Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (17 page)

He offered her a slow grin.

“Sure. Come on in.” He held the screen for her and she ducked inside. “Where are the girls?”

“In the van, so I’ll have to hurry.”

She stepped farther into the entry and he followed, only partially closing the door. He didn’t want her kids to freak out, but he also didn’t want to waste the moment. As soon as they were shielded from view, he drew Bronte into his arms.

She must have shared his feelings, because she immediately melted into him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and lifting on tiptoe so that she could hold him close.

“You’ve got me worried,” he murmured against her, his eyes closing as he absorbed the familiar scents of vanilla and chocolate that clung to her clothing as well as the faintly floral hint that must be the remnants of her shampoo.

“Everything’s fine—great, in fact.” She drew back enough to smile up at him. “They’ll be releasing Annie from the hospital this weekend.”

“That’s fantastic!”

“Yeah, I think so, too. I talked it over with Annie, and she thought she’d be up to a gathering Saturday afternoon. I was worried she might be too tired, but she insisted that she wants to see everyone. So I thought we could have an open house, with sandwiches and cookies. You know, some finger food. People can stop in to visit and leave again depending on their schedules. She would especially like to see you and all of your brothers.”

“I’m sure they’d love to come.”

“Good.” Bronte seemed to choose her words before offering him a crooked smile. “I also had a chat with my girls tonight and . . . we wondered—as a kind of thank-you for everything you’ve done for us—if you and Barry would . . . come for dinner Friday evening.”

Jace wondered if the “we” she spoke of reflected the girls’ true sentiments or merely Bronte’s wishful thinking.

“Barry and I would love to come.” Jace’s eyes narrowed as he carefully searched her features. “But won’t that cause more problems?”

She eased back in his arms. Her lip caught between her teeth in a way that was becoming completely endearing. It was her tell, conveying to Jace that she was feeling her way through a situation fraught with complications.

“That’s just it. I don’t want to sneak around, Jace. I don’t want to have a relationship with anyone if it can’t be open and aboveboard.”

The words were so unlike what he’d been expecting, that Jace felt as if he’d been thrown into a runaway elevator. He couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe.

No. God, no. She couldn’t be dumping him. Not yet.

“So you, uh . . .” He had to swallow hard when his voice emerged husky and inarticulate. “You don’t want to see each other after Friday?”

Her shocked expression reassured him even more than words could have done. “What? No! Of course, I want to see you.” She placed a hand on his chest, right over his still-thumping heart. “That’s just it. I want to see more of you. I want us to be free to explore whatever is happening between us. But Barry’s right. We have to go about it the proper way. My girls have to understand how much I’ve grown to care for you. Even more, they need to see what a loving, healthy relationship looks like. Maybe then, they’ll understand why I had to divorce their father.”

Jace stared down at Bronte, wondering if she knew what a good person she was—what a good mother. Even more, he wondered if she knew how much she’d revealed to him. Clearly, Bronte wasn’t regarding their time together as a “casual fling.” Until now, when he felt corners of his heart begin to unfurl and relax, he hadn’t realized how much he’d dreaded that Bronte would be like the other women he’d dated in the past—willing to accept a little fun and some casual sex, but opposed to anything deeper.

Abruptly, Jace realized that he wanted more from Bronte—he wanted everything that she was willing to give him. As astonishing and as inconceivable as it seemed, Jace found his feelings for her growing exponentially each day. She was everything he’d ever dreamed of finding in a woman. She was beautiful, loving, and kind. She was accepting of his brother and understanding of Jace’s work schedule. But his emotions went beyond that—beyond a good time and great sex. With her, he felt at peace. When she was gone, he counted every minute until he could see her again.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked.

She sighed. “The girls and I had a long discussion tonight. Or rather, I talked, they listened, and then they sulked. But . . .” She smoothed away a lock of hair that hung over his brow, then ran the backs of her fingers over his temple and down to the line of his jaw.

“I’d like to date you, Jace Taggart. I’d like to have you drop by my house whenever you want, and I hope you’d be willing to have me do the same.”

