Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel

by Lisa Bingham

  Since Bronte wouldn’t be going to visit Annie in Logan until later that evening, it offered Bronte and Jace several hours alone.

  Bodey settled his hat on his head and touched the brim. “Try to sneak up on Jace if you can. You won’t want to startle him,” he said cryptically. Then he returned to the finishing touches on the stoop.

  Bronte drove along the service roads to Taggart Hollow. Following Bodey’s advice, she parked near the Big House, then made her way to the shed on foot.

  Even before she reached the huge building, she could hear the hiss and staccato stutter of someone using the acetylene torch. As she grew even closer, amber sparks spit through the opening. Then they disappeared to be replaced by the clang of metal on metal.

  Mindful of Bodey’s advice, she silently moved into the huge, arching doorway—one built to allow the larger equipment to be driven directly into the welding bay. But it wasn’t a tractor or a swather that was being repaired. Instead, she could see the skeletal beginnings of iron beasts that already seemed to fight for dominance. They curved in on one another, some on two legs, some on four. There, at one end, she could see the outline of a horse in the scraps of iron that were being welded onto the armature. Its head was arched, twisting toward the shape of another animal behind it. Its mouth was open, its nostrils flared. The eyes were wild and lifelike, the ears flattened in warning, and the mane flew wildly about its neck, giving the illusion of wind and movement.

  Even with so little of the massive sculpture completed, Bronte could already see the raw power of the piece. The thought of what it would look like when it was finished was mind-boggling.

  In a rush, Bronte was reminded of several sculptures she’d seen in Rome on her honeymoon. Phillip had timed their trip to coincide with a multinational conference being held in Italy, so while he’d attended his meetings, she’d spent her time sightseeing. There was something about the forcefulness of Jace’s animals that reminded her of the vibrant ocean horses of the Trevi Fountain.

  Why hadn’t he ever said anything about being an artist? Judging by what she was seeing, the man had an incredible amount of talent. He had to be a professional. Yet, he’d never mentioned anything about needing time to work or preparing for a show.

  Not wishing to disturb his work, Bronte moved to the shade inside the doorway and perched on a folding chair. But soon, it wasn’t the art piece that captured her attention. It was the man who made it.

  Jace’s head was covered by a welding helmet, but the rest of him was on display. A tight, faded T-shirt clung to his skin. Damp patches had begun to form at his neck and between his shoulder blades, attesting to the heat of the torch and the red-hot metal, as well as the exertion of positioning the heavy iron slabs that were starting to form the front breast of the animal.

  As Jace moved, she found herself privy to an anatomy lesson unlike any she’d ever had before—the bunching of muscles along his shoulders and arms, the pull of tendons, the strength of bone, the supple play of his spine.

  Unbidden, Bronte’s body began to prickle with awareness. She’d seen those planes and angles without the benefit of clothing only days earlier, but there was something primal, almost … warrior-like about a man pounding hot metal and fashioning it into another form. It would be easy to picture Jace as a blacksmith or a knight of old.

  Heavens. She was starting to sound like the historical novels that P.D. had loaned her—and she had to admit that she’d grown as addicted to them as her friend. But she liked the way that the novels—and the scene before her—played on fantasies that she hadn’t known she’d even harbored until now.

  Something about her intense regard must have pierced Jace’s concentration, because he straightened, glanced over his shoulder, then apparently did a double take. He shut off the torch and set it on a nearby bench. One by one, he tugged off a pair of heavy leather gloves, then finally lifted the welder’s hood and tossed it beside the rest of his protective gear.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” Bronte murmured.

  Jace cast a self-conscious glance at the sculpture, then tipped his head to ease the strain of tired muscles.

  “I was due for a break anyhow,” he said with a self-conscious smile.

  “I meant the striptease,” she said tongue-in-cheek.

  He chuckled, his head dipping and his finger rubbing his nose—and she realized that she’d managed to catch him off guard with her bluntness.

  “Come here,” he murmured.

