Agnes and the Renegade (Men of Defiance) (7 page)

The Indian was her answer.

One of the many things she’d learned from Theo was that an artist must choose what a piece of art would say. A painter couldn’t tell every story in a single work of art, but he or she could tell one story. Some artists told the story of light, others the story of darkness and shadows. Some told the story of motion. Some painted the seasons.

In this collection, she would tell the story of Chayton.

She knew now what she needed to do to fix the first four paintings she’d done--knew exactly what they were lacking.
 

She refilled the water in the house, then took a piece of jerky for herself as she got things set up inside for another painting session, hopefully one that let her stay coherent while she worked. What she needed to do was merely fine-tune the work she’d already done. And add her spirit man. He would be in every work she did here. Only those who knew to look for him would find him. Perhaps only those who were permitted to see him would.

It was the wee hours of the morning before she’d finished the alterations to her paintings. She forced herself to lie down for a few hours. In the morning, she would head back to her hill and seek out her warrior.
 

* * *

She searched for him for three days without any success. Had she spooked him? Perhaps he’d left her valley. Perhaps Logan had ordered him to keep his distance, and that was why finding him was so difficult. Resigned to the fact that she might never see him again, she returned to her cabin to paint him as he’d been the day he’d hidden in the draw. She stretched a four-foot canvas for this work. She sketched out where the silvery-leafed rabbitbrush would go, the Medicine Bow Mountains in the far distance, and her phantom warrior standing over her.
 

She spent days with that painting alone. The man in it seemed so real. She surprised herself with how much of him she remembered. His dark, unsmiling eyes spoke to her from the depths of the canvas. It was as if he were real, there with her. Sometimes she would even look over her shoulder, expecting to see him. She felt a quickening inside of her, a warm, melting sensation she’d never felt before. She knew nothing about the man she painted, but her imagination filled in all the blanks. She wished she’d been able to find him. His absence preyed on her mind—almost as if she missed him, which made no sense at all to her.
 

When she finished with that work, she hung it on the wall, rearranging the other works so the warrior’s painting had a central place of honor. She looked at it throughout the day, in the drifting light of the sun, studying and analyzing it, deciding it was one of the best pieces she’d ever done.

Chayton stood on the rocky slope of her hill, his face painted, his hair braided and wrapped, all of him covered in the dust he’d hidden himself beneath. He wore only a fringed breechcloth and the necklaces she’d seen him wear the morning she woke after her painting marathon. He was proud. Regal. A warrior left over from another time.

* * *

A knock at the door startled her the next morning. “Mornin’, Aggie,” Logan greeted her.

“Good morning to you! Won’t you come in?” She set the dishes back in the washbasin and dried her hands.
 

Logan lifted his hat off as he stepped inside. “I was heading in to town and thought I’d stop to see if you needed anything.” She saw him sniff the air and knew he smelled the heavy oils and turpentine. He looked at the paintings hanging on the walls.

“You’ve been busy.” He pointed to the landscapes with the hand holding his hat. “I know that hill.” He frowned as he looked at her work, moving in to examine more closely. “You’ve seen Chayton. Is he bothering you?” he glanced back at her.

“No.”

Logan stared at the paintings with her hidden warrior. “You’re a hell of an artist, Aggie.” He looked around at the cabin’s small room. The latest painting featuring Chayton was on an easel with its back to the room. He walked around it, then stopped and stared as if struck by it. She swallowed nervously, but held her silence. He, of anyone who would see that work, knew Chayton best. He would see its shortcomings as even she couldn’t. Long minutes passed. Finally, he began absently slapping his hat against his leg, giving the tight confines of the cabin a critical glance.
 

“You’re going to run out of space here fairly quickly.” He frowned. “Do you have enough light in here?”

“Everything is fine here. I’ll make it work.”

“For now, perhaps.” He nodded. “Sarah wanted me to ask you to come up to the ranch for Sunday dinner.”

