Agnes and the Renegade (Men of Defiance) (9 page)

Wylie made a face. “She sent this here rug, too. Didn’t want you to be uncomfortable in such rustic surroundings. Help me get this rolled out under the bed,” he said to the other man. “Shoulda put this out first.” They lifted one end of the bed and kicked the carpet out under it, then repeated with the other.

“What happens if it gets wet? Or gets paint on it?” Aggie asked, worried that she would ruin something of the Taggerts’.
 

“Mrs. Taggert said you weren’t to worry about any of that. She makes these rag carpets every winter and has a stack of spare ones up at the house. If there’s anything else you need, you’re to let her or the boss know.” They sent a look around the large tent. Aggie could tell when their gazes encountered Chayton’s portrait; they both stiffened, then moved closer for another look.

“You’ve seen him,” Sam said, sending her an awed glance. She nodded. He exchanged a long look with his friend, then glanced at the painting again. “He ever bother you?”

Once, yes, but there was no point telling these men about that. Logan had taken care of it, and it hadn’t happened again. Aggie shook her head. “I’ve tried to find him so that I can get him to sit for me. He’s elusive.”

“No one in town can ever find him when they go lookin’. He ain’t gonna show himself unless he wants to. Best leave him alone, ma’am. For your own good.” The two men shared another look, then took their leave.

Aggie spent the morning getting her new space in the tent organized, then decided to make it a chore day since she’d gotten off track from work anyway. She straightened the cabin, cleaned up after the horse in the corral, did her laundry, bathed, then made a feast of a dinner for herself with the fresh fruit and dairy products Sarah and Logan had sent over. She topped off the big meal with a decadent berry pie, which she ate a slice of sitting alone at her little kitchen table.
 

The solitude she’d sought out here was a blessing and a curse, in near equal parts. It gave her endless freedom to create, but it was never comfortable becoming aware of being alone. At her warehouse in Denver, she had neighbors of the other business owners and their workers. People were all around her there. She wondered how Chayton lived alone as he did.
 

She rose early the next morning and set to work on a small landscape. Though she took breaks during the day, she never let her mind fully separate from the painting she was working on. It wasn’t until the light grew dim in the tent that she realized how late in the day it had become.
 

She cleaned up her workspace, stretched, then headed to the cabin. Dinner would be a simple plate of bread with fresh butter and a thick slice of cheese. And pie. Her stomach growled in anticipation.
 

The door to her cabin was open, as it usually was during the day, but she’d no sooner stepped inside than she became aware that something was odd. She froze in place at the threshold as her gaze dashed around the uncluttered space. Nothing looked different. She walked into the back area where her bed was and ventured a quick peek beneath it. Everything was as she’d left it that morning. Her bed was still neatly made. Her quilt folded at the foot of the bed. No one was hiding beneath it.

Unnerved that she hadn’t been able to find whatever had triggered that odd sensation, she returned to the kitchen. Lying on the dry sink, where her pie had been, was a dead rabbit. Skinned, gutted, and ready for cooking, a small pool of blood drying around it. Aggie felt lightheaded as she stared down at the small bit of game.
 

He’d been here. Chayton had come here while she worked. How could she not have heard his horse? And, darn it, he’d taken her pie. She retrieved her cast iron Dutch oven. Not wanting to waste the meat he’d left her, she prepared a quick stew with carrots, potatoes, spices, and the rabbit. She fetched some wood for the stove from the pile outside, sending a glare around her. Was he still nearby, watching her?
 

Hopefully, he’d bring her pie dish back.
 

She’d go up to the caves tomorrow and find him. She was done with his cat-and-mouse game. Yes, she’d made a promise to Logan to stay south of the sandstone bluffs, but Chayton had come into her house, so turnabout was only fair play.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Aggie climbed up her hill the next morning, then walked the mile between her hill and the sandstone bluff, near the invisible line she’d promised not to cross. She assumed Chayton made his home somewhere up there, else why would Logan have warned her to stay away? Perhaps he lived in the caves. Or maybe another little cabin just out of her sight.
 

