Unconventional Series Collection (27 page)

Before Ryder turned abruptly from her, Jenny saw
something in his eyes that startled her—desire.
No, not for me.
She
lifted a hand to her hair and pulled it like a covering over herself and fanned
it across her breasts. Her pulse raced and blood pounded in her ears.

Ryder said brusquely, "I'm going to explain
what I'm doing while I work. Can you see the canvas?"

When she didn't respond because of the tightness
in her throat, he repeated, "Jenny, can you see the canvas?"

"Yes," she finally croaked.

Ryder adjusted his palette on a nearby table and
began mixing colors. Then, he picked up a thick paintbrush and began stroking
the canvas. "I'm creating the background." He glanced at her and his
hand slipped. He cursed and then continued his running dissertation about the
technical aspects of mixing colors; his voice becoming a monotone void of emotion.

Jenny listened with her brain, but absorbed the
experience with her heart. Unable to remove her gaze from Ryder's hand and
hypnotic strokes across the canvas, she finally relaxed. In the secret place of
her heart she allowed Ryder's touch to replay itself. Never had she felt such
longing to touch a man back. She had wanted to reciprocate and pull the tie
loose that held back his ebony locks, running her fingers through its
blackness. She had wanted to stroke the planes of his chiseled face with her fingertips.
She had wanted to lift her lips to his, touching them with the tip of her
tongue. She had wanted to unbutton his shirt and run the palms of her hands
down his chest, memorizing its strength. She had wanted to do things she could
not even name, much less visualize.

"Jenny. Jenny. Jenny!"

Jenny blinked and focused. "Yes. I'm sorry.
I was daydreaming."

"I've painted the basic background. Now I'm
going to begin an outline of your body." He cleared his throat. "This
is very important, so pay attention. Whatever I paint, I want to touch.
Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I experience the essence of the object or
person." He hesitated. "When I touched you earlier, I was seeking
your essence. This is not taught at the academy because for most people it's
too esoteric. My greatest paintings would not have been great if I had not done
this."

"Did you touch my essence?" Jenny had
to ask.

"It wouldn't matter if I had because I
can't paint with my left hand."

Ryder's noncommittal response annoyed Jenny. She
posed another one. "Some of your masterpieces have been landscapes. How
did you touch them?"

A little smile quirked Ryder's mouth. "What
I could not touch with my hands, I touched with my mind."

Jenny watched him trace the outline of her body.
He cursed a few more times and then said, "Enough for today. Put your
dress on and then follow the path back to the porch and Clayton will walk you
to the front gate. I'll meet with you again on Friday at the same time."

Before Jenny rose from the settee, Ryder was
gone.

* * *

Ryder watched Jenny leave his estate from his
upstairs bedroom window. He wished he'd never touched her, never been drawn in
by her liquid eyes. He wished he could paint with his left hand to do her
justice. When he had felt her essence, he had wanted to become lost in her
innocence. He had wanted to find his own innocence yet again.
You have no
innocence to find, Ryder. Whatever you once had was stolen with the death of
your wife and children and then completely obliterated with the loss of your
arm.

Turning from the window, he walked to his
nightstand and poured himself a shot. With a wry grin, he whispered,
"Jenny, you're turning me into an alcoholic."

When Jenny returned on Friday, Ryder determined
he would not touch her. He would treat her as something to be studied
objectively and transferred to paper. However, her inquisitive mind kept him
entertained with questions and he found himself almost enjoying the lesson,
that is, until frustration over his inability to paint what he wanted with his
left hand overwhelmed him. At that point, he spoke sharply that the lesson was
over and abruptly left the room, asking her to return in a week.

For the next month, Ryder did what he had told
Jenny he was incapable of—he painted and he taught. Neither of which he did very
well. Frustration taunted him at his inability to paint Jenny as the noble
creature she was. Soon, however, the painting would be finished and his little
diversion from the monotony of his life would end.

Foolishly, he said, "Jenny, our next lesson
will be in the countryside." He grinned wickedly, "You may keep your
clothes on for that lesson."

Two days later, he had his carriage readied for
their excursion.

* * *

 Jenny surreptitiously glanced at Ryder sitting
across from her in the carriage. His nearness had her heart thumping. Adjusting
her bonnet, she heard him laugh.

"Jenny, do I still make you nervous? The
way you keep glancing at me and fidgeting with your bonnet, I'm beginning to
have a complex."

"Of course you don't make me nervous,"
she lied.

Ryder laughed and said, "We're almost
there. I had my cook pack a luncheon. We'll eat and then begin instructions in
painting nature."

A few minutes later the coachman halted the
horses and opened the door. After that, he spread a blanket under a huge willow
tree and set a picnic basket on it before driving the carriage a short distance
away. Ryder motioned for Jenny to sit and then sat across from her. Leaning his
back against the smooth tree trunk, he said, "Why don't you unpack the
food?"

Jenny gave him a shy smile. His thoughtfulness
in treating her to lunch touched her heart. "Thank you, Ryder."
Calling him by his first name while picnicking with him caused her to blush
even more. It seemed almost too intimate.

After they had dished their plates, Ryder balanced
his on his thigh and lifted some sliced turkey breast to his mouth.
"Please pour the wine, Jenny. It's in the side pouch."

Jenny located the wine and the goblets and then
said with embarrassment, "I don't know how to open the bottle."

Rather than laugh at her naivety as she had
expected, Ryder patiently instructed her in the art of opening a bottle of
wine. He held his glass out for her to fill with the rose colored liquid. After
both glasses had been poured, he raised his toward her. "A toast."

Jenny lifted her glass until it clinked against
his. "To what?"

