Perfect Touch (8 page)

“I don't remember Custer painting any portraits,” Jay said. “Certainly
JD never hung any portrait, though I think one might have been listed in the receipts I turned over to the court.”

“If there is a history—especially a salacious one—attached to the portrait, you might have a real leg up on your millions. Wyeth's Helga paintings put wings on his prices.”

“Educate my ignorance.”

“Helga was a model Wyeth painted,” Sara said. “He also had an affair with her. That narrative made the paintings much more valuable in the public eye.”

“Can I be blunt?” Jay asked.

“Sure.”

“Custer screwed anything that would hold still for it. When he was drunk, gender or species didn't much matter to him.”

Sara blinked. “I'll leave the species bit out of the narrative. It's salacious, but appeals to only a very narrow audience.”

There was a silence, then he threw back his head and laughed and laughed. “You're good for me,” he said finally, letting his cheek rub lightly over her hair.

“I'd be even better if you knew anything about the Custer works that are rumored to be lost, including the portrait. Really early works. Anything that could be put in a narrative frame that would help people to understand how Custer developed as an artist. There is so damn little real information about him.”

“JD had paintings stashed all over the ranch. Down here, up at Fish Camp—hell, maybe even in the outbuildings or some of the office buildings JD rented out. I don't know how many. We never kept track of the paintings. Never had a reason to.”

She groaned. “Other than a potential receipt that doesn't name the painting, there's no direct evidence of a Custer portrait actually existing?”

“No.”

“Even after Custer's move to Roanoke, he didn't keep many notes. It's believed that the only paintings he left behind from before Roanoke are the ones your family now owns. And the one that JD gave as a gift, which ended up in the movie.”

“There are some papers and notebooks and such at Fish Camp,” Jay said. “I saw them when I was looking for receipts.”

For a few moments, Sara forgot to breathe. Then her breath came out in a silver plume. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. My. God. Why didn't you say so earlier? If the notes are any good at all, you've just doubled the price of the Custers. Using his own words, I can lay out the framework for a lovely coffee-table book that shows the trajectory of his early painting. We can get a quality printing job in Asia at a fraction of the cost here and—”

“Breathe before you pass out,” Jay said wryly. Then, slightly louder, “You need something, Henry?”

Sara jerked. She hadn't heard anything to suggest that they weren't alone in the cold, radiant night.

“Forgot to set up the coffee for the morning,” Henry said. “Getting old, I guess.”

“I pulled wire with you a few days ago,” Jay said. “You're a long way from old.”

Henry gave a bark of laughter, then the mudroom door shut behind him.

“Before you get too breathless about finding old paintings,” Jay said, “I have a story to tell you.” As he spoke, he led her farther into the yard. “JD and Custer had been drinking. It was just before Custer left. Happened right here out between the house and the barn.”

Sara studied the grass, dark beneath the moon, but for the vague silver ripples when the wind gusted really hard. Off to one side, there was a small island of flagstones set in the ground around a low rock ring. The stones were pale as ghosts.

“Imagine it's the middle of the night,” Jay said, “with the only light coming from a roaring fire almost as tall as a man. And dancing around that fire is a very loud, very naked, and very drunk Armstrong Harris. Almost as loud, but not nearly as drunk, and fully dressed, is JD yelling at Custer to put out the fire and go to bed.”

“It's a good thing I fell in love with the paintings before I knew the man,” she muttered. “How old were you?”

“Almost thirteen. JD and Liza weren't married yet. They had just come back from a big party in town. Guess what Custer was burning?”

“I don't think I'm going to like the answer.”

“Some old paintings of his. Probably a bunch of notes, too. The whole mess was burning like hell on fire.”

Jay looked at her expression as she gazed at the fire pit. Her face told him everything he needed to know about how she saw Custer and his work. Her eyes gleamed silver with tears that made slow, cold trails down her cheeks.

“What a huge loss,” she said finally.

“Custer didn't see it that way,” Jay said. “He pissed on the fire, told JD to finish the job, and walked away. Custer was gone in the morning.”

Sara gave a long sigh. “So much lost. That story didn't make the history books. And it's the kind of detail that makes Custer and his work come alive, beyond the paintings themselves.”

“More dollar signs.”

She wiped away the last of her tears. “What you've told me makes the artist more human, more accessible to people who can't paint but
can appreciate art.” She looked past the site of the burned paintings. “Where else did Custer live while he painted landscapes on the ranch?”

