“It’s different when you’ve lived it all your life.”
“Yet even for you, this painting shows a facet of the land, the feeling of being in it, experiencing it, that connects you to Custer’s vision.”
Jay looked at the painting, then nodded slowly. “Beautiful . . . and fierce at the same time. Not a gentle land, yet generous enough to anyone willing to accept its harsh edges.”
“Exactly. Information, emotion, beauty. Art was, and sometimes still is, a vehicle of education and social unity.”
“No diamond-studded skulls?”
“Modern art, especially in the past half century or so, reflects the dissonance of modern life. Because I don’t feel that kind of anomie, the art of anomie simply doesn’t speak to me in the way it speaks to academia. My loss, I’m sure. Just as the inability or unwillingness to engage in nonacademic art is academia’s loss. And we are way off topic again.”
“Not really.” Jay smiled and ran a fingertip over one of Sara’s high cheekbones. “I’m learning more about you. Art, too.”
And I’m learning that he has a warm, slightly rough fingertip, a killer smile, and a way of touching me that is much too good, she thought rather grimly.
“I live in a world filled with art,” she said, pleased that her voice was more even than her heartbeat. “Most of that art gets written off because it’s not academic. I’ve fought to get too many artists respect and recognition, and most important, an audience so that the artist can earn an adequate living.”
“So that’s what Barton was going on about. You deal in artists who don’t have a national reputation.”
“Yes. Your brother is a bit of a bastard, by the way.”
“His parents were married several months before his birth.” Jay’s smile was as cold as the wind searching around the eaves of the house.
“I’ve always believed that bastards are made, not born,” she said.
“No argument there. Barton was pissed that you were the key to the ranch keeping the Custers.”
“I’m surprised that I made that much of a difference, especially in a case that had gone on so long.”
He shrugged, brushing against her warmth. “Liza never was any good at losing.”
“Who is? From what I learned about the lawsuit, nobody much cared about hurrying it along until a few years ago. Is that when you came home and started kicking butt?”
“JD was sick and Henry had his hands full running a ranch that was being bled dry by Liza and lawyers.” Jay shrugged. “I asked the judge what it would take to move things along. She said receipts would be good, but even better would be someone who knew something about art to give expert testimony.”
“I’m glad you called Perfect Touch.”
“I researched and kept running across your name attached to Custer’s art. There were damn few experts on his work.”
“Until The Edge of Never was made,” she said drily, “when the scent of money brought expert cockroaches out of the woodwork. Finding an audience for an artist is hard work. Experts like Beck only do easy.”
“Most people don’t want to lead. Too much work, too much risk.”
“Risk?”
“Yeah. The guy in the lead gets shot first.”
CHAPTER 8
SILENCE STRETCHED, UNDERLINING Jay’s words. Sara knew without asking that he had been one of the men in the lead.
“Did you get shot?”
“Nothing permanent,” he said.
She remembered his words about the difference between coming home in a pine box and on his feet. Then she remembered what he had said about Liza bleeding the ranch to death.
“Bet they were sorry you came back,” she said without thinking.
“They?” He raised dark, winged eyebrows.
“Liza and Barton. He would have inherited the whole ranch.”
Jay shrugged. “I dodged enough bullets to stay alive. It will take her some time to work off her mad, but she’ll get over it. Paying her own legal bills will speed the process.”
“What about Barton?”
“I’m hoping that he’ll grow a pair and start supporting himself.”
Sara tried not to laugh. “Well, at least Liza had good timing. Custer’s paintings are worth more now than they were a few months ago.”
“Because of the movie?”
Sara nodded.
“Hard to believe that Hollywood is setting art prices,” he said.
“You take what you get. The Edge of Never may not be to my taste, but I’ll hold my nose and use the movie for all it’s worth. The full impact probably will take several months—maybe close to a year if the movie is in play for an Oscar—to percolate through the entire art market. The more hype the movie attracts, the better for your bottom line.”
“Not mine. The ranch’s.”
She looked at the hard lines of his face and wanted to ask how much trouble the ranch was in.
“I want Vermilion Ranch to survive for my kids,” he said evenly, “and for my grandkids. I want them to have more to anchor them than some movie about people who couldn’t find their ass with two mirrors and printed directions.”
“Did you watch The Edge of Never?” Sara didn’t bother to hide her surprise.
“Enough to see where it was going.”
“How long did that take?”
“About ten minutes.” He shook his head. “Why would I waste my time watching people commit slow-motion suicide? I felt like sending my ‘special preview’ back to them in a box of bull crap—the real kind.”
“I’m told the movie is a tearjerker,” she said, but she couldn’t help smiling.
“There was some jerking going on and it wasn’t tears,” he said. “I’ve seen tragedy. The Edge of Never was too self-absorbed to be anything but silly and faintly disgusting. Misery porn. Why would I pay good money to watch that?”
