Agnes and the Renegade (Men of Defiance) (8 page)

Her mind captured that image of him. She closed her eyes, seeing how he would look on a canvas, feeling what visitors to the gallery would experience when they viewed the painting of him. When she opened her eyes again, he was gone. She set to work, sketching out exactly what she wanted to show in an oil work.
 

It was late evening when she returned home. She set about her chores—cleaning the horse corral and feeding the horse, making dinner. She ate, bathed, then tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Chayton, standing on the hill in front of her. Deciding sleep was too elusive; she pulled her painting smock on over her nightgown and walked barefooted to her painting tent.

She rolled out a four-foot length of white canvas, then walked to the end of the table to look at it in perspective, seeing her subject in the raw fabric. She considered doing a close-up of Chayton’s face, then thought how he would look full-bodied in the four-foot work. She wanted this piece to impart Chayton’s essence, the spirit of his people—his capacity for terrible violence, his preference for peace, and his sorrow, as aching and hollow as the wind.

She pushed the roll of canvas longer, longer even than the six-foot table. She had to pull the second table over to support the overflow. She cut the canvas at eight feet—only because her longest stretchers were seven feet long.
 

 
This would be a work that impacted its viewer as soon as he entered a room, one the viewer could never forgot. It would assault the viewer with the truth of his own soul, the cost of his own choices, the emptiness of his own losses, and the bitterness of dreams he would never fulfill.
 

She would paint Chayton, but he was a mirror to all humanity.

The work continued for a week in long days, interrupted only by occasional breaks for food or sleep or chores. The canvas was too large for any of her easels. She had to rig up a support structure for it with chairs from the house and the framing of the art stands that Logan’s men had made. She painted the top half while standing on a table in front of the piece.

At last, when it was finished, she cleaned her brushes and moved everything out of the way so that she only saw Chayton’s portrait. She’d captured him perfectly: the pride in his stance, his athletic build, his facial structure, his complicated adornment, his fringed leather clothes. He stood on the steep slope of her hill, the rocky ground his backdrop. The work was as precise as a photograph and as eloquent as a stage drama. She hadn’t manipulated anything about it. Not the colors of the earth or the sky, not any of his features. The piece was just truth. His truth. His story. The absence of herself—as a woman, and especially as a white human—in the work let her art say what thousands of voices couldn’t.
 

Life hurts.

God, she wished Theo could see it. She slumped to her knees, her strength failing her after the long days of painting. She’d taken care to give herself breaks this time, but she needed air. And sunshine. She gave the work one last look, deciding that she wouldn’t sell it. She’d include it in her show, if she was lucky enough to get one, but the work was too meaningful to exchange for money.
 

Which made no sense, because she desperately needed money, if she wanted to keep Theo’s studio.

CHAPTER SIX

Aggie started a stew from her supplies of dried ingredients for lunch a few days later. Hearing a horse out front, she wiped her hands on a tea towel, then went out front to see whom it was. Logan dismounted. She waved to him, waiting while he finished tying up his horse. “What brings you out today?”

“I promised Sarah I’d swing by and check on you while she was gone. How are you getting along?”

“I’m quite well, thank you. Is Sarah on a trip?”

“We have friends down south of Defiance. She and White Bird went down to visit them.”

“I have a fresh stew cooking. Would you care to join me for a bowl?”

“Thank you, no. I won’t stay—just wanted to see that you’re getting along all right.” He looked toward the large tent that was set up next to her house. “How’s the tent working out for you?”

“Wonderful. It was a brilliant idea. I’m so glad you suggested it. The light is perfect in there. Bright. Diffused. It’s pleasant to work there anytime, but especially in the afternoons.”

“Mind if I have a look at your work? I’ll admit I’ve had to keep myself busy so that I don’t come down and pester you.” He grinned at her.

Aggie laughed. “Of course, you’re welcome to go see. I just finished another painting. I’d like to get your opinion of it.”

Logan flashed a smile at her, then headed toward the tent. Aggie followed him inside. Chayton’s portrait was set up directly opposite the entrance. Logan ducked inside, then came to an abrupt stop. She slipped in next to him as he stared at the painting, his face going lax in disbelief. She couldn’t tell if he liked the work, but he certainly had a visceral reaction to it—almost to the point of not breathing.