It was difficult to find a way up the steeply sloping rise. There was no clear path, and the ground zigged and zagged around boulders and brush in an upward climb. She lost track of how long it took. She was focused more on keeping her skirts out from underfoot as she had to use her hands to climb over and around boulders as she neared the top. The higher she climbed, the rougher the terrain became.
 

At last, she made it to the level where there were some caves. They looked too shallow and small to accommodate a grown man. She edged her way around the ledge, hoping there were more caves, larger ones, around the bend in the sandstone wall up ahead. With her luck, there would be no caves, just an abrupt end to the ledge she was on and no way to turn around. Still, she pressed forward.

“Chayton!” she called. “Chayton! I know you’re up here!” Her voice echoed in the deep gorge that stretched far into sandstone bluff. The canyon was longer than she’d expected viewing it from the plains below. “Chayton! Quit hiding and come out!”

Aggie stepped into a cave that she hadn’t seen from below, but couldn’t tell whether it was where he lived. There was no bedding, no fire remnants, no piles of clothes or tools. Perhaps there were more areas in the far back where Chayton made his home.
 

Her eyes were becoming acclimated to the dark interior of the cave. She’d decided to push in a bit farther when she sensed something move in the shadowy depths of the space. The hairs rose on her neck and scalp as she heard a heavy breath, then a scream from a mountain lion. She stood paralyzed with terror. The mountain lion moved forward slowly, unfolding itself from a ledge where it had been resting. It leapt down to a lower ledge. It was scenting her, its mouth open, its breath rolling in rumbling growls from its chest.

Aggie silently began to pray as she started edging backward. The lion roared again. She screamed and squeezed her eyes shut. And then something slipped in front of her, standing between her and the lion. A wall of rawhide. She gasped and pushed against it, only then realizing it was a man.
 

He spread his arms and pushed backwards, inching her toward the cave entrance in slow, emphatic steps. Aggie gripped fistfuls of his deerskin tunic in her shaking hands. She could hear the mountain lion advance. The man spoke in a soft chant, his words a rolling singsong of calming tones. The cat screamed at them. The sound bounced around the cave walls, growing amplified. She buried her face in the man’s back, between his shoulder blades. He did not seem tense. They reached the cave opening. When Aggie felt the hot sun on her back, she needed no prompting to turn and hurry down the trail, retracing her steps around the wall of the bluff.
 

She didn’t look behind her until she’d reached the side of the bluff that overlooked her hill. Chayton followed her—she was relieved to see that no mountain lion followed him. He waved his hand toward her hill below and gave an abrupt order in that language she couldn’t comprehend. She didn’t have to understand his words to know what he was saying—and she didn’t need to be asked twice.
 

Aggie made her way down the boulder-strewn sandstone bluff. As difficult as it was climbing up, it was even harder going down. Chayton moved ahead of her and showed her the steps to take. She followed in a numbed panic, feeling the aftereffects of shock. She was cold, even in the hot sunshine. And she was light headed. Chayton looked back at her, his expression aggrieved. She lifted her chin and continued on, forcing herself to put foot after foot to get to her horse. By the time they’d walked the mile separating the bluff from her hill, she was feeling much more herself.
 

When they reached her horse, Chayton indicated she should mount up. Just when she thought he was making her go alone, he called for his horse, with that high-pitched shout he’d used the first time they’d come face to face.

His horse trotted over to him and paused for him to swing up into the saddle. They walked the horses back to her cabin. Once or twice, Aggie looked at the warrior, wanting to strike up a conversation. He hadn’t given any indication that he knew English, and she didn’t know Lakota, so she held her silence. Besides, he did not look at her or in any way encourage her to break the silence.

Once at her house, he came to a stop near the corral. “Thank you. For saving me,” Aggie said after dismounting. He didn’t acknowledge her comment. He merely turned his horse and started back the way they’d come. Aggie scrambled up the corral fence.

