She was late to supper one night, and Ren was inflexible about house rules again, so she didn’t get to eat. She had a sandwich in the small cooler in her room that Delsey had provided. She washed it down with a bottle of spring water, also from Delsey. She hoped Ren wouldn’t discover her stash of food. He probably wouldn’t approve. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t become accustomed to rigid rules of behavior back home. She’d just hoped it wouldn’t be like that someplace else. Maybe everybody was like her father and Ren, wanting things just so and refusing to change.
She tiptoed back down to her art studio after she finished the sandwich, wearing her nightgown and a thick white cotton robe that covered every inch of her except for her bare feet. She’d forgotten to pack slippers.
The door to the studio was ajar. She opened it, and there was Ren, gaping at the portrait of Hurricane that she’d just finished.
He heard her come in and turned. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved red flannel shirt with a black checkerboard pattern. His feet were in socks, not boots. His hair was mussed, as if he’d brushed it back in irritation.
“You did this?” he asked, amazement in his whole look.
“Well...yes,” she confessed, flushing. She hoped he hadn’t looked at the other canvas. She glanced at it, relieved to see that it was still turned to the wall.
“You said you could draw a little,” he persisted.
She shrugged. “Just a little.”
“This is gallery-quality art,” he said, trying to formulate thoughts. He’d been shocked when he saw what his houseguest could do with paint and canvas. He’d never known anyone who could paint like this. And he’d rarely seen a painting done with more skill or insight. The horse on the canvas had faint scars on its head and neck and back. The eyes, though, were what made it. If a horse had a soul, this one did. The look in its eyes made him feel odd. It was the look of a human who’d been badly beaten, not an animal.
“Thanks,” she said belatedly.
“Have you done anything else?” He was looking at the portrait turned to the wall.
“That one’s just started. It’s not ready to be seen,” she protested weakly.
He cocked his head. “Sketches, then?”
She hesitated. Then she moved to the cabinet where her sketch pads and extra canvases were stored. She pulled out the biggest sketchbook and reluctantly handed it to him.
He sat down in one of the room’s padded chairs and started looking. The subjects entranced him. There was Delsey, immortalized with a pencil, showing the inner beauty in a way he’d never actually seen before. There were his men, old and young alike, captured on the paper. There was his prize bull, Colter’s Pride 6443, in his shiny black glory, so lifelike that he could have walked off the page.
All the sketches told a story. He saw pride, grief, pain, resignation, amusement and sorrow in her subjects, saw their past and present in the eyes that were so very expressive.
“My God,” he said finally, and it was in a reverent, soft tone. He looked up. “This is why you keep missing meals,” he guessed.
She shrugged. “I get lost in my work,” she said. “A line is out of place, or there isn’t enough shadow, or I’ve got one eye that doesn’t really match the other. So I draw and erase and change until I get it right.” She smiled sadly. “Sari used to say that I’d be carried off by a tornado one day with my brush in my hand, staring at a canvas.” She laughed. “She’s probably right. I lose track of time when I’m working.”
He cocked his head. Her night attire was strange. He remembered the nightmare she’d had, remembered how he’d felt as he looked at her. She was Randall’s girl. Randall had made that clear in a couple of phone calls during the time she’d been here. This one isn’t like Angie, he’d teased, so hands off. Merrie’s mine.
Merrie. He wanted to call her Meredith, since it suited her more than that juvenile version of her name that his brother used. Randall had told him her full name. His eyes slid over the thick cotton bathrobe that covered her from her neck down to her bare ankles. He smiled at her bare feet.
“It’s too cold in the house to go walking around without shoes,” he chided. “You’ll catch cold, like I did.”
She moved her toes restlessly. “I’m not cold.”
“You don’t have any slippers,” he translated.
“I’ll go shopping online.”
“I told you, I have an account in town at a local store. Delsey will drive you there. Get a coat. And some slippers.” He pursed his lips. “Buy an evening gown, too. Something pretty. With shoes and an evening bag to match. And whatever you need to go under it.” His eyes narrowed with curiosity about what she looked like under that thick robe.
She pulled the robe tighter. “Why an evening gown?”
“There’s a party. I don’t want to go, but if I don’t, there’ll be more gossip. Angie’s going to be there,” he added coldly.
Angie, Merrie recalled from conversations with Delsey, was the woman who’d cheated on him. “A party?”
“Yes.” He stared at her with suddenly cold eyes. “You can dance, can’t you?”
“No,” she said wistfully.
His eyes widened. “You can’t dance?” he exclaimed.
She flushed. “Daddy wouldn’t let us go on dates,” she said. “I’ve watched people doing it on TV, and Sari and I danced a cha-cha together just once...” Her voice trailed away, and she winced.
He moved forward in his chair. “Just once?”
“Daddy caught us. He believed dancing was wrong...” She swallowed. “No, I don’t dance.”