Spots of color had appeared in her cheeks—as if suggesting that they spend time together was something too forward. The thought made him smile. There was something so sweet and proper and a little bit old-fashioned about this woman. Yet, as soon as they were alone, she became thoroughly modern, wanton, and sexy as hell.

“So you’re asking me to go steady with you?”

Her eyes rolled, and he laughed. So that was where Kari had learned the gesture.

Sensing his amusement, she sidled closer, one hand slipping between them to cup him through his sweats. “If that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

He didn’t even think of the fact that Barry was in the next room—or that her daughters waited in the car. Swooping down, he captured her lips, kissing her with the hunger that had been brewing all day. For the past hour, zoned out on the couch, with Captain Kirk and Spock yammering in the background, he’d relived every minute of their lovemaking from the kiss on the steps of the back porch, to pinning her
against the wall, to christening the bearskin rug. But as arousing as the memories were, they were nothing compared to having the real woman in his arms.

All too soon, she broke free, whispering regretfully, “Sorry. It’s a school night and . . .”

He kissed her softly, once, twice. “I know. I’ve got to get Barry in bed, too.”

She groaned softly, moving backward toward the door, but pulling him with her as she went.

“Can we meet tomorrow afternoon then? I’ll call as soon as I’m back from visiting Annie.”

“Mmm,” he affirmed against her lips as he kissed her again.

She swore and wrapped her arms around his neck, deepening the caress, then pulled back. “I gotta go.”

“ ’Kay.”

He waited, knowing she was making up her mind about something.

“Maybe tonight . . . we could text?”

“Okay. I’d like that.”

“Good.” After one last kiss, she wrenched free and pushed open the screen. At the last minute, though, she poked her head back in and said, “Because I’ve never had text sex before.”

Then she was gone, the screen slamming behind her.

Text sex?
Did she mean
sexting?

Jace stood stunned, her words seeming to ricochet in his skull like a fading echo. But then, as he heard the crunch of her tires on the gravel outside, he broke into a grin and shook his head in disbelief. Just when he thought that he had every aspect of Bronte’s personality nailed down, she would throw out a curve ball in the way of a ribald comment—or she’d strip off her shirt or grip him by the balls.

And damned if it wasn’t sexy as hell.

*   *   *

P.D.
padded through the cabin, searching for Elam. She could have sworn that she’d heard him heading down to the kitchen. But when she flipped on the lights, it was empty.

“Elam?”

“Out here.”

She retraced her steps through the house to the main living room where a wall of windows looked out over the valley and the twinkling distant lights of town. Sliding the door open, she stepped outside, rubbing her arms when the evening’s chill raised gooseflesh.

“I’m beginning to believe you’re a stalker,” she said as she approached the deck railing where Elam leaned on his elbows, watching something below. “You’ve been out here almost every night. What is it you hope to see?”

Elam straightened, drawing her into his arms, her back against his chest. “I don’t know.”

She rubbed his forearms. “Still worried about Jace?”

“Mmm,” he offered noncommittally.

P.D. glanced over her shoulder, then took another harder look at Elam. He was concerned, yes, but there was also a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

Rather than answering, he pointed toward the big house.

Squinting into the darkness, she frowned. “Is that Bronte’s van?”

“Mmm hmm?”

“How long has she been there?”

“Now who’s the stalker?”

P.D. elbowed him in the gut and Elam made a sound that was half laugh, half grunt. Relenting, he said, “Only a few minutes.”

“Shoot. I’ve been hoping that the two of them would hit it off.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any doubt they’re . . . ‘hitting it off.’”

His tone was so ripe with meaning that she peered at him again, her brows lifting. “Care to explain?”

“Can’t. Bro code.”

P.D. snorted.

“Let’s say your lunch almost went to waste this afternoon. Until Bodey and I found it untouched and abandoned on the porch.”

Interesting.

“How long do you suppose the lunch was . . . abandoned?”

“We found it around three.”

“She left Vern’s about one thirty.”

Elam offered her a knowing grin. “Apparently, they had some business that necessitated the use of Jace’s office for a while.”

