“No. I drove to Sturgis to see Damien and Eli. It’s such a nice, clear day we’ve decided to hike to the top of Bear Butte for a picnic.”
Rachel leaned sideways to look out the large picture window at the front of the store. A small amount of snow remained in piles near the edge of the highway, but the bright winter sun seemed to hold a special sparkle. “Cool,” she said. “Some might say chilly.”
“Some already have,” Char returned, a laugh in her voice. “Damien is such a California kid. His blood hasn’t had time to acclimate, but Eli bought him some new boots and heavy wool socks. He’ll be fine.”
Spoken like a true mother. A supportive, your-kid-can-do-no-wrong kind of mother.
They talked a few minutes longer about the holiday displays before Char said, “I hear the pounding of size eleven footsteps. Do whatever you want, Rae. I trust you. You have a real gift for display. Go for it.”
Rachel’s throat squeezed tight. “Thanks. I—”
“Gotta run. See you later this afternoon.”
Rachel snapped her phone closed. She allowed herself a brief moment to savor Char’s praise then she pocketed the phone and got to work. It was one thing to claim you had an eye for design but quite another to actually make the idea in your mind come to life in the space and time allotted.
The Internet was her medium of choice, but she believed in the power of word of mouth. If she did a fantastic and original job on these displays for Char, word would get around. It might be nice to snag a celebrity or two as her mother had suggested, but the person she most wanted to work for was a reclusive, natural mediums artist named Rufus Miller.
Jack’s fiancée, Kat Petroski, had one of Miller’s rustic birdhouses on her deck. Made entirely of scraps of wood, moss, bark, pebbles and other objects found in nature, the compact, whimsical piece spoke to Rachel in a way she didn’t quite understand. She had yet to meet the man behind the birdhouses, but she definitely wanted him as a client. If what Kat said was true, Rufus’s birdhouses were the mere tip of the iceberg where his talent was concerned.
All she had to do was angle an invitation to meet the shy recluse. Oh…and buy a four-wheel-drive vehicle to get up the mountain to reach his remote cabin. His one-of-a-kind art wouldn’t make either of them rich, but she didn’t care. Rich wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be—not when it came with a huge emotional price tag.
After opening the flaps of the first box, she dug through a sea of packing peanuts to withdraw a five-inch banana-shaped hunk of newsprint. She unwrapped the figurine with care.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, palming the raku-fired ceramic Wise Man. “Nice.”
She let the packaging material drop to the floor as she examined the piece. Dark, earthy colors with a copper hue that added a hint of the exotic. She set it on the glass shelf to her right then eagerly dug into the box to find the rest of the crèche. Each figure was another masterpiece.
She was so engrossed in her mission of discovery she nearly missed the ding-dong sound announcing the arrival of a customer. “I’ll be right with you,” she hollered.
Muttering under her breath, she glanced at the grouping of holy figurines and shook her head. “Mary? Joseph? Where’s your baby?”
Bending over, she pawed elbow-deep through the box until her fingers closed around something small and solid. “Ah-ha,” she cried. “I found Him.”
She straightened, lifting her arm overhead triumphantly. Her hold on the holy infant faltered the instant she realized her customer was a towering monolith of a man with a bushy mop of a beard that seemed to start an inch or so below his fiercely black eyes. His wild, unruly hair—a color of brown dark enough to be called black—seemed to possess a life of its own, except in the places where his hat had tamed it. A fleece-lined red plaid hat with earflaps that he held crushed to the chest of his hazardous-waste-material orange plaid jacket. His leather gloves were probably fourteen sizes larger than the pair in her purse.
Rachel lowered her hand until it was level with her face. “I found Jesus.”
A man who could pass for Bigfoot in plaid might be common in Sentinel Pass, but the city-girl part of her brain was releasing boatloads of adrenaline along with the sage advice: run. Her toes gripped the insides of her boots. Her knees quivered. But her legs didn’t move. Not even when the colorful giant threw back his head and started to laugh.
A name flashed into her head. Rufus Miller. She didn’t know why. No one had described him as lumbering and hirsute.