  He held out a hand, but even as she rose, he met her halfway. As she wrapped her arms around his neck, he grimaced.

  “I should probably take a shower before you get anywhere near me. I’ve been at this awhi—”

  Bronte kissed him—and just as before, when their lips met, the reaction was instantaneous. She stood on tiptoe, trying to lessen the space between them as his arms wrapped around her body and pulled her up.

  Jace’s mouth slanted over hers, his tongue plundering inside, and she met each thrust eagerly, reveling in the way that his mere touch could send her over the edge.

  Finally, he drew back, resting his forehead against hers.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re an artist?” She glanced over his shoulder at the sculpture. “Your work is … It’s amazing!”

  He hugged her even tighter, then turned so that they could both survey the piece.

  “Actually, I haven’t done any art in … a dozen years or more.”

  “What?” she breathed in disbelief.

  “It’s a long story. One I’ll tell you over lunch, if you have time.”

  Bronte wrapped her arms around his neck, finding it hard to pull her mind back to anything as mundane as lunch. It was hard to reconcile the fact that this tough, hardworking cowboy had a creative side as well. Not just that, he was literally wrestling such a work of beauty into being through the use of sheer fire and strength.

  She touched his cheek. “You are so amazing,” she whispered.

  A touch of color tinged his cheeks. The man was blushing at the compliment. She’d never seen a grown man blush before.

  “I’ve got to be honest with you,” she said, lifting on tiptoes so that her lips were close to his ear. “This whole scenario—the horses, the welding, the pounding … It’s turning me on.”

  A low, rumbling chuckle melted from his chest. If anything, the color in his cheeks deepened.

  “It is, huh?”

  “Mmm hmm. And Bodey announced he was taking the kids for sodas and burgers at the Corner. He won’t bring them back until five.”

  A spark ignited in Jace’s eyes. “Really,” he drawled.

  “That gives us about an hour and a half? Maybe two.”

  “That long, huh?” Jace grabbed her hand. “Come on. I’ll take a shower and change. Then I’m taking you out to lunch.”

  “But”—she gestured to the sculpture—“I don’t want to interrupt you if …”

  He gently touched her cheek. “It’ll wait. It’s already waited this long”—he glanced at the piece, which nearly filled the bay—“and I’ve discovered I can come back whenever the mood strikes me.” He stroked the line of her jaw with his thumb. “Right now, I’d rather spend time with my muse.”

  “Your muse?” she echoed, sure that he was teasing her.

  But he continued to eye her with something akin to wonder.

  “Mmm. My muse.” He leaned forward to whisper close to her ear. “Maybe next time, I’ll have to consider doing nudes.”

  Bronte felt the fiery heat surge into her own cheeks. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Oh, I dare,” he murmured.

  Then he kissed her once again.

  SEVENTEEN

  ELAM was unaccountably antsy as he waited in the parking lot of Vern’s. Not for the first time, he checked his hair, his button-down shirt, and the crease he’d ironed into his jeans.

  Hell. If P.D. didn’t hurry up, he’d find something else to polish. And he’d already put a sheen on his going-to-town boots
and his belt buckle.

  He knew that it was nervousness that had kicked up his grooming habits a notch, but he wanted everything to be perfect. He remembered his late wife, Annabel, saying once that the most important part about a proposal was the story the woman would retell for the rest of her life. Elam was hoping he’d come up with enough romantic pomp and circumstance to do P.D. proud.

  Because he was tired of waiting. Last year, during the Wild West Games, he and P.D. had assumed the roles of “pioneer bride and groom.” Elam wanted to make that role a reality.

  The back door to the restaurant finally opened and P.D. hurried out. As she climbed into the truck and slid over to sit next to Elam, she breathlessly said, “Hurry and get out of here. With the lunch shift as crazy as it’s been, I don’t want anyone to stop me.”

  Elam didn’t need to be told twice. He set the gearshift into drive and punched the accelerator. Then, once they were on the road, he draped his arm over her shoulder.

  “Where are we going?” P.D. asked, her hand curving around his thigh.

