“Heather,” he said in a louder voice.
“Go away,” she whispered.
“I will, but I must talk to you first.”
“Talk,” she said, fighting back her emotions.
“I won’t be less than honest with you. You’re an artist, and a damned good one. People everywhere should have the chance to see the work you’ve created. It would be selfish to keep you to myself. It would also stifle you.”
“But what will happen to us?” Heather asked in a low voice, realizing the importance of his answer.
“Nothing. Nothing can happen to us,” Reid said, aware that he was hurting her but determined to do it this way, the right way.
Heather held her body still, fighting the trembling that started in her tightly wound nerves. “I thought we had something special. I thought what we have meant something.”
“It means a lot, Heather, but as I told you in the beginning, it can’t be.”
“How can you say that? How can you stand next to me and say those words? After you’ve held me, touched me, made love to me….”
“I can only tell you how I feel,” Reid began, conscious of the harshness of his voice. “The odds are against us. Against you. I tried to tell you before it went too far with us.”
“But it did go too far. Reid, you’ve convinced yourself very well. You’re...you’re a fool! I’m willing to sacrifice for you because I love you. I don’t give a damn what anyone has to say about it. I don’t care!” Heather told him, her anger gaining over her sensation of deepening loss.
“I’m a fool, I know. But I’m sacrificing something also, for your own good,” Reid said in a whisper. Heather, with a lifetime of relying on her finely tuned senses, disregarded them as she let rage control her.
“Spare me the platitudes. I don’t believe in the cowboy’s creed. I don’t believe in the unspoken rules. I believe in one thing—myself—in the strength I’ve always had and in what the future holds for me and mine,” she said vehemently, no longer hiding the emotions so clearly written on her face. She was beyond caring whether she stepped over the line.
“What is it, Reid? What’s holding you back? Don’t give me any more stories about your being the foreman and me the boss. It’s not that, and we both know it. No more games! Is it because I’m blind? Am I too plain for you?” She suddenly stopped as the shock waves created by her words rippled in her mind.
“I’ll leave,” Reid said softly. The words echoed in her mind and she knew he meant to leave for good, not just for a few days. Anger rushed through her veins, but this anger was not the red flashing heat that had held her captive seconds ago. This cold fury sped her thoughts with precision and outrage.
“The hell you will! You made me a promise and you signed a contract. You’re going to see your promise through. You’re not going to walk out on me like you’ve walked out on your other jobs. I don’t care how many ghosts ride on your shoulders, Reid Hunter, you will not walk out on this ranch! I expect to see you back here within five days to continue what you’ve begun. And I,” Heather said with a sudden softening of her voice, “I will look for a gallery for my first showing.”
Heather stopped, her heart beating fast in her chest, her mind numbed by the fierce emotions she had just vented. She wanted to touch him, to put her fingers on his lips, his eyes, his cheeks, and see what he was thinking. She couldn’t. To touch him would put lies to everything she’d said.
“All right. I won’t let the ranch down. Good-bye, Heather. I’ll be back in a few days,” Reid said as he turned and walked away.
Fighting not to give in to tears, Heather turned back to her workbench and to the clay, unable to hold her emotions at bay anymore. Too much had happened in the past hours. Heather’s hands balled into fists and she began to pummel the clay unmercifully, destroying, in her hurt and ire, what she had created. As this flood tide of emotions let loose, she cried, tearing, ragged sobs that sounded above the flat echoes of her hands hitting the clay. For an endless time Heather was lost to her emotions, but finally with this powerful outpouring came a new calm.
He was gone, she realized, and not just for the five days. He was lost to her completely. She had tried, but she had failed. She loved and accepted him, but he could not accept himself, she understood suddenly. She couldn’t fight that: she could battle anything else—anything but that.