“He stayed in every building on the ranch, with the exception of the main house. Well, maybe he passed out here once or twice. JD, too.” Jay smiled. “They were good friends until they stopped being good friends. Maybe they both outgrew each other. More likely they just got on each other's nerves.”

“Tough for two legends to share the same space,” Sara said.

“What do you mean?”

“I've seen the Vermilion name on more than a few places in Jackson. JD was a big wheel and a statewide legend.”

Jay made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Tough for me to see it like that. One of the ‘legends' was my father and the other was a prankster, a drunk, and JD's sidekick.”

“Sounds like more stories.”

“A whole childhood of them. But I'm not keeping us up all night jawing. Dawn comes early and cold at this time of year.”

“Just a few minutes more. I can't believe it's real and I'm here. It's the difference between reading history and living it.”

Sara looked at the barn and the outbuilding, ebony against the lambent sky. The buildings stopped and the land kept going and going, all the way to the mountains. It was big, so very big, and anything was possible in it.

I'll help Jay keep his ranch. The next generation of Vermilions? Well, a man like him will find a woman willing to spend her life out here and have his children.

And if I don't like that thought, tough.

I've worked too hard to end up like my mother.

J
AY AND SARA
were just finishing a big breakfast when Henry came in.

“A friend called me and said he'd heard some half-drunk gold hunters bragging about panning in our creeks,” Henry said.

“Are the two new hands on their feet yet?”

“Not hardly. I sent Billy to check on Barton's quarter of the ranch.”

Jay waited. Henry had run the ranch a long time. Jay hated to second-guess him, but he would.

“I don't trust Barton not to sneak some engineers or such up there,” Henry said. “He knows we're not using the land for grazing because the fences have been cut so many times by trespassers and druggies.”

All likely sent by Barton,
Jay thought.
In his own way, he's as persistent as his mother. But what he doesn't know or won't admit is that the less grazing land on the ranch, the less money for everyone.

“Does Billy have a radio?” Jay asked.

“He knows the rules.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Supposedly some crazy mountain man is roaming around the north forty, shooting at whatever takes his fancy.”

“Have you told the sheriff?” Sara asked quickly.

Henry laughed. “Until someone is shot, the sheriff don't care much.”

“Cooke has too few men to ride herd on our ranch problems,” Jay said to her. “He'll write reports if we insist, but why waste his time and mine?” He looked at Henry and asked drily, “Any more good news?”

“Nope. Horses are loaded up and ready to go. Amble is saddled for you. I saddled Jezebel and Mooch. Sara can take her pick. Skunk and Lightfoot are waiting by the corral. Saddlebags are packed.”

Jay said, “Sounds like you covered everything. Good work.”

Henry grunted and went back outside.

Sara started collecting dishes.

“Leave them,” Jay said. “Elena and her daughter will be here today to clean and cook meals for the week.”

By the time they had gathered what they would need for the trail, the sun was just up, flooding over the mountains, making everything come alive. The green of the grassland was edged in gold, dew scattering the light. The hush was broken only by a horse snorting in the corral.

“Times like this, I feel like the richest, luckiest man alive,” Jay said. “A whole day of riding ahead and a beautiful ranch waiting for me.”

“You forgot your cowboy boots,” she said.

He looked at the battered, comfortable lace-up boots he had worn through mountains half a world away. “These are just as good in the saddle and way more versatile on the ground. Sort of like your boots.”

She smiled and stretched. “I love riding. The ranching . . .” She shrugged. “Not so much.”

Despite her words, he enjoyed the sight of her stretching toward the dawn. She was wearing her own jeans and light hiking boots, one of his mother's flannel shirts and a going-to-town Stetson, plus a jacket that had once belonged to a much-younger Jay. None of it fully concealed Sara's female line. Watching her leaning against the top rail of the corral pleased him as much as the dawn.

The more he was with her, the more he liked her. Wanted her.

And knew it was a really bad idea.

I went all over the world and discovered the ranch is my home. She went all over the world and discovered the city is hers. I should be old enough not to start something that will end badly.

But I've never wanted anything like I want her.

Absently he petted Skunk and Lightfoot, who were watching him intently, waiting for their first orders. The instant Henry had started saddling horses, the dogs had known they would be working today. Except to the dogs, work was the finest kind of play.

Jay took the rifle he had brought from the gun safe in the house. He went to the big chestnut gelding called Amble and slid the rifle into its saddle sheath. Then he swung the saddlebags up onto the horse and tied them in place.

