by Verna Clay
Jenny inhaled a shaky breath just as the intricately carved door was opened by Ryder. "Please come in, Jenny."
Willing her hammering heart to slow, she focused on a canvas already set up in the room and stepped inside. Ryder motioned to a curtain. "You can remove your dress there. When you return, please position yourself on the settee I've placed in front of the blue backdrop."
Jenny's feet felt glued to the floor and he said in an irritated voice, "What are you waiting for? My time is limited."
"What do you want me to do, exactly?"
As if speaking to a child, he said, "I want you to remove your dress and stretch out in your undergarments on the settee. I have positioned my canvas so you can watch my strokes and I will explain as I work. Of course, if you wish to call off our lesson, I will not protest. And if you're worried about me seeing you without your dress, do not worry. I have painted dozens of nudes and I am not asking that of you."
Jenny glanced from the smirk on Ryder's face to the settee and then to the canvas and awaiting paints. Inhaling yet again, she nodded and walked behind the curtain. Slowly, with shaking fingers, she unbuttoned the front of her dress and stepped out of it. Glancing down at herself to be sure she was properly covered, she peeked around the curtain to see Ryder with his back to her examining his paintbrushes. Quickly, she rushed to the settee and sat stiffly on it. The cushion made a sound and Ryder turned around.
* * *
Ryder's conscience was bothering him so bad he was a heartbeat away from ordering Jenny out of his studio regardless of whether she quit school or not. His plan to scare her into disregarding her desire to be taught by him had backfired terribly. He heard a sound and turned around. One look at Jenny and he was laughing aloud. She could have kept her dress on with an undergarment as chaste as she was wearing."
"Wh-what's wrong?" she asked.
"Jenny, that is your undergarment?"
"Yes."
Ryder stopped laughing and sighed. "Very well. Sit on the divan; raise your legs up onto it and stretch out, like you're getting ready to take a nap. And, for God's sake, remove the bonnet. No one naps wearing a bonnet."
While Ryder arranged his brushes and paints, Jenny obeyed. Surreptitiously, he watched her movements. When she set her bonnet on the floor, he said, "Let your hair down before you lie down."
Wordlessly, she began removing pins from her hair and setting them beside the bonnet. When a rich mane of mahogany hair cascaded over one shoulder and past her breast, Ryder cursed at his reaction. She's a homely chit. You've been without a woman too long. Time to have Madame Jones send someone over.
He watched her lay back on the settee. She might as well have been a slab of wood siding as stiff as she looked. Ryder rubbed his forehead. Hopefully, this "lesson" would be humiliating enough to send his pupil on her way, never to return.
"Listen Jenny, you need to relax. You look like a stick of lumber. Think about curling up on a bed and luxuriating in its softness. Think about happy days in the country. Think about the beau waiting for you back home."
"I have no beau. And, at the risk of sounding ungrateful, what does painting me like this have to do with learning the secrets of great painting? If you think to scare me away, it will not work."
Irritation crawled up Ryder's skin like pesky insects. Stalking over to Jenny he instructed her to curl her legs, stretch her arms over her head, and look sleepy. After following his instructions, she looked worse than before. And after more instructions, he decided she was incompetent and he would paint her as she looked. It would serve her right for her persistence. Without thinking, because he always touched his models to lock their essence into his spirit, he reached and smoothed his hand down her hair, the only relaxed part of her body. Mistake. Big mistake.
The silky strands clung to his hand and he wanted to groan. Unable to resist, he combed his fingers through its thickness and cupped the back of Jenny's head. Her eyes widened and locked with his. Cursing, he twisted away and stormed back to the easel with its blank canvas.
Chapter Six: Perfect Feather
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 i
n 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.
"It was as she had said about my mother being on her deathbed. The dear woman was overjoyed when I told her of my marriage and children. I never told my father. Two weeks after my arrival, my mother died. My father, in his own way, had loved my mother, but didn't realize how much until she was gone. He became a broken man and months later I learned he had drunk himself to death. Our ranch was lost in foreclosure.
"After my mother was buried, I was on the trail back to my family when I met up with some trappers who told me what had happened to my tribe. I traveled constantly, only stopping to rest my horse until I reached our camp. It was as the trappers had said. I found a few survivors who had banded together and they recounted the horrors of that day.
"The soldiers had burned the bodies in a mass grave and I sat beside the grave for days unable to believe these beautiful people were dead. After that, my guilt at leaving my wife and children almost killed me. The only thing that saved me was painting, and I did so continuously. I painted for my loved ones. Somehow it made me feel their presence. And now, with the loss of my arm, I feel nothing."
Jenny wiped tears from her eyes. She wanted to comfort Ryder by kissing and caressing him, but, of course, she could not. Instead she reached and held his hand.
* * *
Ryder felt the soft squeeze of Jenny's hand and opened his eyes. He stared at their entwined fingers and gently extricated his. He reached for the wine he had set aside and gulped it down. He had never spoken of his heartache to anyone but Jonas, his wife's cousin. After his family's death, he had gone to Jonas' family to tell them what had happened. They had already known, and Dancing Flower, his wife's aunt who had married a white man, had insisted that her son, Jonas "Soaring Eagle," stay with Ryder until the madness in him subsided.