of motion and the unpredictability of the ride.
“That’s Thomas Gray Cloud.” Dylan pointed to the boy currently riding the barrel. His dirty T-shirt testified to a fall or two already.
“All he holds on to is that one rope?” Jess shook her head. “I can’t imagine. At least he wears a helmet.”
“Ford, the legal eagle, made sure of that. But the secret is balance. You try to stay flexible and move with the animal, keeping your butt in place and using your arms and legs independently.”
She looked over at him, her golden gaze intent on his. “Is this the voice of experience?”
He nodded. “I rode saddle broncs. The horses wear a special saddle—with stirrups—and you hold on to a rope attached to the horse’s halter. It’s slower than bareback riding, but style counts a lot more.”
Her attention shifted to Thomas. “I think you’re all crazy.”
As they reached the group around the barrel, Thomas lost his balance and fell off to the side. He pounded a fist on the ground, but rolled over and got to his feet right away.
“My turn.” A bulkier boy stepped up to the barrel. Thomas gave him a dirty look but backed out of the way, dusting his hands off on the seat of his jeans.
“Marcos Oxendine,” Dylan told Jess. “One of our more challenging kids.”
But today Marcos seemed to be on his best behavior. Grinning, he climbed onto the barrel, wrapped the rope around his gloved hand and yelled, “Let’s go! Aiyee!”
The kids on the four corners began pulling their ropes, causing the barrel to tilt and sway in all different directions. Their encouraging shouts rang out in the afternoon air, recalling the roar of the grandstand crowd at a real rodeo. Marcos stayed on for nearly eight seconds, using his upper body to counter the motion of the drum he rode. When he finally did come off, he sat up laughing, while the spectators around him applauded.
“Again!” he demanded. “I’m doin’ it again!”
Dylan glanced at the reporter beside him to gauge her reaction. What he noticed was that she stood with her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, and the stance did great things for her figure. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat and refocused his attention on the kids.
Marcos’s second ride didn’t last as long, but he moved away agreeably enough when Lena Smith marched up and announced that she wanted to go next.
Jess turned to Dylan with a shocked expression. “These events allow women to compete?”
“Yes, and there are a couple of women out there today riding against men. Lena is interested, so we wanted to give her a chance. And she’s actually pretty good.”
The girl proved his words, staying on for a full eight seconds, though Dylan suspected the rope pullers were going a little easy on her.
Still, she grinned when she got down. “That is so cool.”
Beside Dylan, Jess Granger shook her head. “This was not what I pictured when you said you were conducting a summer camp. I thought, you know, arts and crafts—collages made with pinecones and sticks they pick up on a hike.”
“Nope. We’ve been working on their riding skills—none of them could sit on a horse when they showed up here. On Friday we’re taking them on their first cattle drive. You’ll have to come along and observe.”
“Um... I’m another one who’s never been on a horse before I got here.”
He gave her a wink. “We might have to work on that.”
“By Friday?”
“There’s a full moon tonight.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Could be. In the meantime, come meet my brother Ford and his fiancée.”
Introductions took place as the kids dispersed, the boys heading to their bunkhouse and the three girls to the cabin they shared with Caroline. “They get an hour or so to reconnect with their phones,” Caroline explained to Jess. “We wouldn’t want anybody going into withdrawal.”
“I certainly would, without mine. Dylan said that these are some of the troubled kids in your area.”
“That’s right. Most of them have had some kind of run-in with the legal system.”
“They seem pretty cooperative, overall. Not as resistant as I would expect.”
“Today’s a successful day,” Ford said. Caroline nodded. “And we’ve been together for a few weeks, developed some relationships. Do you have experience working with teenagers?”
“No, not really. But I have known some kids with problems.” Jess Granger gave a short laugh. “In fact, I guess you could say I was one. I grew up bouncing in and out of the foster care system. At about the same rate my parents jumped in and out of jail.”
Dylan swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. The Marshall brothers had lost both their parents before Wyatt turned sixteen, but they’d always had each other to depend on. He didn’t want to consider how hard life might be without some kind of family you could trust to take care of you.
After a few seconds of silence, Ford found the right words. “You’ve obviously not only survived that experience, but thrived.”
Caroline put a hand on the journalist’s arm. “I would love to have you talk to our kids, especially the girls. You’re such a great example of what responsibility and persistence can accomplish. Please say you’ll spend some time with them while you’re here.”
Jess Granger looked surprised. “If you think it will help, I’d be glad to.”
“You have to be careful around Caroline.” Ford put his arm around his fiancée and squeezed her shoulders. “If she can find a way to use you in one of her causes, she will. That’s how the Circle M ended up hosting this camp in the first place.”
“The world needs people who push for ways to help others,” Jess said. “They’re the ones who make a difference.” She turned to Dylan, still speechless beside her. “Would this be a good opportunity for the two of us to talk? I was hoping to see your studio, get some insight into your new work process.”
He had plenty of reservations about that plan, but no valid reason to refuse. “Sure.” To Caroline and Ford, he said, “We’ll catch up with you two at dinner.”
Then, with a sense of dread, he headed toward the studio, leading the enemy directly into the heart of his most personal territory.
* * *
JESS CAUGHT UP with Dylan as he angled away from the ranch house, across a downhill stretch of grass toward what seemed to be another barn, though this building was gray, not red like the one at the top. “You haven’t said anything.”
His handsome face was hard to read. “I admire your achievements, against such odds. Were you close to your foster family?”
“Which one?” She wanted to push his buttons, shake his self-control. “I lived with five different couples. Ten brothers and sisters. Not all at once, of course.”
“That sounds pretty tough.” They reached the corner of the building but he continued past it, toward a stand of trees where the land flattened out. The grass was longer here and greener than on the hill, bending and swaying in the ever-present wind.
Jess stopped to take some pictures, and had to catch up with him again. “Where are we going?”
“To the creek.”
“Why?”
“You wanted to understand my process.”
They stepped under the shade of the trees and the temperature dropped about ten degrees. Jess removed her hat to let the breeze cool her head. “That feels so good.”
Dylan nodded. “Part of the process.”
He’d taken his hat off, too, letting the wind blow his wavy hair back from his face. There was a straight line across his forehead where the dirt from his morning’s work had streaked his skin below his hat. It looked funny, yet also appealing, since it spoke of the physical effort he’d made. Jess was suddenly aware of his bare forearms, his flat stomach and tight rear end. Taking a deep breath, she pivoted away to study the scenery.
Trees and shrubs grew right up to the edge of the water. Along the edge of the stream, the trees were interspersed with rocks and boulders, some as big as cars. The creek bed itself was covered with smaller rocks and stones, which created a sparkling music as the water flowed over them.
“Beautiful,” she said, snapping more photographs, moving around to get different angles and light levels. “Like visiting a national park somewhere, but it’s all yours. No noisy, nosy tourists traipsing around to spoil it.” She grinned at Dylan. “Unless you count me.”
“You’re definitely nosy. Not too noisy, so far.” He gestured to the big, level rock he stood beside. “Come sit down.”
“Okay.” She sat on the rock and he joined her, leaving a space between them. Shadows from the leaves above danced across them, a flicker of gold and gray on their faces. “Now what?”
“Be still for a few minutes. Listen.”