No…it couldn’t be. Her white-knuckle grip on the beatifically smiling infant lessened. “Um…uh…hi. My name is Rachel Grey. You wouldn’t by any chance be Rufus Miller, would you?”
It took Rufus a minute to get his laughter under control. He didn’t have cause to laugh very often, but the expression on this pretty young woman’s face—part triumph, part terror—seemed a very fitting culmination of the changes that had taken place in his world over the past few months. His days of peaceful obscurity were over. He needed to make a living again.
Again being the operative word. He’d socked away plenty of money at the time of his premature retirement. Unfortunately, the economy of the world-at-large, and a certain infamous greedy investment counselor, had changed things. He and his dogs wouldn’t starve anytime soon, but he couldn’t keep funding the cause nearest and dearest to his heart if he didn’t start bringing in some cash. Sooner, rather than later.
He ignored the woman’s question. He’d seen that “Hey, I recognize you” look a thousand times if not more. “Aren’t you the model from the Calvin Klein ad?” they’d ask, touching his arm, his lapel, even his derriere, as if seeing his bare skin in print gave them some kind of ownership.
“Is Char here?” He didn’t know the owner of Native Arts well, but her distinctive hair color, which seemed to change on a whim, made her pretty hard to miss. He appreciated individualism. The woman in front of him was a bit too chic—despite the scruffy boots—to qualify as different. What did she say her name was? Rachel Grey? Why did that sound familiar?
“No. Char’s gone today. I’m working for her. Crafting some holiday displays.” She waggled the ceramic piece she’d been holding like an atomizer of Mace.
Rufus glanced around. She’d either just started or she was really bad at her job.
As if hearing his critique, she quickly disposed of the small figurine and stepped around the debris. She held out her hand. “You are Rufus, aren’t you? I e-mailed you, but Char said you’re somewhat hit-and-miss with the Internet. I was hoping to talk to you about revamping your online presence. To up your sales.”
It took him a moment to get his head—his ego—back in the present. This wasn’t about R. J. Milne, semi-naked underwear model. The man he’d been, in another life. This was about his current persona. Rufus Miller, backwoods loner-turned-businessman.
“Um…”
“Your preholiday sales,” she added. “Something we’d have to jump on right away so you can get the most bang for your buck.” She cringed and quickly apologized. “Forgive the cliché, but I didn’t have time to think about my presentation beyond the rough draft stage. Of course, I could and will give you a more complete analysis of your marketing needs after we’ve talked.”
His palms started to sweat and his throat shunk to a pinhole. What she was suggesting had already crossed his mind. In fact, he’d decided only that morning to invest in a Web site and try to take his sales to the next level.
In theory.
He’d known that would mean inviting the outside world back into his life. He simply hadn’t expected the outside world to arrive as a tsunami surfed by a beautiful stranger. A woman who… “Wait. Your name is Rachel?”
She blinked her long, pretty eyelashes. “Yes.”
“Kat’s Rachel?”
Her smile showed her relief. “Yes. Kat is marrying my brother, Jack. You’re coming to the wedding, aren’t you? I saw your name on the guest list. I could have waited to approach you then wi
th my sales pitch, but since the wedding is four days after Christmas, I figured that wouldn’t do either of us any good, would it?”
He shook his head, aware of her quick survey. He gave her credit for not appearing too repelled. He’d cultivated this disguise for a reason—it kept people at arm’s length. It didn’t seem to work with her.
“You are coming, right? I don’t remember seeing your RSVP.”
He liked Kat. She’d been the first to see the potential in his hobby and had encouraged him to sell his birdhouses on craigslist and eBay. She was the perfect kind of friend for someone like him—too busy with her own life to be all that interested in his. But he had no intention of attending a wedding. God, no.
“Kat told me a while ago that Char might sell some of my birdhouses. On consignment.”
She used the side of her finger to rub the tip of her nose. A stalling tactic, he realized. “I’m sure she would and I would be happy to give her cell phone a try, but she said something about hiking Bear Butte. I don’t know if she’ll have reception there. Would you like to wait?”