“The bay mare is Jezebel,” he said while he worked. “The strawberry roan gelding is Mooch.”

“Which one has the best cow sense?” Sara asked.

“Jezebel.”

“What is Mooch's claim to fame?”

“He's as even-tempered as a rock.”

Since Mooch was closer, she went to him. With calm, easy motions,
she checked the gelding's feet. His shoes were well worn but secure on his hooves. No stones were caught between steel and hoof. Next she adjusted the length of the stirrups, tightened the saddle cinch, made sure that the buckles on the bridle were secure, gathered the reins, and stepped into the stirrup.

During the whole process, Mooch flicked one ear.

Every motion Sara made told Jay that she was used to horses. He concentrated on checking the tack on his own ride. The cinch was a bit loose and one stirrup was too long.

Henry's hands must have been sore from pulling wire,
Jay thought as he tightened the cinch and adjusted the stirrup.
I should have insisted that he let me get the horses ready.

But the foreman was a proud man. It was better if Jay checked everything than to point out that the foreman sometimes wasn't quite getting the job done.

Jay opened the saddle canteen. The water was fresh, as cold as the morning. A second big canteen held coffee hot and strong enough to float a horseshoe.

Henry still makes the best coffee around,
Jay thought.
For that, I'll tighten a cinch or two without complaining.

Across the corral Sara kicked Mooch into a trot and tested his response to the reins. After a minute or two she brought him back and tied him next to Jezebel.

Jay watched her change horses, repeat the inspection of animal and tack, mount with the grace of experience, and put Jezebel through her paces. Very quickly she came back to where he waited.

“I'll take Jezebel. Mooch is strong and willing, but his trot is worthy of a cement mixer,” she said. “Jezebel is quick and easy to ride.”

“For you, maybe. She doesn't much like men. But she's a good cow
horse. She knows which critter is going to be trouble before the cow knows it. Trust her judgment over your own. And hang on. She's real sudden when she's going after a contrary calf.”

Sara looked at the rifle stock gleaming in the shadowed dawn. “Is that normal trail gear in Wyoming?”

“What?”

“The rifle.”

“For me it is.” He didn't mention the Glock in one of the saddlebags or all the ammo.

So I'm paranoid after Afghanistan. Sue me.

He gathered Amble's reins and stepped into the stirrup even as he swung into the saddle. A short whistle brought the dogs up on their feet, quivering with eagerness. Skunk and Lightfoot went to the left of Amble. Jezebel fell in on the right as they walked quickly up a dirt road toward the north pasture.

“The cattle we're moving are for breeding, not eating,” Jay said as the sunlight slowly strengthened. “Vermilion Ranch's bloodlines need upgrading. I started with ten head of expensive breeding cows. Sperm wasn't cheap, either. Now I have fifty cows and fifty calves. All pure-blooded Angus. We got lucky on sex this year. Only twelve males. We haven't cut three of them, the best little bulls I've seen. Their bloodlines are going to work for me. They're worth more as range bulls than as beef.”

“Is King Kobe one of the uncut?” Sara asked, remembering past phone calls.

“Sure is.” Jay shook his head. “If he lives up to his pedigree, he'll be worth all the trouble he causes.”

“If he doesn't?”

“I'll sell him or turn him into burgers.”

“Sounds like my childhood,” she said. “Raise the boys for veal and the girls for milk, and pray that the stock stays healthy long enough to earn enough money to feed the family.”

He glanced over and saw that her full mouth had thinned.
Jagged memories,
he thought.
Soldiers aren't the only ones who have them.

“How many head of cattle are we moving?” Sara asked.

“Only thirty-five, and one of them is Queenie. She's an old Hereford and a born leader. Once the Angus cows settle, they'll follow her through hell. The calves—well, they'll learn.”

“If they're as stubborn as dairy cattle, we'll have a lively hour or two ahead.”

“That we will.”

The quick flash of his grin said he was looking forward to it.

By the time the sun was up enough that Sara had unbuttoned her jacket to cool off, she knew exactly what Jay had meant about Jezebel being a good cow horse. Sudden, too.

She hadn't fallen the first time the horse had pivoted sharply on its heels to block King Kobe, but it had been close. But Jezebel wasn't trying to dump her rider. The animal was just doing what it did best—keeping cattle in line.