The invitation took her off guard. She clasped her hands together. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I don’t have time to take a day off. I haven’t a calendar or a watch. I don’t know what day of the week it is or what time it is. And to tell the truth, when I get working, I lose all sense of anything. I wouldn’t like to make a commitment I can’t keep.”

Logan nodded, then sent another look around the place. “I think it’s too dark in here.” He walked outside, moving to the corner of the house. “I have a big tent I’m not using this summer. If you like, I could send some men down to set it up in that field. You could put up several easels in there.”

“Is it sturdy?”

“It is. Fully wind-tested. It was used as a church in Cheyenne when they were building the railroad. I traded for it several years ago so I could have a tent to set up a shop in when I do a show at different fairs and rodeos.”

“Well, then, yes. I think that might be very helpful. Thank you for offering it.”

Logan ran a hand through his hair, then set his hat on his head. “May I ask you something? I don’t mean to pry, but I’m curious. Why the feverish rush to produce work? It isn’t as if you have a time limit on the use of this cabin.”

“No, but I do need to earn a living. I find only about twenty percent of my work is show-worthy. I need to complete enough of my best work to support an exhibit on my own, otherwise I will have to share the space.” She looked at him levelly. It was the truth, just not the whole truth. The chances of her landing an exhibit, shared or otherwise, were pretty slim. She had to produce her very best work. Period.

She’d been able to find only one gallery willing to consider showing her work, an offer that came loaded with caveats for volume, quality, and timing—even though the gallery owners were Theo’s long-time friends, the very people who’d enticed Theo to move from the East Coast to Denver. As far as the art world was concerned, she was an unknown. None of the most powerful art collectors even knew Theo had taken on a student, much less that she’d spent the last years of his life handling his remaining commissioned works.
 

She desperately wanted to do more pieces featuring Chayton, but she’d been unable to locate him. She mentioned it now to Logan, hoping he might tell her where to find his friend. “I ran into Chayton the other day and haven’t seen him since. I’m afraid he’s moved away.”

Logan smiled. “He’s not gone. He’s not going anywhere while his daughter is still here.”

So it was his daughter they were fostering. She’d wondered about that. Aggie sat on the bench in front of her house, wrestling with an inner debate over asking something that was none of her business. “It’s my turn to appease my curiosity. Of course, you don’t have to answer, but why is White Bird with you and not him?” As soon as she asked the question, she wished she hadn’t. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay. I don’t think many white people understand what’s happening with Indian children. They’re taken away to a boarding school at a very young age. Five or six years old. They often don’t see their parents or families again for years. Chayton asked that we raise her instead, teach her to live in the white world, as the schools would. He knew we wouldn’t erase her ties to her culture or language—and we would love her as our own.”

Aggie’s shoulders slumped as she considered how great Chayton’s sacrifice was. “I hope he at least gets to see her often?”

Logan shook his head. “He doesn’t interact with her at all and very little with me. He provides a deer or elk or some other large game every few months. We trade hides for supplies whenever he needs anything.”

“Where does he live, exactly?” Logan had shown her the general area, by the bluffs. But she needed directions so she could make a visit to him.

He frowned. “You’re full of questions.”

She nodded. “I’m hoping he might sit for me.”

“Good luck with that.” He shook his head. “He’s like the wind: often there, but never seen.” He looked off to the west. “It’s best to keep with the landscapes if you wish to make your quota. He’s too elusive for you to chase, and the terrain can be dangerous. Besides, he prefers to be left alone.” He went toward his wagon and climbed up to the bench seat. “The offer for supper stands. Come up to the ranch anytime, whenever it fits with your schedule or you want a break from work. Sarah would be very happy to see you.” He waved to her, then continued down the road.

Two days later, Aggie walked through the tent Logan had sent down. It had probably held twenty or so parishioners when it served as a church in Cheyenne. His men had also brought tools and lumber to build her additional easels and rig up racks for her to hang her finished work. They were screen-like wooden stands and would support several pieces on either side of each panel. This was almost as useful as Theo’s big warehouse.