This time, it was P.D.’s lips that spread in a slow smile. Then she looked down at the disappearing lights. “Wonder why she didn’t stay longer.”

“She’s got kids.”

“He’s got Barry.”

“It’ll require some creative juggling of schedules for them to find some time alone together, but I think they’ll manage.” His arms tightened around her waist. “Speaking of which . . .” Elam said slowly, “. . . any chance you can take a couple of hours off tomorrow afternoon?”

“Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“I’d like to take you to lunch.”

“Mmm. That sounds great.”

She turned, resting her head on his shoulder. “In the meantime . . . Is there any chance you could stop spying on Jace for a while and take me to bed?”

Elam scooped her into his arms, and she squeaked in surprise, her hands whipping around his neck. But she didn’t complain. Every time he held her like this, she felt dainty and light as a feather. So she soaked up Elam’s efforts to spoil her.

But as he turned toward the house, his attention strayed to the valley below.

“Would you look at that?” he mused.

“What?”

She looked down at the Big House, not seeing what had caused Elam’s rapt attention or the flood of relief that softened his features.

He stood in silence for several minutes, staring down at his childhood home, then finally said, “The attic light is on.”

J
ACE
flipped the switch and watched as a warm glow illuminated the bedroom he’d used as a boy. The garret took up nearly the entire length of the Big House. Although the sharp slope of the eaves made the spaces around the edges all but unusable, the center was long and broad and open. In the day, natural light spilled through the windows of the dormers and gleamed off the hardwood floors. It had been the perfect spot for a kid who didn’t completely fit into the rough and tumble, bronco-busting, cow-roping Taggart mold. Not that Jace hadn’t done his fair share of those things as well.

His gaze skipped to the rows of shelves built beneath the sloping walls. Besides the thrillers and tattered westerns, there were dozens of trophies for football and baseball, high school roping and cow cutting. But what set Jace apart from the rest of the Taggart males were the sketchbooks and portfolio cases, lumps of half-finished clay figures and welded animals he’d fashioned from bits of scrap iron, nuts, and bolts.

For long minutes, Jace stood where he was, absorbing who he used to be. There had been a time when he couldn’t
function unless he’d indulged in a few hours of art every day. The desire to create had been as strong as the need for food and water. He’d been driven to make something of himself. Big things. Murals and bronze statues and marble reliefs. He’d wanted to graduate from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, study in Paris and Milan. He’d wanted gallery showings in New York, Miami, and L.A.

But his father hadn’t understood the obsession that bloomed inside Jace. He was a practical man who couldn’t fathom why Jace would throw away a “good education” in the basics—math, business, and science—for a dead-end career like art.

What are you going to do the rest of your life? Sell caricatures at the fair? You can’t make a living doing that.

So Jace hadn’t even applied to SAIC. He’d walked around with the application burning a hole in his pocket for a year, sure that his father wouldn’t approve—and even if, by some miracle, he had agreed—knowing that he’d balk at the tuition.

But Jace had soon discovered that the regrets he suffered for not even broaching the subject were worse than any talk with his father might have been. So he’d set his sights on a prestigious art college back east. But when Jace approached his father about the possibility of helping him with the tuition, Boyd Taggart had clenched his jaw and proposed a deal. Two years. Jace would give him two years of work on the ranch and college at Utah State. During that time, Jace would do everything he could to learn the ranching business from the inside out. Then, if his father was happy with Jace’s progress, he’d pay for two years of tuition to the art college and Jace could pay the rest.

Jace hadn’t been happy about the agreement. He’d known what his father was hoping would happen. He would work Jace hard and train him well, thinking that two years would be enough to get the “drawing nonsense” out of his blood.

In part, his father had been right. Jace had thrived under the added responsibility. He’d discovered that he loved the business aspects of the ranch. Within a year, he’d been
handling the land leases and a good share of the equipment loans and purchases. He’d converted their accounting process to a computer system and replaced his father’s jammed filing cabinets with digital scans.