At first the trail they followed had been clearly defined. As the hours wore on, Queenie seemed to be the only cow that could find the way through the grass and scrub and encroaching trees. The old cow finally led the cattle into a natural meadow that was higher and rougher than the pasture at home. A burly stream appeared, rumbling to itself as it ran between banks of willow and rocks. The water was high and cloudy with runoff from the slowly thawing Tetons.

Jay reined his horse over to Sara.

“That's the Crowfoot,” he said. “By the end of summer it will be about a third that size and clear as air. Right now it's busy deepening its bed as it runs down to the valley.”

“Is it safe to drink?”

“Probably, but I have purifier tablets. You never know what has happened upstream.”

“What about—”

A quick, two-note whistle from Jay sent Skunk after King Kobe.

“—wild animals?” Sara finished.

“They're here. Most of the time they keep to themselves. It's the people you have to watch out for. There's a lot of organized, illegal growing around here.”

“Marijuana,” she said.

“You don't sound surprised.”

“It's a big problem in the Sierra Nevada. There are some trails I just don't ride anymore.”

“Smart woman. Growing pot used to be a lone wolf operation, one person tending a few plants for his own use. Now it has been taken over by international gangs. They go out into the national forests and BLM lands, make a mess diverting streams to water the plants, guard the crop with automatic weapons, then fly out the harvest in helicopters to northern Montana. From there, it's taken in backpacks to Canada.”

A three-note whistle sent Lightfoot racing to the right of the cattle, outflanking another bull calf that didn't want to stay with the small herd.

“Have you had a lot of trouble on the ranch?” Sara asked.

“It was bad the first year I was home. But the
campesinos
weren't used to someone who shot back and had better aim. The gangs found easier places to grow their pot real quick after that.”

She glanced at the rifle holstered beneath Jay's powerful right leg. “The gangs aren't on Vermilion land anymore?”

He shrugged. “They don't divert our ranch creeks anymore. After that, it's pretty much live and let live. They don't get in my way and I don't get in their face. Unless it's a meth lab. I take those down where I find them. If they blow, they could burn up the mountain.”

“What does Sheriff Cooke have to say about it?”

“Nothing fit for your ears. Every so often the feds and the locals will make a sweep, bag some meth labs or bales of weed and a handful of headlines, and then everything settles back to the status quo.”

King Kobe bawled and lowered his head at Skunk. In a flash of black and white, the dog outmaneuvered the calf and sent him back to his mama to sulk.

Sara laughed. “You don't need me. The dogs could do everything on their own.”

“Wait until we have to cross the Crowfoot.”

“Looking forward to it.” As she spoke, she peeled off her jacket. Without stopping her horse, she rolled up the jacket and tied it behind her saddle. “It's getting hot.”

He grinned. “If you don't like the weather, wait a bit. It'll change.”

She looked at the peaks of the Tetons, where a few clouds had begun to gather. That didn't matter at the lower elevations, where the sun was hot enough to make horses and humans sweat.

Jay had tied his own jacket to the saddle much earlier. He took off his hat, wiped his forehead on his arm, and wondered how anything as plain as an old rust-and-gold flannel shirt could be so sexy on Sara. He had to keep reminding himself that she wasn't the kind of woman he was looking for. He wanted a wife, a mother for his children, and most of all a woman who didn't balk at the demands of ranch living.

A movement caught his attention. He saw that the herd was fraying into clumps of five and six, spreading out to graze in the new grass. A two-note whistle sent Skunk and Lightfoot racing out to collect the herd. The dogs split, each taking a different side. Cows that were too slow got a show of teeth and a growl. Too many warnings and they got a nip. Very quickly the cows were bunched up again.

“I'm used to seeing people carry around purse-pets or have these oversize hulks that they can't even housebreak,” Sara said. “It's a pleasure to watch dogs doing what they were bred to do.”

“Just like it's a pleasure to watch cows being cows.”

“I'll get back to you on that,” she muttered.

Jay's delighted laugh warmed her in ways it shouldn't have.

The two dogs stitched around the herd, moving with fierce speed and focus.

“Thirty-five head isn't much more than a snack for the dogs,” he said. “But they love working so much I didn't want to leave one of them behind.”

“Dad always talked about getting a good working dog,” she said, “but there never was enough money. Trained dogs are seriously expensive.”

Oblivious to the people watching them, the dogs continued their work herding the reluctant cattle through the mixed grass and willow toward the Crowfoot ford just ahead.