Intent on finishing the study she was doing of the sage and rabbitbrush, Aggie rode out to her hill. She had pastel chalks with her so she could capture the colors and light as they defined the scrubby bushes. She spread a blanket on the ground, then sat down next to a thick bush. Crossing her legs, she settled in for a short sprint.

She drew a detailed sketch of a leaf, a single branch, several branches together, and then the whole bush. As usual, she wasn’t aware of time passing. When she finished the study of the rabbitbrush, something slipped into her consciousness. She held still, wondering what it could have been. There was no sound, no scent, but something was behind her. A chill wrapped around Aggie’s spine. She slowly twisted around to see who or what was there.
 

Chayton stood beside the creek bed, near her horse. He was tall, she realized—something she hadn’t noticed before. She waved to him, then turned back to the sketch she was working on. She wasn’t going to let him know that anything about him frightened her, though in truth, her hands shook too much to continue working.
 

A minute passed. Then two. She itched to turn around and see if he was still down there, but then there was a sound behind her. He’d crossed from the grassy area near the horses to the gravelly slope of the hill. She had no doubt that he could move without a sound, so the fact that he didn’t hide his footsteps seemed a kindness. Still, she did not turn around. Her breathing grew more rapid as he approached, closer with each step.
 

Though of course Chayton was only a man, Aggie felt as vulnerable as if a mountain lion was approaching. Her hands tightened on her sketchpad. Her gaze slowly focused on the image she’d been sketching. It was of him, a charcoal drawing of his face. Good heavens, but his eyes looked sad. And when had she switched from a sampling of the vegetation to drawing him? Oh God, and now it was too late to flip the page. He was standing right behind her. The hairs lifted along her neck. She held still, but he didn’t. He stepped around her, walking slowly, quietly now.

She watched his leather-clad legs as he moved in front of her. Her dratted eyes cataloging the light on his leggings, the stains, the wear, the fringe that was present and the places it was missing. He wore moccasins that conformed to his feet, the leather simple and unadorned. When he didn’t move, she lifted her gaze, moving up his body. His leggings attached to the thong about his hips that held his breechcloth. He wore a leather vest that was open over his chest. In front of the vest was a bone breastplate with a leather strap in the middle that was beaded in vibrant colors of blue, white, red, brown, and orange, colors that matched his elaborate wrist cuffs. He wore several necklaces, the uppermost of which was a wide choker of long bone beads. A beaded strap around his chest supported his quiver of arrows. His black hair was loose, except for a long beaded braid on the right side of his head. Eagle feathers dangled from the back of his hair, another toward the top of his head.

His cheekbones were high, his dark eyes judging her. His face paint was different today. He wore only two vertical stripes of black from his temple to his chin, over his eyes. His black gaze was on her, his expression utterly closed to her. And yet some things could never be hidden from the eyes of an artist trained to see the stories that no words could ever communicate. What she saw in his eyes was startling.

He was as afraid of her as she was of him.

Why, why she ached for him, she’d likely never know. But her eyes filled with tears, making his image waver in front of her. She made no attempt to hide the moisture that spilled over her eyes and trailed slowly down her cheeks. It didn’t matter anyway. She’d likely never speak to the renegade.
 

He looked at the markings she was sketching. She looked at him, studying him. He wore a brightly beaded, fringed sheath that housed a wide, long knife. Several pouches hung from his waist, others from his neck. His shoulders were broad, with lean, supple muscles in his arms. His waist was narrow. His hands and lower arms were heavily veined. His skin was a sun-kissed bronze.
 

She made a facile calculation of the pigments and tones she would need to paint his skin as it was now in the bright orange afternoon light. She bent her head to the right and shifted her weight so that she could see how the shadows touched his body.

When she lifted her gaze, he was watching her. She returned his gaze, listening with her eyes to the sound of his soul. When she could no longer bear the pain she felt from him, she blinked. He looked away, staring into the far eastern horizon. She wondered what he saw there, perhaps across not just distance, but time.