Damn. The physical drive into town wasn’t that big a deal, but getting past the mental hurdle he’d slowly acquired from his self-imposed isolation was more taxing. “No. I have to get back to work.”
“Oh. Sure. Great work ethic. That’s good to know. Did you bring any of your birdhouses with you? I would be happy to take care of them until you can connect with Char.”
He had a truck full of his latest creations, but he had no intention of handing them over to a stranger. Especially a stranger who wanted something from him. His social instincts were rusty, but he sensed she had some kind of agenda that went beyond wanting to pitch a marketing plan. “I’ll leave one. If she wants more, I’ll check back next week.”
He could tell that idea didn’t set well with Rachel. Her lips, as shapely and shiny as those of any model he’d ever worked with, pressed together primly. The gesture reminded him of his mother, although Mom had hardly ever scolded him or his brother. Mom had been the easygoing type, happy and very tough to rile up—until the accident. “Happy” hadn’t been part of their family dynamic after that.
“May I see them?”
The cramped feeling in his belly increased. Selling anonymously over the Internet was one thing. Having his questionable attempt at art critiqued, mano-a-mano, was quite another. But what choice did he have?
None.
“They’re in my truck.”
She quickly tidied her work area so the box wasn’t blocking the aisle and the fragile ceramic pieces were out of harm’s way then turned to follow him.
“It’s cold. Don’t you want a coat?”
She made a scoffing sound. “I won’t freeze.”
He didn’t argue. He got the feeling she did what she wanted despite what anyone else thought. He admired that in a person. Independence was his one claim to fame. Or had been at one time in his life.
His dogs, all smushed together on the passenger seat of his truck, greeted him as if he’d been gone several days, not minutes. Three vociferous mutts he’d slowly acquired over the years. Only Chumley, the nine-year-old arthritic black Lab, had been an intentional acquisition. Fred and Rat-Girl had joined his canine family by accident and circumstance, respectively.
“Hush.”
Fred—the half pit, half who-knew-what?—let out a whimper clearly audible through the glass. Fred hated to be scolded. Not surprising, really. The poor animal had shown up two years earlier, limping from what looked like shotgun pellets in his rump. His name had been embroidered on the corner of the tattered scarf tied around his neck. Someone had loved him once, but that someone had let him go—or tried to kill him. Rufus never bothered to look for his previous owner.
Rat—the only female of the bunch—had arrived in the middle of the night last summer during a torrential downpour. Shivering and exhausted, she’d literally dropped at his feet, her longish golden red coat plastered to her bulging sides like a drowned rat. She’d given birth an hour later to three tiny souls, all not breathing. Rufus’s heart had ached watching her lick each one clean and gently nuzzle them, trying to coax them to life. He and the other two dogs had buried the little bodies the next morning up on the ridge above his house.
Oddly, that was where he’d found the inspiration behind his newest rendition of his hobby. A part-time pastime he was hoping to turn into a paying enterprise.
He didn’t know how or why the idea entered his mind, but once he started puttering with the twigs and moss and bark and weathered branches he’d discovered around the burial site, his imagination had shifted to high gear and he’d found himself remembering a time in his life when art had had meaning and importance. Seventh grade. The last time he let himself tap in to that talent.
“These are different,” he warned her, opening the tailgate of his vintage diesel truck. He liked its beat-up, rusted exterior, but beneath the hood was a perfectly tuned engine. His mechanic in Sturgis made sure of it. “Kat and her friend Jenna called my first ones suggestive. Never saw it myself, but I quit makin’ them. Didn’t like the e-mails I was getting.” He crammed his hat on his head, letting the flaps hang loose by his jaw.
There were twisted people in the world. He knew. He’d been one. And he wanted no part of that now.
“I call these Dreamhouses.”
He reached for the closest one. A two-story model. “Every bit of it except the nails and glue comes from the woods around my place,” he told her. “See the chimney? I left it open so you can write notes, fold up the paper and drop it into a sealed compartment on the inside. Whatever you write is a secret. Just between you and your god, or…whatever.”