  “Someplace special.”

  Her brows rose with patent curiosity. “I don’t know if I’ve got a whole lot of time to go to Logan—”

  “We aren’t going to Logan,” Elam interrupted with a smile.

  P.D. was clearly mystified. Here in Bliss, dining options were limited. Other than a McDonald’s near the freeway, the lunch counter at the Corner, the Cake Dump, and Vern’s there weren’t any other options.

  Elam smiled down at her, his heart doing a crazy bossa nova in his chest. “Trust me.”

  Her eyes grew warm at that and she melted against him again. “I always trust you.”

  Her statement had the power to turn his insides to jelly, and Elam wondered if she knew how much it meant to him that she’d given him that trust. She’d had a crappy childhood—one that had stripped her of the belief that relationships could last for a lifetime. He was hoping that he’d managed to change her mind.

  Slowing down, Elam turned from the old highway onto a gravel service road that dissected fields planted with winter wheat. Since the ground was leased by Taggart Enterprises, P.D. didn’t react until she saw that the gate at the end of the lane—one clearly marked with a NO TRESPASSING sign—was open.

  “We’re going to Henry Grover’s cabin?” she breathed.

  “Mmm hmm.”

  He felt the way she leaned forward in anticipation. It had been over a year since they’d been here last. The secluded valley with its towering willow trees, quaint cabin, and sheltered pond had been one of the stops during the Wild West Games. When they’d found themselves with a few hours of unexpected privacy, it had been the first place where he and P.D. had made love.

  There was no hiding the joy on P.D.’s features as they followed the lane down, down, into a hidden dell. Elam followed the same track they’d once taken in a buggy, circling behind the cabin, around the pond, and coming to a stop near a trough that was kept full by a dribble of chilly artesian water.

  “Oh,” P.D. breathed when she caught sight of the thick grass under the willows. Elam had been here earlier to spread a blanket under the trees and leave a picnic basket in the center. On top of the basket was a huge bouquet of pink roses, sweet peas, and daisies.

  “Helen helped me come up with the menu, so it ought to be good.”

  P.D. was eyeing him with something akin to wonder. He could tell she was searching her brain, trying to come up with a logical reason for the romantic gesture.

  Birthday?

  No.

  Anniversary?

  No.

  He opened his door and slid out, reaching for her hand. “Come on.”

  Elam had it all planned. They would have a leisurely lunch, laugh, talk, maybe make love. Afterward, he would hand her the bouquet, drop to his knees, and ask her to marry him. Only then would he draw her attention to the ring that had been tied into the ribbon wrapped around the stems and looped into a bow.

  But as they neared the blanket, Elam’s heart began to pound so hard, he wondered if P.D. could hear it. His mouth grew dry as a desert—and, good hell almighty, his knees began to shake.

  When he hesitated at the edge of the blanket, P.D. looked at him curiously.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Damn. He must look like a rabbit about to bolt.

  As he tried to summon up enough spit to talk, Elam realized that there was no way that he could get through the meal without looking and acting as skittish as an unbroken colt. So he reached for the bouquet, then turned to P.D., taking one of her hands.

  “I … uh …”

  Hell.

  He looked at P.D., and as quickly as his nerves had appeared, they seeped away. This was the woman he loved, the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. And he knew she loved him, too. Every time she looked at him, touched him, talked to him, she conveyed her feelings in a hundred different ways.

  Slowly, he sank to his knees in front of her.

  “Prairie Dawn Raines, I know I’m supposed to come up with some kind of flowery speech, but …” He squeezed her hand, searching her features and absorbing her look of confusion. “But suddenly, I can’t remember anything I planned to say except … I love you, body and soul. I love you more today than I did yesterday, and tomorrow I’ll love you even more than today. It’s time to ask you … Will you marry me?”

  He’d prepared himself for her reaction. He was sure that she would hesitate, that she would be pummeled with indecision. She might even ask if he was sure or tell him she wasn’t quite ready.