She didn’t know how long she had stood at the bench, her hands sunk into the misshapen mass of clay, when she realized there were no more tears left to cry. The tears had dried on her face, mixed with the fine dust that permeated the studio. Heather could feel the stiff downward paths the tears had left. She went to the basin and washed. When she had dried her face, she left the studio for the house, not even bothering to cover the destroyed sculpture.
She wanted to be alone, but not alone in the studio. Slowly, she walked to the house, and with each step, she forced herself to come to terms with what had happened. She knew the only salvation she had was herself, and the strength that made her believe she would survive. She had done it before, when her mother had died, when her father had died, and she would do it again, now that love was last as well.
~~~
“What are you talking about?” Gwen Hunter yelled into the telephone.
Emma stopped what she was doing and glanced at the tall woman. She saw agitation and worry on Gwen’s face but forced her eyes away.
“He can’t do that! We have a contract. You tell that high-and-mighty son of bi...Ohhhh!” Gwen screamed, stopping herself from finishing the words.
This time Emma could not help looking at her.
“You tell him if he cancels the show he’ll never have another showing in the Southwest!”
Emma watched Gwen standing stiff, her eyes closed, trying to regain her composure. Then she saw the woman’s face relax and saw the same lines of determination she had noticed so often in Reid’s face appear on Heather. Uh-oh, she thought as she hid her smile. She had a feeling of what was coming.
“Laureen, you tell Victor Ainsworth we do not accept the cancellation of his contract. That’s all. Then call John Melville and tell him we want an injunction served on the other gallery the day the show opens, stopping all public and private viewing and sales. Also, find us another artist to fill in for the three weeks. Mr. Ainsworth is going to lose a lot of money along with his friend at Jorgenson’s.”
Emma shook her head and pulled her eyes from Gwen Hunter as the woman hung up the phone. “Does this mean you’ll be leaving us soon?” Emma asked.
“I didn’t want to—I haven’t had a vacation in three years—but it looks that way,” Gwen replied as she moved to Emma’s desk. “I own an art gallery in Santa Fe and my premiere artist has just jumped to another gallery.”
“There are lots of good artists in Santa Fe and the surrounding areas. Why not use one of them?” Emma asked as an idea formed in her mind.
“Because Victor Ainsworth is becoming a well-known and well-sold artist. This one show could possibly pay my bills for the next year.”
“He paints?” Emma asked.
“No, he’s a sculptor.”
“Abstract?”
“Realist.”
“Too bad,” Emma said in a falsely sympathetic voice that caught Gwen off guard. Emma disregarded the strange look the dark-haired woman favored her with as she let a smile play on her lips. “I know a sculptor who has no rival anywhere.”
“Emma, you’ve been very nice to me, letting me use the phone to yell and scream. But what I need doesn’t grow on the range. Are you familiar with Ainsworth’s work?”
“No. I’m only familiar with one artist’s work. Gwen, do you speak to your brother frequently?”
“Which one, the prince or the pauper?” she asked bitingly, then, realizing her mistake, she went on quickly. “Excuse me. I’m just in a bitchy mood. I’ve spoken to Reid twice in the last year. Why?”
“He never told you?” Emma asked, puzzled by Gwen’s first remark.
“Told me what?” Gwen asked defensively. Emma read the woman’s tone correctly and smiled.
“I’m not trying to pry. Didn’t he tell you about Heather?”
“I...well, last night I was walking with Tom, and I saw Reid and Heather...they were...”
“That’s not what I...Oh, no. Tom saw them?”
“More than saw them! Isn’t that what you’re talking about?” Gwen asked, her mind whirling from this strangely disjointed conversation.
“No. Please don’t let her know we saw her and Reid. What I meant was, didn’t Reid tell you that Heather is an artist?”
“Not a word,” Gwen said. Just then, the door at the front of the house closed, and both women were silent. After another few moments, when Emma was sure that Heather was safely inside the house, she motioned for Gwen to follow her. Once outside, she turned to Gwen with a smile.
“I think we can solve your problem. When was Ainsworth’s show supposed to start?”
