Cowboy Tough (11 page)

Cat strolled over to Trevor's easel. She'd expected to see an amateur rendition of the lake scene, but he'd traded papers with Mr. Delaney and was hard at work developing his reclining nude. She was surprised at his ability. He'd handled the foreshortening really well, although the pose he'd chosen was a little derivative. It was a blatant rip-off of Manet's
Olympia
, but she was resting against a log instead of reclining on a chaise lounge.

She moved closer. He'd given his subject a slim build, with dark, cat-slanted blue eyes and dark hair curling around her face. The likeness was unmistakable.

Trevor Davis was painting her. Naked.

“Cat,” Mrs. Delaney called. “I can't get these trees to look right.”

Grateful for the interruption, she turned away from Trevor's easel and tried to concentrate on a demonstration of her patented pine tree squiggle while she wondered what the hell to do about Trevor. This wasn't a situation that had come up in the Art Treks teacher's manual.

If it had happened among her friends back home, she'd pass it off as a joke. Nudes were a common subject, and artists frequently posed for each other. She'd been half reclining in an exact copy of the
Olympia
pose earlier, when she'd been talking to Mack. That had been Trevor's inspiration.

But the guy made her uncomfortable. And she definitely didn't want Dora to see what he'd done.

As usual, she smothered her anxiety in work, coaching the Delaneys, helping Charles, and studiously avoiding Trevor. She finished her own painting too, but she wasn't happy with the results. The thought of Trevor watching her closely enough to put her in a painting made it impossible for her to concentrate.

“Hmm.” Mack strolled over from where he'd been fiddling with the horses' fittings and admired Ed and Emma's work. Trevor stepped back as the cowboy arrived at his easel. Raising his brush theatrically, he smiled smugly as Mack examined the painting.

“Let me see this.” Mack plucked the picture from the easel. Cat stood motionless, dizzy with embarrassment and dread.

It took a moment for the subject matter to register, but as he surveyed the painting Mack's expression darkened.

“You need to follow instructions better.” He dropped the painting facedown on the ground and placed a booted foot on the back of the foam core-support. “You're supposed to be doing the lake.”

He scuffed his heel deliberately, grinding the painting into the ground. Then he picked it up and placed it on the easel. Standing back like a connoisseur at a museum, he pondered the effects of his work. The portrait was destroyed, the figure smeared beyond recognition and streaked with dirt.

He turned and faced the rest of the class, who were staring at him with open mouths and wide eyes, and shot them a disarming grin. “Hey, I don't know much about art, but I know what I like.” He shrugged. “And I didn't like that. Didn't like it at all. Anyway, it's about time to go, Cat.”

Trevor stood frozen in place, his expression a combination of disbelief and rage. “Is this how you allow your clients to be treated? You allow your… your lackeys to destroy works of art?”

“That was no work of art, buddy.” Mack stepped up to Trevor and Cat was struck by the difference between them. It wasn't just that Mack was bigger and taller. He had something more than size—an air of solidity that Trevor lacked. “And I'm no lackey. You can consider me the Art Treks bouncer.”

Trevor backed away, busying himself with his supplies.

“Everybody pack up,” Cat said. She consciously slowed her breathing to keep her voice from shaking. The picture was only a joke, after all. If Ames had done the portrait, she would have laughed.

But Trevor wasn't Ames.

“I'll go get Dora.”

She strode toward the woods, grateful for an excuse to leave the group. As soon as she was out of sight, she sank down on a rock and put her head between her knees, feeling the dizziness fade and relief flood through her veins. She was fine. She really was. It had just been a joke.

So why did she feel so shaky?

She heard footsteps on the trail and lifted her head, which brought on another wave of dizziness. Mack knelt down in front of her.

“You okay?” He brushed a lock of hair from her eyes with a gentle finger and laid one hand on her thigh. It was a protective touch, not a sexual one, but it felt good. Too good.

She dashed away the tear that was dangling from one eyelash, trying to make the motion seem like a casual wave. “I'm fine.”

“You want me to smack him around?”

“No.” She sighed. “He's just a case of arrested development, you know? Never got past the sixth grade when it comes to girls.”

“He's a creep.”

“He's a client.” She forced a smile. “I know you're the law here on the Boyd Dude Ranch, but you can't go assaulting my students, okay?”

He stiffened. “My first impulse was to stomp him into the ground, but I figured you'd act like this.”

“Like what?” She stood. “Rational? In charge? What's done is done. Let's just start over, okay?”