But unbeknownst to his father, the need to draw and paint and sculpt had merely been simmering below the surface, building up pressure until Jace could scarcely contain it. He grew irritable and itchy, feeling as if the ranch and the valley walls were hemming him in, keeping him from exploring the world he wanted to experience.

The day he’d met his two-year quota, he’d cornered his father. Looking back on it now, Jace realized that he probably hadn’t picked the best time to broach the subject. Elam had been called overseas to Afghanistan and water shortages were stressing the crops. His father had lost a couple of hired men within a week, and fuel reports were due. So when Jace mentioned—no, demanded—that his father make good on his promise, Boyd hadn’t been long on patience. He’d tried to bargain for more time, telling Jace that “next year” would be better. Or the year after that. By that time, Jace would have graduated from Utah State and Elam’s enlistment would be up.

But Jace had been nineteen and filled with youthful hubris and dreams. What began as a “discussion” soon erupted into a full-fledged argument as Jace accused his father of reneging on the deal, and Boyd claimed that Jace was being self-centered and shortsighted.

Even now, Jace wasn’t sure how things had escalated so quickly. He couldn’t even remember everything that was said. All he knew was that his father became red-faced and angry and the shouting became bitter and personal and then Jace completely lost it. He’d accused his father of never supporting him, of being ashamed of the person he was, of trying to mold him into something he wasn’t. Before he knew it—before his mother could calm things down between them as she usually did—he was up in his room, shoving a passport, his savings, and a couple of changes of clothing into a backpack. Then he was storming out of the
house. An hour later, he was catching a flight to Chicago because it was the first plane to get him somewhere else.

Jace ran his fingers through his hair, then linked his fingers behind his head, not seeing the room anymore, merely remembering the desperation that had caused him to flee. He couldn’t deny that his decision had been a good one. In the next two years, he’d backpacked across Europe, soaking up art, history, and architecture like parched earth waiting for a storm.

But it had also been a mistake. A huge mistake. Because he couldn’t have known then that it would be the last time he would speak to his father. Their relationship ended in harsh words that he would have given anything to take back. Even worse, Jace had spent every day since knowing that his father had been ashamed of him and everything he’d tried to become.

Jace squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about it. Heaven only knew that he went to bed most nights wishing that he’d been less stubborn and pig-headed. If he’d been more understanding, more diplomatic, more patient . . .

But he’d been a hotheaded teenager who was sure he knew best. Once he’d flown off in a rage, his pride had kept him from being the first to try to repair the breach—even though, by the time the accident occurred, Jace already knew it was time to come home.

His eyes opened, and he blinked against the light and the unexpected moisture that gathered behind his eyes.

Damnit.

Hadn’t he gone over all this a million times in his head? Hadn’t he vowed that he wouldn’t make the same mistakes again? That he would do everything in his power to be the man that his father had wanted him to be?

So why was he standing here, staring at the remnants of a life he’d abandoned, drowning in his need to return to those old goals? Why had he been secretly planning to take a “vacation” next winter, when, deep down, he’d known that what he really wanted to do was binge on the art to be found in Europe’s finest museums, then return to his hotel room and
purge himself of the need to sketch and paint. He’d told himself that his family would never have to know what he was doing. They wouldn’t have to worry that he was about to abandon the ranch in favor of continuing this “drawing nonsense.”

But things had become infinitely more complicated. If he continued to pursue a relationship with Bronte, he couldn’t afford such self-indulgent behavior. It would be hard enough leaving Barry with Elam and P.D. for several months. But to add a girlfriend and her kids into the mix would be even more difficult.

By all rights, he should pack up the frantic obsession to paint and sculpt. He could chalk up his need to create as another youthful enterprise that a sane person shucks off as soon as he reaches adulthood, like playing tag and wrestling on the ground.

Jace dropped his hands again, willing himself to put away the desire that burned within him, growing stronger each day, until he thought he’d go crazy from it. Where other men might see the Taggart Ranch as a successful enterprise, Jace saw it as a movable picture show of shapes, colors, and textures that he longed to tame, rearrange, reexpress.

He rubbed at the spot in his chest that ached at the thought that he was once again faced with the choice of doing what was responsible or letting loose and allowing his passions to take him where they would.