“In three weeks,” Gwen said with a choking sound of anger.
“That should be enough time.”
“Enough time?” Gwen repeated the question as her eyes saw the sculpture-lined walk for the first time. Without another word, Gwen followed Emma into the small adobe building, and when the lights were on, her mouth fell open in disbelief.
“As I said, there should be enough time,” repeated Emma. Suddenly Emma’s eyes went to Heather’s workbench and the misshapen mound of clay that sat there. She stared at it for a few minutes before she turned back to Gwen.
“Gwen, I think you’d better tell me exactly what you saw last night.”
Heather sat at the kitchen table, moving her fork aimlessly around on the half-eaten plate of food. At her feet was Polaris, who had not left her since she returned to the house. The radio had just informed her that it was seven o’clock, but she didn’t care:
A knock on her door interrupted her random thoughts. “It’s open,” she called.
Heather heard an unfamiliar pattern of footsteps but could tell they were those of a woman.
“Good evening,” Gwen Hunter’s said.
“Good evening,” Heather replied in a surprised tone. She’d thought Gwen had gone with Reid because of the family problem.
“You didn’t know?” Gwen asked.
“No, no one told me you were staying on.”
“I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”
“Of course not,” Heather responded, forcing a quick smile to her lips to hide the strain on her face. “Please sit.”
“Heather, I won’t beat around the bush. Something happened to me today and knocked me for a loop,” Gwen said as she sat on the chair next to Heather.
Heather smiled suddenly.
“Welcome to the club,” she said. “Sorry, go on.”
“Heather, you’re a very talented artist. I had no idea someone who was blind could work with the degree of skill you have.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think being blind has anything to do with skill.”
“You’d be surprised,” Gwen said with a laugh. “I can’t believe this conversation. I can’t believe my pigheaded brother either! He never once mentioned you.” Heather heard more than just a little anger in the woman’s voice.
“Gwen, this is all going over my head. Would you mind explaining?”
“I own an art gallery in Santa Fe. I learned today my next show has been canceled by the artist.” Heather stood mute as the words rolled through her mind. “I own a gallery ...”
“What are you trying to say?” Heather asked, afraid of what was running through her mind at that instant. The thoughts weren’t very pretty.
“I saw some of your work today. You are an extremely talented artist. One of the best I’ve ever seen,” Gwen reiterated, her voice growing stronger as she talked. “I saw the bust of Gregg Farley, and Reid’s also. I just couldn’t believe my eyes, or my luck.”
“Your luck?” Heather asked. A sudden patch of intuition, combined with her words to Reid, told her what was happening, and she began to feel manipulated.
“Heather, I need an artist—not just an artist, but a damn good one. You. I’d like you to come to Santa Fe and let me show your work,” Gwen said in a rush of words.
“When I feel I’m ready to give a showing, it will be my decision, and my decision alone!” she stated. “You can tell your brother that I don’t need him to find a gallery for me!”
“My brother? What has Reid got to do with this?”
“Don’t try to tell me this idea wasn’t his,” Heather said scathingly.
“Reid’s? He didn’t even know Ainsworth canceled the showing. In fact, he wouldn’t even know who Ainsworth is,” she said as she reached across the table and took Heather’s hand in hers. Gwen’s grip was light, yet firm, as she began to speak again. “Heather, I’d like you to have your first show at my gallery. I don’t want to upset you or push you. I just want you to know that I feel you’re a very talented artist, and you are ready for a show.”
“I ...” began Heather, unable to think clearly in the jumble of her mind. Too much had happened in a short time span. Reid, Gwen—it was all coming too fast.
“Please, Heather, I need you. I need an artist of your caliber. And I promise you my brother has no idea that I’m asking you this.”
“Victor Ainsworth,” Heather said as the familiar name rang in her mind.
“Yes,” Gwen said, and told her exactly what had happened.
“But he’s one of the best. I couldn’t possibly take his place.”