He stared at her in disbelief. “So you're going to keep working with the guy?”

“What else am I going to do? It was a joke, Mack. Not a very good one, but still a joke. Art Treks isn't going to let me throw him out of the class.”

“They should. It's sexual harassment.”

“The world doesn't always work the way it should.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Just let it go, Mack.”

She watched him struggle with that concept. Gradually, his fists unclenched and his brow cleared.

“I have to go find Dora. Could you help the old folks pack?”

Sighing, he turned away. “It's what I live for.”

He jogged off down the trail. She knew she should be jogging in the other direction, looking for Dora, but she couldn't help watching him go any more than she could help thinking of the night before.

The authentic cowboy life was more of a challenge than she'd expected—mostly because of the authentic cowboy.

***

Cat caught sight of Dora in just ten minutes, but actually getting to her was going to be a challenge. She shaded her eyes with one hand and gazed up at the rock formation rearing above her, wondering how her niece had managed to get not only herself, but her supplies too, up on the flat rock that seemed to balance precariously on the top of the pile.

As she watched, Dora took a step back from her easel, touching the handle of her brush to her lower lip and cocking her head in a pose so like her mother's “thinking” pose that it made Cat's heart ache. Then the girl darted forward, dabbed at the painting, and dodged back again. She looked like an ethereal fencer from fairyland, feinting and retreating, stabbing her brush home like an épée.

Reluctantly, Cat stepped out of the trees, figuring Dora would see her and stop—but the performance continued. Her niece was so absorbed in her work she didn't even hear the pebbles bouncing off the rocks as Cat clambered up.

Dora was in the zone, and Cat knew just how she felt. She'd been the same way at that age, and she'd known, from the way time flew when she was painting, that she was meant to be an artist. When she was working, art
was
life. It was all that mattered, and everything else was just a way to get from one canvas to another. She painted not to make money, not to get famous, but to earn the right to paint some more.

It was obvious Dora had the same passion. So why did she insist that she hated art?

As Cat crested the edge of the flat-topped boulder that created the stage for Dora's dance, she deliberately kicked a good-sized stone. It shot off the rock and bounced away, ricocheting like a bullet.

Dora spun, her eyes wide as if she'd been awakened from sleep.

“Oh.” She grimaced, and Cat wondered if she was that sorry to see her, or that unhappy at having her work interrupted.

“Sorry, hon. It's time to go…” Cat stepped up to Dora and caught sight of her painting. “Wow.”

“It's shit.” Dora moved toward the easel almost as if she was going to knock it down. Without thinking, Cat grabbed her arm. The two of them overbalanced, then caught each other, stumbling away from the edge of the rock. As they broke apart Cat put a hand to her chest, trying to still her thumping heart.

“Way to go. Kill me, why don't you?” Dora scowled. “But save the painting, right?”

“No. Dora, it's just… it surprised me.” She looked back at the painting, at the way Dora had balanced light and dark, the way she'd blurred the distant hills to draw the viewer into the scene. It was an amazing piece that could hang in any gallery. Hard to believe it was the work of a fifteen-year-old.

She scanned the girl's face and tried to read the complex blend of emotions. Anger, embarrassment, fear, and grief. Mostly grief.

Cat knew Dora was still mourning her mother. She would probably mourn her all her life. But it seemed like grief was holding her in a tight-fisted grip that altered her whole personality. There was some facet of her mother's life or death that wouldn't let her move on.

Cat looked at the painting again, wondering if it held a hint. But all she saw was an echo of Edie's talent, along with a bright flash of something unique that was pure Dora.

She wasn't going to let that flash dim and die because of Edie's death. But she needed to proceed with caution.

“It's good, hon.” She cocked her head to one side, masking her admiration with a critical squint. “It maybe needs some darker values on the lower left, to balance the sunset.”

“I know. I was going to deepen this shadow here.” Dora darted forward again, gesturing with her brush. “And maybe put some of that sap green here and here, so the trees pop.”

Cat smothered the urge to say that
everything
in the painting popped. That Dora was as talented as her mother—maybe more so. She blinked back the sudden heat behind her eyes, and Dora shot her a wary look.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing. It's just…” Cat waved a hand as if what she was feeling didn't matter, as if this whole scene hadn't brought her sister back to her. As if the emotions she was feeling hadn't left her as breathless as a punch in the chest.

“Don't be thinking I'm like Mom.” Dora's brows lowered, and two red slashes of color flushed high on her cheekbones. “I'm just fooling around.”