But isn’t your passion for Bronte growing just as strong?

“It’s been a long while since you’ve been up here.”

Jace started, glancing over his shoulder to see that Bodey was leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb.

“I always envied you for having this room,” Bodey mused, his gaze wandering around the open space. “If I’d had my way, I would have moved into it the minute you left.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Bodey offered a bark of laughter. “As if I could. Mom and Dad would have killed me. They kept it the way you left it.” His eyes, which were usually filled with a mocking humor, were clear and serious. “I think they hoped that if it remained untouched, you might come home sooner.”

Jace grimaced. “Mom might have thought that. But Dad?” He shook his head.

“He felt bad that he lost his temper with you. He blamed himself.”

“I doubt that,” Jace said flatly. “His only regret was that I wouldn’t conform to what he thought I should be.”

Bodey straightened, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I know you believe that—and you have every right to think so. But I was here; I saw what happened after you left. At first, Dad was angry, sure. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so stomping mad as those first few days after you disappeared. But then, when it became clear that you didn’t intend to come back anytime soon—and even worse, you weren’t even going to let them know where you’d gone . . .” He met Jace’s gaze with eyes that were dark and serious. “It got to him, Jace. Damn near broke him.”

Jace clenched his jaw, sure that Bodey was exaggerating.

“I don’t think he realized how serious you were about your art,” Bodey continued. “Every now and then, I’d find him up here, sitting on the edge of your bed, staring off into space.” He nodded toward the projects scattered around the room. “I’d wager he went through every one of your sketch books, every portfolio, every box of junk trying to figure you out—and I think it stunned him. He knew you could draw, but I don’t think he absorbed how good you were until he really started studying your work. Especially the things that you’d tucked away to apply to art school.”

Jace shifted in discomfort. He’d never told anyone about those pieces. Not even Bodey.

“He was proud of you, Jace. When you started sending boxes home? The ones labeled
DO NOT OPEN
?”

Jace tipped his head in acknowledgment. After a while, he’d had so many sketchbooks and project designs that he hadn’t been able to carry them all. So every few months, he’d pack them up and send them home. Despite the labels, he’d secretly wished that his parents would look at the contents and acknowledge that he had some real talent.

“Yeah. I know them,” Jace said shortly. He pointed to the parcels piled in the corner. “They’re over there.”

“Bet you didn’t know Dad opened every single one.”

Jace shot Bodey a disgusted look. “They haven’t been touched since the mailman delivered them.”

“Take a closer look. I was told that the minute one arrived, I was to put it on Dad’s desk. He’d use his penknife to carefully slit open the flaps. Then he’d dump everything out and pore over it like clues to a treasure map. Eventually, he’d pack them up again, seal the opening he’d made, and bring them here.”

“Now I know you’re making this up.”

Bodey offered him a cockeyed smile. “I can prove it to you.” He walked to the far corner of the room, reaching behind the stack of postal boxes bearing stamps from France, Austria, and Italy, and pulled out a large frame.

He walked back to Jace, studying it as he neared. “I remember the day this came. Dad made no efforts to return this one to the box. He left a few minutes after it arrived. A week later, he brought it back into the house, all professionally framed and matted, and hung it on the wall opposite his desk.” Bodey’s voice dropped to a whisper. “God, he was so proud of you. He showed off this painting every time someone came to the house.”

Bodey turned the picture around to show it to Jace.

Jace instantly remembered the piece. It was one of the few watercolor paintings he’d done during his sojourn in Europe. It was a herd of horses, writhing and twisting in the sun, the shapes suggested by broad strokes of a large flat brush, then overlaid with pen and ink.

In a rush, he found himself transported back to that ranch, that pasture, that day in Northern Italy. He’d topped the rise, seen the horses, and had been overcome with the smells of dust and heat, and the stink of sweaty horseflesh. In that instant, he’d been struck by such a wave of homesickness that he’d nearly fallen to his knees. Instead, he’d yanked out his sketch pad, a small set of paints, and his water bottle.