After a while, he looked at her. A muscle was knotting and releasing in the corner of his cheek. She thought she saw moisture pooling in his eyes. He turned on his heel and left the tent, striding over to sit on the bench in front of her cabin. He sat with his hands on his knees, staring off into the horizon. Aggie sat next to him, keeping company with him in silence.
 

“What price will you be setting on Chayton’s portrait?”
 

“I won’t be selling it.”

Logan’s cheek tensed as he looked at her. “I’d like to buy it. Name the price you want.”

Aggie shook her head. “It’s not for sale.”

“Let me trade for it, then.”

“No. I will give it to you. For White Bird. She should have it. But I’d like to put it in the exhibit, when I can arrange one.”

“Thank you. Your talent is extraordinary.” He looked at her and smiled. “When can I take it?”

“It needs to dry, and then I need to seal it with a varnish. It may be a few weeks. I don’t want to risk damaging it.”

Logan walked back to the tent. Aggie followed him again. “Why is he so sad?” she asked. “What happened to him?”

He took a long minute to answer. “What didn’t? His country fell to invaders. His village was attacked and his family slaughtered. His parents had been killed by soldiers years earlier. He had to surrender his daughter to us or she would have been forcibly taken from him for school. His people are dying on the reservation where they’re locked away like untended cattle. Everything happened to him, any of it more than enough to kill a man.” He looked at her. “I’m glad you can see him as he is.”

Aggie had to blink away her tears. No wonder Chayton made so compelling a subject.
 

“You mentioned when we first corresponded that you’re trying to get into a show with a friend of your father’s. If that doesn’t work out, I will make your gallery exhibition happen,” Logan announced in a solemn voice. “Let me be your patron.”

Aggie’s gaze flew to him. She studied his face, trying to read his level of intent. “How? How will you make that happen?”

“I’m an art collector. I have contacts. Where do you want to present your work?”

Her heart was beating uncomfortably fast. “Denver, I think. Some place close would be easiest. And it’s a hub for western tourists these days.”

“How are your supplies holding out?”

“I’m running low on some paints. I didn’t anticipate doing such large works.”

“Give me a list of what you need. I’ll put an order in for you. If you have a preferred vendor, include that information. I’ll use him.”

Aggie hurried to her worktable. Her hands shook as she took out her sketchpad and flipped to a blank page. She took an inventory of her supplies, jotting down items she was running low on. When she finished, she looked at the long list. It was too much. She shouldn’t accept his patronage. Now knowing what she was capable of, he would insert himself into her work, order her to do things differently or commission pieces that weren’t part of what she wanted to paint right now. Unlike Theo, who’d supported them through commissioned work, she felt driven to produce from a different creative force. “I don’t think I can do this, Logan.”

Logan still stood at the entrance to the tent, observing Chayton’s portrait in a trance-like state. “Do what?”

“Accept your patronage. It’s too much.”

“Aggie, name a successful painter, just one, who succeeded without a patron?”

She pressed her lips together, unable to refute his argument. “I won’t sacrifice my art. I won’t—I can’t—paint what I’m not moved by.”

Logan smiled. “Agnes Hamilton, you’ve given my family the greatest work of art we will ever own. Being your patron is an honor. Why would I interfere with a genius like yours? How do you do it, anyway? How do you create something so real? In paint?”

“I don’t know.” Aggie looked at Chayton’s portrait. “I see things in detail and I remember them exactly as I see them.” She handed her list to Logan.

He glanced over the list, then nodded. “And your food supplies? Are you well stocked?”

“Logan—”

He held up a hand. “I don’t want you worrying about anything but work. Leave the rest to me.” He left the tent and went to his horse. Once he’d mounted, he looked down at her. “I’m grateful that the postmaster in Defiance answered your letter when you were researching likely locations. I’ll let him know that when I’m in town next.” He turned his horse toward the road that would lead back to his ranch. “If there’s anything you need, I expect to hear from you.”