“Don’t ask me. After the first ten minutes, I fast-forwarded through my complimentary copy to find the scenes that had Custer’s art.”
Jay slung his arm around her waist and gave her a fast, hard hug. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
“Same goes,” she said lightly, pretending that she didn’t feel the heat of his muscular arm and body all the way to the soles of her feet.
Smiling, he slowly released her.
Sara wanted to lean in and track his smile with kisses. With a mental head slap, she brought her attention back to the only thing that should matter.
Custer.
“Just be glad that no matter what we think of the movie,” she said, “it will bring Custer a lot of attention from the elite who can afford to pay for original paintings. It will also bring dealers who make Beck look like a fluffy little bunny.”
“There are phone messages from several other dealers.”
She wasn’t surprised. “And the next ones will be ruder and more persistent. Believe me, I know these guys.”
“One of them was a woman.”
“Theresa Overland, right?” Sara’s expression was unhappy.
“Good guess.”
“Not a guess. I’m surprised”—grateful, too—“that she wasn’t out here in person. She’ll plug you right into Christie’s if you want her to.”
“Big money?” Jay asked.
“For them, certainly. Maybe even some for you after all the percentages are paid.”
“How much?”
“Depends on who you ask. Everyone has different ideas.”
“I’m asking you. You’re the expert on Custer and art here. I’m just a simple rancher.”
And I’m a fluffy bunny, she thought.
“I have clients who wouldn’t look twice at this painting,” Sara said. “I have others who wouldn’t be able to look away. That’s the personal aspect. Then there is the positional. Say you already have everything you need to survive a hundred times over. How else do you announce you have arrived? And, more important, that you are different from the crowd of wealthy people around you?”
“In the military they have bars and confetti to show rank,” he said.
“A civilian has Versace and Gucci and more elite designers than you can wear in a lifetime. Plus he or she has all the cars anyone could drive. All the boats. Airplanes. Toy trains. Jewelry. Whatever. But everyone with real money already has those things. How do you stand out from that crowd, a first among equals?”
“Why would you care?” Jay muttered.
“Ask them. But I can assure you that they do care. They want to acquire something no one else has. So instead of another stable of cars, they want to buy the first Maserati 3500 GT Spyder. The prototype from 1959.”
Jay watched Sara as she spoke, her mouth shaping words, her dark eyes radiant with energy and intelligence.
“That car is unique,” she said. “A big deal. And thanks to The Edge of Never, Custer’s paintings are a big deal. Each one handmade. Each one unique. Each one something that no one else has. Exclusive.”
Jay shook his head. “You’re as much a psychologist as an art dealer.”
She smiled. “All good salespeople are. That’s why I’m telling you that if you sell the Custers now, you will get a fraction of what you will get if the movie takes off. If that happens, and I’m betting it will, the paintings will be worth at least triple what they are now.”
“What if the movie doesn’t take off?”
“You’re no worse for the wait.”
“It would be easier if I hadn’t known Custer. He was . . .” Jay tried to find polite words.
“. . . vain and temperamental?”
“Kind of a cliché, right?”
Sara grinned. “No more than the rigid and unthinking officer.”
“Ouch.”
She touched his arm, then snatched back her hand as if burned.
“Sorry,” she said. “My brother came back from Afghanistan and he was . . . not taking it well. He felt like he’d been used as a football in a game between two teams of tanks.”
“Smart man. You think you’re the elephants, but you always end up being the smashed-flat grass.”
Outside the wind flexed again and again, searching among the eaves for anything that could be peeled away and sent flying.
“You said something about ‘narrative.’ What did you mean?” Jay asked.
She accepted the change of subject without comment. Business, not personal.
“Narrative is anything unique to the piece that adds to the appeal of the art,” she said. “For example, my partner, Piper, specializes in fine rugs. If the rug comes from a celebrity’s estate, it adds to the price. Or if a piece has a history—lovers separated by war or families or death—that also enhances the appeal. Whoever buys the rug can say more about their purchase than the dollar amount spent.”
“What’s to keep someone from making up a history?”
“Ethics.”
“Gotcha,” he said. “That’s why I sent Beck back where he came from.”
A dog barked from the direction of the barn. A voice called out. Silence returned.
“I can’t prove that Beck would make up history to increase sales,” Sara said carefully. “In this business all you have is your reputation.”
“And all I have is my ability to judge character. I like yours. And I would have liked it if you were twice as old, ugly, and male. So come with me and I’ll show you some genuine Custer history.”
“Really? Now?”
“Unless you’re ready for bed.”
Heat snaked through Sara. She knew he hadn’t meant anything sexual, but the idea of bed and him in it made her pulse stagger.
“History,” she said, hoping that he didn’t hear the huskiness in her voice.