"To Jenny Samson, the greatest artist in
America."

Jenny lowered her eyes. "Please don't make
fun of me."

"I would never make fun of you. I speak of
the future, my dear."

Jenny lifted her lashes and studied Ryder's
face. "You told me once that no one is great."

Ryder chuckled, "Touché, Jenny. I did say
that. However, I have reconsidered. You shall become a great artist whose
paintings will grace many continents."

"You
are
making fun of me."

"I swear I am not."

"Okay, then I shall propose a toast also.
To Jake Ryder, the greatest of the great artists."

Ryder choked on his wine. "Now who is
making fun of whom?"

"I am not making fun," Jenny responded
seriously.

Ryder sighed, "Oh Jenny, what shall I do
with you? First, I make an ass of myself and then attempt to apologize, making
myself into a buffoon, and then I make an even bigger mess of things by trying
to teach you how to paint. Something you do quite well on your own."

"Doing something well is not the same as
creating a masterpiece. Please explain what you have been alluding to since we
met. How do I paint both light and dark—or pleasure and agony—into the same
picture? You said my paintings are artlessly poetic and I must suffer. Since
your paintings move viewers to experience great emotions, I take it you have
suffered greatly." Jenny's gaze roamed Ryder's expression to see if she
had gone too far in her inquisitiveness. He looked impassive so she forged on.
"However, your masterpieces were created before you lost your arm, so that
is not the suffering you are referring to."

Ryder reached for his napkin and wiped his mouth
before settling back against the tree. Closing his eyes, and in a voice void of
emotion he said, "You are correct. I have suffered greatly. Are you sure
you want to hear this?"

"Yes," Jenny said softly.

Ryder was quiet for a long time, and then he
said, "The loss of my arm was nothing compared to the loss of my wife and
children."

Jenny gasped and he opened his eyes. "Shall
I continue?"

"If you so desire," she whispered.

An unpleasant downward tilt of his mouth
conveyed his sorrow. "I was raised on a ranch in Montana. My father was
wealthy and very controlling. My mother was gentle and artistic. When my father
saw that I had received a passion for the arts from my mother, he was very
displeased. Because of his displeasure, and the way he treated his family, I
despised him; sometimes even hated him. I often spent days away from home with
my artist's supplies, painting nature. My absences infuriated my father and
often he would beat me when I returned. It didn't stop me from leaving."

The intensity of Ryder's gaze pierced Jenny's
soul and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was about to confide things he
never told anyone. That he would do such a thing humbled her. Her nod
encouraged him to continue.

"When I was nineteen, I packed my
belongings intending to be gone for several months at the encouragement of my
mother. I would never have left permanently. Since I had no brothers or sisters,
I could not leave her to the mercy of my father indefinitely.

"After I had been gone a couple of months,
I discovered a wonderful meadow with a backdrop of snow laden mountain peaks.
It was the height of fall so the red and yellow leaves scattered amongst the
green of the pines, took my breath away. It was the most perfect spot on earth
to a young artist. I set up camp at the edge of the trees and spent my days
painting the glories before me. On my third day, I had just set up, when I
heard a rustling in the trees. Quickly, I grabbed my rifle. However, instead of
a bear or a mountain lion as I had expected, the most glorious woman I had ever
laid eyes on walked fearlessly toward me. She was from the Blackfoot tribe with
braids that reached below her waist. Her bone structure was exquisite and her
body designed by the gods. I knew in that instant I had to paint her. Later, I
learned her name was Perfect Feather."

Jenny's heart raced and her mouth went dry. When
Ryder merely closed his eyes and didn't continue, she whispered, "Please
finish."

He sighed sadly. "Over the next few weeks
while I painted her, we became friends, and then lovers. She was the daughter
of the medicine man and when she took her portrait to her father, I was
welcomed into the tribe. They had known I was in the meadow since the
beginning, but tolerated me when Seeing Mother advised them to do so." His
voice cracked, "Seeing Mother was Perfect Feather's mother." He
inhaled a shuddering breath. "Both women were aptly named. My wife's mother
was gifted with foresight and so was Perfect Feather. When they told the elders
I was destined to become part of their tribe, their words were accepted as a
double witness.

"I had never known such happiness and
family life until I joined with them. At the beginning of winter, Perfect
Feather and I were united in a tribal ceremony. By the beginning of spring she
was with child."

Ryder lifted a trembling hand to his forehead
and rubbed. He stared through the branches of the weeping willow and Jenny knew
he was reliving the past, both the heaven and the hell of it. "My first
child was a son, my second, a daughter. After two and a half years, my wife
made the sweetest love to me and then said I must return to my first family. I
had been feeling guilty about staying away from my mother for so long, but I
also didn't want to leave my young family for any length of time. About a year
earlier I had traveled to a trading post and sent a letter letting my mother
know I was doing well, but not mentioning my family. My father would have taken
his wrath out on her if he found out. When Perfect Feather said my mother was
dying, I did not question her. She was always right in her visions. She told me
I must leave at first light. I said I wanted to stay another day, but she
insisted I leave immediately. When I kissed my babies goodbye and held my wife
in my arms, I almost refused to go, but she would not let me stay. I did not
understand her parting words at the time, but they were, 'The Great Spirit has
destined your gift for many lands. If you do not leave, much will be lost. My
vision must be obeyed'."

Ryder squeezed his eyes tight. "I never saw
my wife or children or my tribe again. They were massacred by rogue
soldiers."

Jenny covered her face with her hands. "Oh,
Ryder, I'm so sorry," she choked.

Ryder continued as if he hadn't heard her.
"I believe she sensed their impending deaths. I didn't find out what had
happened until much later.