“But it's
good
, Dora.” Cat took a step toward her. “You are like her, in the best possible way.”

Dora's lips narrowed into a hard, thin line. “I'm not.” She stepped forward, quick as a cat, and jerked off a strip of the tape that held the paper to the board. Tearing the painting from the easel, she held it up in front of her face and tore it in half, then half again. The portions fluttered to her feet.

“I'm
not
like her.” She stamped her foot like a toddler, grinding a piece of the painting into the rock. “I'm not anything like her. I don't care if things are pretty or not. I don't
care
.”

Cat darted to catch a shred of the painting as it caught on the breeze and flipped toward the edge of the rock. Dora grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“Let it go. It's
shit
. I don't care about it. I don't care about painting, okay? I don't
care
.”

Cat held onto Dora for a moment. The girl's slim body was pulsing with tension, trembling with emotion—but she stiffened almost immediately and pulled away.

“Come on.” Blinking fast, she gathered up the brush she'd dropped and tossed it in the plastic tackle box that held her art supplies. She screwed the top on her water jar and shoved it in there too, along with a sponge and a few other brushes. Snapping the lid shut, she flipped the latches and stood up, brushing dust off her thighs as Cat slowly folded the easel and collapsed the legs.

“Let's just go.” She snatched the easel from Cat and set off down the path.

“Dora, wait.” Cat stood forlornly on the rock, wishing she knew what to say, wishing she knew what to do. “We need to talk.”

“There's nothing to talk about.” The girl set her sneakered feet and locked her knees to slide down a pebble-strewn slope, then leaped the last couple feet to the forest floor. “Come on. There are other students, remember? This project has to succeed. It's your
career
.”

Cat winced at the echo of her own words. She'd told Dora this trip was important. But though the thought of failure was a grim one, her niece mattered more. Didn't Dora know that?

She paused, hoping her niece would stop if she didn't follow. Looking out at the woods below, she saw the scene as Dora had painted it—the dark trees, the lowering sky, and tracing through the midst of it a silver ribbon of a stream. The water flowed toward the glow of the setting sun like a thin thread of hope.

“Come
on.
” Dora turned and walked backward a few steps, scowling.

Cat glanced back at the sunset one more time, then bent and picked up a shred of the ruined painting. Tucking it in her pocket, she followed her niece down the rock and into the dark wood.

Mack was tying the last knot on the final pack when Cat returned to the group with Dora in tow. The girl's expression was stormy, and Cat looked pained and confused. He could tell they'd had a fight.

“Thought you were going to help with the horses,” he said. He knew Dora was delicate, knew she was mourning her mother, but it still ticked him off to see the way she hurt her aunt. Cat was a good person—maybe too good. It seemed like the two of them didn't have much family left. So why was Dora trying to alienate the one relative she had left?

“I was. You should have had Charles whistle,” Dora said. “You didn't have to send
her
to get me.”

“I didn't send her. She was worried about you.” He watched Cat scramble up onto Rembrandt's back, then mounted his own horse. “And Charles was busy. He was the one who ended up helping with the horses.”

The trip back passed mostly in silence. The older folks were obviously tired, but Mack knew they also felt the strain between Cat and her niece. Even the cool coming of twilight and its accompanying breeze couldn't dissipate the tension between them.

He reined his horse off to the side of the trail. “Charles, you want to take the lead?”

Without a word, Charles edged out of the line and trotted his horse up to the front. Mack watched the slouching figures of the riders pass, hoping nobody fell asleep and tipped off their horse. Cat was last in line, and he fell into step beside her.

“What happened?” he asked.

She tightened her lips and shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Yeah, right. Talk to me, Cat.”

“We don't have time for that. We have to take care of them.” She nodded toward the line ahead. “We can't just leave Charles to lead them.”

“I'm sure Charles is capable of following the trail back to the barn,” he said. “And the horses know it's dinnertime. You couldn't get them to go anywhere else. So tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.”

She sighed. “I'm not sure anybody can help. She did a painting—a really good one, maybe a great one.”

“That's good, right?” He gave her an encouraging smile. Maybe he'd misread the situation. If Dora had done a painting, she might be coming out of her shell. Maybe Cat was just tired.

“It was terrific. Beyond terrific. But when I said so she tore it up.” Cat stared straight ahead, blinking fast. “She said she doesn't care about art. That she didn't want to be like her mother.”

“She tore it up?”

Cat nodded.

He thought back to the night before—what they'd found in the fire. “She tore up that photo, too.”

Cat nodded again. “I know.”

