Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel

by Lisa Bingham

  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 tip
ped 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.

  The whole piece had taken him less than twenty minutes to complete. But when he’d finished, he’d realized that he could scour Europe for another fifty years and he still wouldn’t find the answers to what he wanted to do with his art. Those answers could only be found at home. Because everything he wanted to draw, paint, and sculpt were within a hundred miles of Taggart Valley.

  And this same picture was the one that struck a chord with his father.

  “Why didn’t I ever know he saw this?” Jace asked, his voice husky and raw.

  “Because one afternoon, I was playing baseball with some friends out back, and I hit a perfect fast pitch … right through the window of Dad’s office.” He pointed to a crack in the glass that ran from one corner to the next. A spiderweb of smaller cracks and portions of missing pieces testified to the strength of the speeding ball. “Dad nearly skinned me alive—not so much because of the window, but because the impact on your painting put a nick in the paper.” Bodey pointed to the spot. “Dad was going to take it and get the glass repaired so he could hang it up again, but you know how things get in the summer and fall. Eighteen-hour days don’t allow a whole lot of time for running into town.” He cleared his throat. “By that time, the painting had taken second place to finding you.”

  Jace frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “After that crack happened”—Bodey said, pointing to the piece—“Dad hired a private detective to track you down.” He walked to the door, pausing only long enough to say, “How do you think we were able to contact you in Germany so quickly after the accident?”

  Jace stood stunned, everything he thought he’d known about his father falling away much like the shattered glass in the frame he held.

  His father had seen his work.

  He’d been proud of him.

  Tears sprang to his eyes and clogged his throat and he impatiently scrubbed them away. Hell, he was thirty-one years old, nearly thirty-two …

  But you were never too old for your father’s approval.

  Jace rested his back against the wall, still staring at the painting. Slowly he sank to the floor, resting the frame on his knees, tracing the crack, the frame, the last few pieces of remaining glass as if he could absorb his father’s spirit.

  “Jace?” Barry’s voice floated to him from deep in the house. “Jace, where are you? Can I get out of bed and get a drink?”

  “You don’t need a drink, you little outlaw,” Bodey interjected before Jace could compose himself enough to respond. “You want to check what’s on television.”

  “Do not. I’m thirsty.”

  “All right, my man. We’ll get you some water, then you can go right back to bed.”

  “I might need to go to the bathroom first.”

  “Naturally.”

  His brothers’ voices faded as they disappeared downstairs and Jace tipped his head back, resting it against the wall.

  The Taggart brothers were a team, he realized. All this time, he’d thought he was holding things together on his own. But his own misery had blinded him to the fact that his brothers had always been there, waiting in the wings, willing to help. Jace only needed to ask.

  All at once, he realized that he was the only person responsible for the way he’d turned his back on his art. Maybe, unconsciously, he’d thought it was a form of penance for leaving home the way he had. Nevertheless, he suspected that if he announced tomorrow that he needed to go to Timbuktu to commune with nature and finger paint, they might not understand it, but they’d do everything they could to help him get there.

  He touched the nick that Bodey had shown him, that tiny imperfection that had concerned his father the most. The regret was still there. Jace couldn’t change the fact that the last words he’d shared with his father had been in anger. But at least he knew that his father had accepted him for who he was.

  Maybe it was time for Jace to start doing the same.

  *

  BRONTE felt her pulse quicken when she rounded the bend leading up to Annie’s house and saw a familiar ranch truck parked near the front stoop. Even from a distance, she could see that the new concrete ramp and porch had been finished and a stout railing had been fastened into place.

  Immediately, her gaze skipped over the figures of Tyson and another of the teenage hired men. But when her search finally settled on the familiar frame of a Taggart, she felt a rush of disappointment when she realized it was Bodey who was overseeing the work, not Jace.

  As soon as he heard the sound of her car, Bodey straightened and handed the socket wrench he’d been using to Tyson. After a couple of murmured words to the boys, he walked to intercept her.

  Bronte braked the car and rolled down the window.

  “Hi, Bodey.”

  He grinned, tipping his hat back so that she could see his eyes. “It’s shaping up pretty quick, isn’t it?”

  She eyed all of the changes that had been made. The house looked nothing like the dilapidated building she’d been dismayed to find nearly a month ago. Now, the two-story dwelling sported a new coat of paint, bright trim, and a refurbished porch and stoop. The grass was freshly cut and the flower beds were weeded and ready for annuals as soon as the weather permitted.

  “It’s looking wonderful. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  “Our pleasure. We’ve been looking for a chance to help Annie for some time. We simply didn’t want to dent her pride.”

  Bronte nodded. Her grandmother might still balk at the repairs that had been done, but Bronte had warned her about all of the changes, and she’d caught the hint of relief in Annie’s eyes.

  “I think she’s going to love it all.�
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  “Hope so.” Bodey swept his hat from his head and raked his fingers through his hair. Unlike Jace, his was straight and a caramel brown. His eyes, rather than being lake blue, were flecked with green.

  “Will you be coming to the party on Saturday?” Bronte asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” He gestured to the house. “I hope you don’t mind, but I put some beef in your freezer—a few roasts, some hamburger, and a package of steaks. It’s the least we can do for the way you’ve been feeding us off and on.”

  She opened her mouth to refute his statement, then realized he was speaking of the lunches she’d brought to Jace. Her cheeks flamed when she remembered that Jace had said they’d been eaten by Elam and Bodey.

  “You probably should be thanking P.D. since my latest efforts came from Vern’s.”

  “Even so.” His smile was rife with mischief. “You’ll be feeding Jace and Barry often enough, I suppose. So I thought I’d contribute to your efforts.” He pointed in the direction of the Big House. “Speaking of which, Jace would have been here himself to finish this up, but he got … distracted. Why don’t you go see if he’s come up for air yet? He’s in the shed.”

  Bronte felt her cheeks grow even warmer. It wasn’t as if she and Jace were trying to keep their relationship a secret. It was … new and still felt private. But when Bodey offered her a wink and said, “Don’t worry about the kids. I promised Barry I’d take everybody to the Corner for a drink and a burger. I’ll bring them all back to the Big House around five. We’ve got a couple of new colts they might want to see.”