  What he hadn’t expected was that she would burst into tears.

  Immediately he stood, hauling her into his arms, his stomach sinking as he wondered if he’d rushed her. But then, she began peppering him with kisses, whispering, “Yes … yes … yes!”

  He laughed—in joy and relief—crushing her against him. “I thought for a minute you were going to tell me no.”

  She drew back long enough to regard him quizzically. “Why would you ever think that?”

  Then she was kissing him again and the air was redolent with the bouquet that was being crushed between them. Wrestling the blooms free, Elam tossed them to the ground, next to the forgotten picnic basket. There would be time for all that later—the food, the flowers, and his great-grandmother’s heirloom ring, which he’d retrieved from the safe in the Big House.

  Right now, he planned to make love to his fiancée, his wife-to-be, in the same spot where their relationship had once begun.

  *

  WHEN Bodey’s pickup appeared, Jace and Bronte were sitting casually on the porch. But appearances could be deceiving, Bronte thought with an inner yippie-ki-yay. The two of them had never left the property long enough for lunch. Instead, they’d made love in the shower, then his bed, and then—great googly-moogly—on the kitchen table. She was beginning to realize her ex-husband had sported a very limited repertoire where lovemaking was concerned, because Bronte was keen to experiment—and Jace was more than willing to comply.

  So when the truck pulled to a stop by the back porch, Jace and Bronte were sitting a good distance apart. But Bronte was pretty sure that Jace’s body must be thrumming with the same sensual exhaustion that made her loathe to move.

  “Did you have fun?” Bronte asked as the kids clambered out of Bodey’s stretch cab.

  She was surprised when Kari volunteered a quick, “Yeah, they have pretty good burgers. I saw Brinnley there.”

  Brinnley Atencio was one of Kari’s new friends from school. Bronte had met her several times and she was secretly pleased that Kari had bonded with the down-to-earth teen.

  “She wants to know if I can meet her and some other friends at the bowling alley. Her mom will stay with us, then bring us home. Since it’s a school night, Mrs. Atencio said she’d have us back by nine.”

  Bronte didn’t know which part of Kari’s statement surprised her most—that Kari actually wanted to go to a bowling alley, that she had
volunteered the fact that a parent would be present, or that said parent was willing to provide the transportation and get them all home at a reasonable hour. But then, Bronte supposed that such arrangements were probably the norm in Bliss. With school friends scattered for miles throughout the county, after-school activities necessitated some planning.

  Before she answered, Bronte made a mental note to offer her driving services for future activities. “I think that sounds like fun.”

  “Can I text her back?”

  “Sure.”

  As Kari’s thumbs began forming her reply, Jace leaned over to comment lowly, “You got her a phone?”

  Bronte smiled. “Yup. I realized that it’s important to have access to a friend, especially when things are new and scary.”

  Jace must have caught the double meaning behind her words—that Bronte considered him her own valuable friend as well—because he reached over to stroke the back of her hand with his finger.

  “I think that’s a wise decision. But I’ll miss her willingness to come here for the Wi-Fi.”

  Bronte grinned. “Don’t worry. She’ll probably be hitting you up for a chance to use your horses so she and her friends can go riding.”

  Jace smiled. “I’d like that. You’re welcome to drop by anytime,” he said to Kari. “Bring your friends. If there’s one thing we have in abundance, it’s horses.”

  Kari glanced up from texting to offer him a startled smile. “Thanks, Jace.”

  “You can come riding, too, Lily.”

  Lily blinked at him, clearly surprised that she’d been included in the invitation. But Barry brushed over any awkwardness by grabbing the little girl’s hand.

  “Come inside with me, Emily, and I’ll show you my room.” He turned to include Kari. “If you wanna come upstairs with us, there’s a really good view of the pasture with all the baby horses. You could put it on your Facebook.”

  Surprisingly, when Barry and Lily hurried to the door, Kari followed.

  “Ten minutes,” Bronte called after them. “We don’t want to keep Mrs. Atencio waiting!”