She waved at him, then watched him ride away. Her head was buzzing. With Logan’s support, she could do more of the large canvases. And she wouldn’t have to worry about running low in food or art supplies or spending time traveling back to Denver for the supplies she needed.
 

A patron! She found herself a patron!

She was jumping out of her skin, too excited to concentrate on work. She wanted to go find Chayton and tell him the good news. A bad idea, certainly, but one she couldn’t resist. If he was still in the area, then she still had a chance of getting him to sit for her…if she could just find him.

Excited at the prospect of seeing him, Aggie banked the fire in the stove, then hurried outside to saddle her horse. It was late afternoon when she got to her hill. She rode around the creek, looking for Chayton or his horse. She didn’t see signs of either. She dismounted and tied her horse near some cottonwoods and climbed the hill, looking for Chayton in all the recesses, behind the short clumps of brush. He wasn’t there.
 

“Chayton!” she called, cupping the sides of her mouth so that the wind wouldn’t steal her words. “Chayton!” She turned around and shouted his name in the direction of the sandstone bluff. There were caves up there. Maybe that was where he lived.
 

She stood at the top of the hill, wondering if he was there, watching her, ignoring her. The wind gusted about her, pulling at her hat and tugging the ties of her apron. The sun was hot and would have been unbearable if not for the cool air that blew. She shut her eyes and listened as the wind blew around rocks on the gravelly slope below her. It was a selfish companion, the wind, whining and crying but never listening.
 

Chayton was nowhere to be found. Feeling a little dejected, Aggie went back down the hill. Perhaps he was out hunting. Perhaps he’d gone on a trip somewhere. Perhaps he was ignoring her. And who could blame him? She’d invaded his valley, fixated on him. How often had Theo extolled the virtues of balance? He’d hold her face in his large hands, smile down at her, and whisper, “Everything in its own time, in its own way, my love.”

A lesson he himself failed to heed at the end of his life. Maybe that was a conscious choice. Maybe his corporeal pain was a mere shadow of his soul’s pain and opium was its only relief.

 
She sent a last look around her hill. Chayton wasn’t a friend. He wasn’t an enemy. He wasn’t anything to her. Still, he haunted her. She’d asked for the land to tell her its story, and he’d appeared. What it meant, why it was, well, such things weren’t hers to understand.

Early the next morning, Aggie heard a wagon approach on the road near her home. She was already at work in her tent, sipping a cup of coffee. Sam and Wylie were on the front bench. She walked out of the tent to greet them. Sam pulled to a stop in front of her cabin. He hopped off the wagon. Seeing her, he lifted his hat. “Ma’am. Mr. Taggert wanted us to bring you down some supplies. Milk, cheese, butter, some berries that Rosa, their housekeeper’s daughter, picked for you.”

“Oh. Thank you! Please tell the Taggerts how grateful I am for their generosity.”

“You bet, but we’ve more to unload. Mrs. Taggert thought you might need more furniture in the tent. She had us gather it together before she left town.”

“More furniture?” Aggie followed them out to the wagon. A wide bed, similar to the one in her cabin, took most of the space in the wagon bed, complete with mattress and a crate of linens. A small commode with a towel rack stood next to it, along with a few other items Aggie couldn’t see.
 

“If you don’t want it, we can take it back.”

“No—I do. I think that would be very helpful. Let me show you where to put it.” She led the way into the tent, hurriedly moving the table and empty easels out of their path. They tucked the bed into one of the low sides of the tent, putting the commode next to the headboard. They set up the washbowl and pitcher on it. When they went to take the crate it had been in with them, she asked if they would leave it. All of those containers came in handy. They brought in several more lamps, a wide shelving unit, and a screen that separated the resting area from the working area of the tent. They brought in a sturdy set of stepping stairs that would be perfect for her to reach the top of a large painting, if she did another. There were several different crates of linens, pillows, and other items that Aggie couldn’t wait to dig into, a few chairs, a tall stool.
 

“Mrs. Taggert sent along netting to keep the mosquitoes out if you sleep here at night.” They hung the circular turret from one of the tent supports.