“Does Dora look like her mother?”

“Some,” she said. “Not a lot. They have the same eyes, the same chin. But Dora's paler, and her mother had darker hair. Not brunette, but more brown.”

Mack rode a while in silence, wondering if he dared offer advice. He wanted to help, but Alex had always gotten mad when he tried to solve her problems. She always said he should just listen.

“I don't know what to do,” Cat said.

Okay, that was
asking
for help.

“Is she eating?”

“What?”

“Is she eating? Because tearing up the picture, tearing up the painting—it seems like self-hate. Viv—my daughter—she had some problems with an eating disorder. That's why we took her to counseling. The shrink said she didn't like the girl she saw in the mirror.”

Cat looked dubious. “I haven't noticed her not eating. But I haven't been paying that much attention to it. I'll watch. Thanks.”

Maybe Cat was different from Alex. Maybe she didn't mind taking a man's advice. “On the art thing, maybe you shouldn't push her,” he said. “Maybe she really doesn't want to do it.”

“But she's meant to.” Cat straightened in the saddle and adjusted her hands. She was turning into a halfway decent rider. “You didn't see it, Mack. It was amazing.” She patted her pocket as if to assure herself something precious was stored there. “She's gifted. She has to use that talent.”

Mack knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Cat cared deeply about the art thing. It was tied to herself, to her sister. He should bite his tongue and stay out of it. But despite her sour attitude, he liked Dora. He could see a spark of sunshine in that pretty face clouded by grief.

“You can't make her do it,” he said as gently as he could.

“No. But I have to encourage her,” she said. “If you have that kind of talent—and I'm talking a lot of talent, genius-level talent—you have to use it.”

He cleared his throat, finding it suddenly swollen. He hated talking about himself, or his family problems. But he wanted to help.

“I wanted Viv to do sports,” he said.

She nodded almost dismissively. “You're a man.”

“It wasn't just that.” He stared down at the saddle horn, remembering his daughter at ten, at twelve. “She was made for it—all long legs and high energy. But to her, athletics just emphasized the things she thought were flaws. I saw that cute adolescent awkwardness—like a colt with legs too long for its body, you know? But she felt clumsy.”

“I guess that's normal for teenagers.”

“Up to a point. But she blamed herself for every point the other team scored, every game her team lost. It fed that eating disorder, made her miserable. I couldn't make her into what I thought she should be.”

He looked ahead, watching the riders bunch, then string out around a turn. “Everything got better once I quit insisting she go out for sports. She started eating again. We could talk. It took a while, but we're better now. She's better.” He paused. “
I'm
better.”

Cat bit her lip. “Creative people—people like Dora—get eaten up inside if they don't follow the urge.”

He looked over at her. “And you know this because…”

“Because I feel it myself.” She continued quickly, as if she was worried he'd get the wrong idea. “I'm not saying I'm a genius. Not by any means.”

“But you're an artist. You're following the urge, right?”

“Not really. Not the way I want to.” She snorted, a surprisingly unladylike noise. “My job is in advertising. Mostly graphic design. That's part of the reason I'm here—because this lets me do more painting. More
real
art.”

The wind picked up as they emerged from the woods, sending dry leaves skittering down the path in front of the horses' hooves. A slip of white paper danced up from behind them, fluttering between the horses' legs. Mack's horse shied and pranced a little before he tightened the reins. Rembrandt, true to form, took the surprise right in stride.

The paper caught on a clump of sagebrush just ahead. As they passed, Mack let Cat ride ahead, then slipped from the saddle and grabbed the paper.

He looked down at it, trying to assess what he saw. It was only a part of a painting, but there was no mistaking the subject. Dora had been up on Battleship Rock, looking down at the Little Fork River. The painting caught the dark mystery of the pines, the ribbon of bright water winding through them like a silvered path.

Even he knew, from just this scrap of the painting, that she was good.

He caught up to Cat and handed it to her, pulling his horse to a stop at an angle so the mule would stop too. She set the scrap of paper on her thigh and smoothed it out, then took another from her pocket and matched them up. Her gaze flicked up to his and he nodded.

“It's good,” he said. “I see what you mean. But…”

“But you're right,” she finished. “She has to decide for herself.”

She slid the two scraps of paper carefully into her shirt pocket. “It's just that I feel like I'm losing her and Edie too. Losing my sister all over again.” She patted the pocket as if putting a blessing on the torn scraps of paper, and turned haunted eyes to meet his. “I know it's selfish. But I just can't let them go.”