“Chayton!” she called after him. He paused to look back at her. “Be careful with that mountain lion!” He turned away, but she stopped him again. “Chayton! If you bring back my pie dish, I’ll make you another pie.”

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she thought she saw the start of a smile in the hard lines of his face. She started to climb down the fence, but it was his turn to stop her.

“Woman!”
 

She lifted herself back up to see over the fence.
 

“Why you were looking for me?”

“I wanted to thank you for the rabbit. And I wanted to talk to you. I thought maybe I could get you to sit for me.”

“Sit for you?”

“Yes. So I can paint you.”

“No.” He turned and continued the way he’d come.

Aggie found it hard to concentrate on her work the next afternoon. The day was sweltering hot. No breeze stirred the air. The tent felt like a breath held in a dragon’s mouth. She went behind the screen and took off her dress, leaving only her layers of thin cotton underclothes—chemise, drawers, and petticoat. She’d forgone her confining corset and the weight of several petticoats when she arrived. Often, she didn’t even wear her stockings or shoes. She was here to work, not entertain. Theo had told her again and again that art was all that mattered when she was working. It was a lesson she’d taken to heart. She pulled her smock on over her underclothes. The apron was heavy and hot, but at least her sides would be cooler. She pinned her hair up in a sloppy attempt to get the heavy mass up off her neck. She tied the front and back entrances to the tent open, hoping to get some exchange of air. Returning to work, she forced herself to focus, reminding herself of all that was at stake if she didn’t make this exhibit happen. Her time was running out.
 

She was working on a pastoral painting of Chayton’s horse grazing near the creek. She had hidden Chayton behind the brush. It would take a hunter’s eye for anyone to see him. But his pony, decorated with special markings in ocher and sienna, was a clear indicator the horse was of value to a warrior who would not be far away.
 

She was nearly finished with the work when a shadow moved across her feet from the western opening of the tent. She ignored it at first, thinking the tent flap had come loose from its tie. But after a while, her gaze was drawn in that direction.
 

Chayton stood there. In her tent. Watching her. She straightened, then felt the tightness in her back and neck from leaning in to work on her painting. She set her brush and palette down. Her fingers were tacky with the oils. No matter how she tried, she could not paint without wearing the sticky colors.

She pressed her palms against her smock, digging her fingers into the heavy linen to get the worst of the pigments off them. “Hello.”

He looked away from her without returning the greeting. Instead, he walked into her tent, moving from canvas to canvas, studying each, lingering. She held her breath when he stepped in front of the large portrait of himself. After a minute, he looked back at her, a question in his eyes.
 

Aggie came to stand near him. “I’m giving this work to Logan, for your daughter.” She looked at the painting, then at him. “Do you like it?”

His nostrils flared. He turned to face her. His gaze swept the length of her body, down then up. She became aware of standing before him barefoot, in only her undergarments and her painting smock. He lifted a hand to touch the pads of his fingers to her bare arm, stroking her in a light touch from her wrist to her shoulder. He looked at her collarbone, then touched the bare skin exposed there.

He murmured something unintelligible to her. “I don’t understand,” she whispered, struck by the emotion in his eyes.
 

His gaze lifted to hers. His hand encircled her neck, his fingers slowly tightening his grip as he said, “You are the soul of everything I love in the skin of everything I hate.” His hand squeezed her neck in a hold that was almost painful. He studied her eyes, which did not waver from his. His hand eased from her throat. He gestured toward the many paintings on easels and drying on the framework Logan had set up for her. “What are you doing here, painting me?”

“I came to paint western landscapes.” She glanced around the tent at her work. “I asked the land to tell me its story. It showed me you. So I painted you.”

“Why?”

“The land cannot weep. But you can. Its story comes through you.”

Chayton’s face was set in a rigid hold that gave no hint of his emotions. He lifted his hand and touched his fingers to her forehead. He tapped her, then dragged his fingers slowly down her temple to her cheek to her chin. “Who are you? What are you?”

“My name is Aggie Hamilton. I’m an artist.”

“You tell stories.” He said as he stepped away from her to walk among her paintings again. “Why do you do it?”