“He won’t have much of a place when my lawyers finish with him. There won’t be many gallery owners who’ll want him either. You don’t break commitments at the last minute and expect to be welcomed in the art community.”
“Gwen, I can’t be ready in three weeks,” Heather said, already thinking about what she could show.
“If you’ll agree to the show, I’ll have you ready. Agree!” Gwen ordered in mock command.
“Let me sleep on it,” Heather asked.
“Heather.”
“Yes?”
“Trust me. You are a great talent.”
“Thank you,” she said as a wave of warmth for Gwen settled in her mind, a rekindling of the same feeling of friendship she’d had when she first met her.
SEVENTEEN
Heather slept soundly that night; no dreams disturbed her, no noises bothered her. She woke rested. Listening to the morning sounds of the ranch, Heather felt better. The men walking to the dining room, their voices loud and cheerful, helped to solidify her mood. Moreover, Heather knew as long as she didn’t think of Reid she’d be all right.
When Gwen had left last night, Heather had put her dishes into the sink, told Polaris to run, and had taken a hot bath. As she soaked in the tub, she had tried to organize her thoughts.
She had believed Gwen, believed Reid had not spoken to her or asked his sister to give Heather a show. She had also wanted to trust Gwen.
In the bath, she had been unable to keep her thoughts away from Reid, no matter how hard she tried. Had he arrived safely? Heather had felt her throat constrict as she realized she didn’t know where Reid was going. He had never said. Damn him! No more, Heather had decided. She would not play his games anymore. Whatever was bothering Reid, it would be up to him to solve the problem. She had tried. Now she had to think about herself. She had to.
After the bath, Heather had gone to bed. She’d been worried she would be unable to sleep again, but even as she was thinking it, she’d fallen asleep.
Heather stood, stretched, and went to the bathroom. She emerged with her hair brushed and makeup applied. She dressed in jeans and a cotton top and felt hungry for the first time in two days.
She was standing at the sink, filling the percolator, when she heard Tom Farley’s voice carry up from beneath the window.
“Gwen, I really enjoyed myself last night. Would you like to go out for dinner tonight?”
“Thank
you, Tom, you’re very sweet. I’d love to,” Heather heard her say. After almost two days of unhappiness, Heather smiled as she listened to Tom and Gwen. Something had happened between them when they’d met and, whatever it was, Heather liked the way Tom sounded.
By the time the coffee was done, Heather had cooked two eggs and made some toast. She ate quickly, giving in to the demands of her body, and when she finished, she sat back and drank her coffee slowly. As she was pouring her second cup, Emma entered the office and came into the kitchen.
“’Mornin’, hon. Got an extra cup?”
“You’ll condescend to drinking my coffee?” Heather asked in mock horror.
“It’ll be hard, but I’ll manage.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“At my age, I’ve learned how to get by on anything—even your coffee!”
“Heather, did Gwen speak to you?” Emma asked.
“So it was you,” Heather said, accusingly.
“Who else would have the nerve?”
“I thought it had been Reid,” Heather admitted.
“Are you going to take this opportunity?”
“I’m thinking about it,” she admitted.
“Thinking about it? Don’t think! Do!” Heather felt the strength of Emma’s words as if she’d thrown them at her. “Don’t waste your life here. God gave you a talent rarer than a diamond. Please, hon, please don’t waste it.”
Heather held her breath as she listened to her friend’s words and fought the flood of emotions washing over her. It had always been her dream, until her father’s death, to become a true artist. She had always wanted to spend her days creating the things she loved, so she could have showings where others could see and appreciate the beauty of what she herself could not see with her own eyes. She had suppressed the desire for so long she was afraid to think about it.
And Reid? Would there be any chance at all if she left the ranch for a show? No—that was settled yesterday.
“Heather, you were born to be an artist, not a rancher. Your father knew it. You know it. Reid Hunter is your chance to become!”
Cry Mercy, Cry Love Page 15