“Then come with me.”
His midnight, velvet voice stroked over her.
“Are you doing it on purpose?” Sara asked before she could stop herself.
His smiled slowly. “It?”
She took a grip on her mind and yanked it back where it should be. Business. “Lead me to the history.”
He took her arm and guided her from the main room to the kitchen, then through the mudroom where everyone left wet or dirty gear.
Outside, cold rolled off the mountains like an invisible avalanche. A nearly full moon made the snowy peaks glow as if they were lit from within. Even the shadows had a polished gleam.
The night itself was vast beyond comprehension.
“He didn’t paint them big enough,” Sara said in a hushed voice.
“Custer?”
“Yes.”
“He’d have needed a canvas the size of Wyoming,” Jay said. “And God’s own brush.”
Two dogs came out of the night like spotted ghosts. Jay spoke to them and they vanished back into the darkness.
“Working dogs,” she said, not a question.
“Everything on the ranch works. I kept trying to sneak dogs like them into the house when I was a kid. My mom explained that they wouldn’t be happy for long in the house. They needed a ranch to look after to be happy.”
A falling star blazed across the sky, then vanished behind the mountains.
For a long time Sara silently absorbed the beauty of the night and the mountains swathed in moonlight. The city was beautiful at night, but in a very different way.
“You’re shivering,” Jay said finally.
“It’s cold. But I don’t want to go in yet.”
He pulled her against his back and wrapped his arms around her. The masculine warmth enfolding her made her shiver again. He tucked her closer.
“Vermilion Ranch is an extraordinary place,” she said, sighing as she leaned against his heat. “It’s utterly unique and packed with both national and personal history. If you’re broke, I get that you can’t eat scenery and can’t feed it to a cow and would have to sell out.”
“I’m not that broke,” he said simply. “Not yet. It was touch-and-go for the first years after I got back. Lawyers were a cash drain. Ranches don’t have a lot to spare. Liza damn near forced the ranch into bankruptcy.”
“That would have been a shame. If you sell, all you’ll have is . . . money.” She laughed, puffs of breath that vanished on the wind. “That sounds silly. Money is important and I’m not so stupid or naive as to discount the value of cash. But this ranch is so much more.”
“Sure you’re a city girl?”
“Real sure. Just because I recognize that Vermilion Ranch is worth more than its cash value on the market doesn’t mean I want to live in Wyoming. I can appreciate beauty without having to own it or turn it into a pile of money. But that’s all that Barton or Liza wants. Money.”
Jay looked at the mountains and weighed her words.
She tilted her head back and watched him, a man caught between moonlight and darkness. She wanted to touch him, to learn his features with her fingertips, and she wanted it so much she had to clench her hands to keep from reaching for him.
“Jury is still out on Barton,” Jay said finally.
“I was a scholarship student at an exclusive school. I met enough guys like Barton to understand the type.” She exhaled hard between clenched teeth. “He’s spoiled. He wants money, but he doesn’t have the desire, smarts, strength, or guts to build anything on his own.”
“Can’t argue that,” Jay said. “I’m just hoping that he finds a train set for him to play with that isn’t the ranch. Not much luck on that so far.”
“Barton knows that working on his own is hard. Breaking up the ranch for cash looks easier.”
“He might think so,” Jay said. “He’s wrong.”
She felt the tension in him and put her hands over his. “Sorry. Just tell me to butt out. It’s really none of my business.”
The wind wrapped around them in a cold hug, then uncoiled and raced on through the darkness. Long, lavender-scented hair slid off Jay’s face and back down around Sara’s shoulders. Several strands stuck to the beard growing around his lips. He left the hair there, liking the connection.
“How much does he want?”
“Whatever he can screw out of me. Millions, I’d guess.”
“The Custers I’ve seen here are awesome, but millions? Maybe at auction, if the movie is a wild international success. Auctions are notorious for raising emotions and prices, but by the time everyone takes his percentage and you pay taxes . . .” She shrugged, rubbing her shoulders against Jay’s hard, resilient chest.
“Go on. Say it,” he said.
“Unless you can swap paintings for Barton’s interest in the land and avoid paying anyone, including Uncle Sam, Custer’s landscapes can’t save your day. Wait—the buildings you own in town. What about them?”
“I’ve already taken out loans against them for ranch improvements.”
She sighed. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What Barton really wants is to prove that he’s better than you. That’s the black hole in his soul that he’s throwing designer clothes at.”
Jay was silent.
“And I’ve talked out of turn again,” she said briskly. “In any case, I’ll do everything I can to turn those landscapes into money. It would help if you had a portrait called Muse stashed away somewhere. But the painting is considered to be more legend than reality. There are no photos of such a work, no sketches, no letters describing it. Nothing.”
“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.”
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