He felt embarrassed and slightly out of breath. He never talked that much at one time.
“Great name. I can do a lot with that, marketing-wise. May I?” She held out her hands to accept it. He recognized an intensity in her face that went beyond appreciating his work. She turned it, slowly taking in the detail. He was proud of these latest pieces, but nervous, too.
“This is amazing, Rufus. May I call you that?” She barely glanced his way to see his nod. “I absolutely love it. I’d buy it in a heartbeat, if I had a porch of my own.” She lowered the Dreamhouse to look at him.
“Let me lay my cards on the table, as they say. At the moment, I’m homeless and between jobs.” She flashed him a smile that seemed turned inward. “I was a corporate bean counter in Denver for the past six years, but as you might imagine, there’s not as much money around to count these days,” she said lightly. “So, my brother is helping me move. I’ll be staying in Libby McGannon’s guest house until I can find a more permanent place. If everything works out. Career-wise.”
He didn’t ask for more details. He knew the McGannon place. Everyone in town did. He’d been sorry to hear about the grandmother’s recent passing. Libby was a kind and friendly woman he’d communicated with at the post office on the rare occasion when he needed stamps.
“So…you want I should leave…a couple of ’em?” He sometimes forgot to speak in a stumbling, back-woodsy manner, but he tried.
“No,” she exclaimed, lifting the tarp to see more. “I want them all.”
She was moving fast—either the cold was getting to her or she was excited about his work. He didn’t have enough faith in his art to automatically assume the latter.
“These are wonderful, Rufus. Your style is rich, unique and mystical,” she said, her tone almost embarrassingly enthusiastic. Her words sounded fake but she seemed real. He wasn’t sure what to believe.
“Here’s what I’d like to do,” she said, turning to face him. “With your permission, I’ll photograph them and work up a couple of design prototypes. Naturally, we’ll also display them here in Char’s shop. Every sale counts, right? But I think you’ll be surprised by how much demand there will be once we get these into the online market.”
“Even in the bad economy?”
“Because of the bad economy,” sh
e said, stressing the first word. “People need to foster hope in their dreams more than ever. I sincerely hope I can do your work justice and you’ll consider becoming my first client.”
The word jolted him. He’d been a client before. His agent had made a boatload of money from R. J. Milne. His financial advisor had made even more—not legitimately, of course, but still. Was he ready to be a client again? He’d have to think about it.
“I’ll leave two. Where do you want ’em?”
He saw the momentary dimming of the excitement in her eyes, but he didn’t let it bother him. He’d learned the hard way he couldn’t be responsible for making other people happy. To paraphrase a popular bumper sticker: Disappointment happens.
“Right inside the door, please. I think I’ll create a Christmas village look around them in the front window. How much are you asking for them?”
He swallowed harshly. He’d debated that question all the way down the hill. He took a chance and went high.
Her beautifully shaped eyebrows raked together. “Oh, no. Much too low. Let’s try them at twice that plus Char’s commission. If they don’t get snapped up in a couple of days, I’ll knock them down to a sale price.”
He doubted they’d sell as fast as she imagined, but he couldn’t fault her enthusiasm. She had an air about her that reminded him of the view from the top of his ridge after a storm. Electric and filled with promise and potential.
Business potential, he reminded himself sternly. That was what he needed in his life. That was all he needed.
CHAPTER TWO
SEX TOYS
. Rachel paused, one hand on the drawer pull. She hadn’t opened the bottom drawer of her bedside nightstand since her divorce, but she could picture what was in there.
To pack or not to pack? That was the question that would have had her mother rolling over in her grave…if her mother were dead. Which she wasn’t. Yet.
Their argument two days earlier in Sentinel Pass had created a new strain on their already challenging relationship. Rachel understood her mother’s concern, and she could appreciate how unnerving it might be to lose both of your children to another state. But at this point in Rachel’s life, it was either move or commit matricide.
Until He Met Rachel Page 2