The Texas Rancher's Vow. Cathy Thacker Gillen

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      Flushing, Jen stood up and, with more grace than Matt would have expected, under the circumstances, moved toward the drafting table. “Your father was a little overcome by the sketches I just showed him.”

      She walked over to Matt, drawings in hand.

      Matt noted that his father wasn’t looking at him. Rather, he was sitting with his palm planted firmly on the knee Jen had just been touching. Emmett also seemed curiously transfixed on Jen. It was almost as if he wasn’t sure what was going on, either.

      Which was strange, Matt thought. If Jen was telling the truth.

      He’d bet his bottom dollar she wasn’t.

      “Your dad doesn’t want me talking about the actual possibilities for the sculpture until a decision is made. Which is fine with me. I actually prefer to keep any work in progress completely under wraps to all but the subjects, or patron commissioning the work.”

      Wordlessly, she handed Matt a few rough sketches. The other three she passed to Emmett.

      His resentment building, Matt glanced down.

      The proposed sculptures were beautiful.

      And incredible, in how they captured the essence of his parents, and the deep, abiding love they’d had for each other.

      Feeling a little choked up himself, Matt handed the sketches to his dad.

      Emmett, who never cried, had tears in his eyes as he scanned the drawings once again.

      Dabbing at his cheek with a handkerchief, he rose abruptly. “Excuse me.” He left the studio without a backward glance, and somewhat awkwardly, from the sound of it, made his way down the hall.

      Matt realized his dad must have been overcome with emotion.

      The ache in his own throat grew.

      Jen’s eyes glistened, as she moved away. Without looking at him, she said, “Posthumous works can be tough to do. Especially in the beginning.”

      No kidding.

      Matt felt as if he was about to start bawling, and he never cried.

      At least he hadn’t since his mom had died.

      He walked over to the drafting table, where Jen stood. Her glance still averted, she made a big production of tidying up her pencils.

      He thrust the sketches at her.

      She spread them out carefully on the table.

      “But when the work is finished, the bronze is usually very comforting because so much has gone into it. It’s such a special memorial.”

      Jen paused to look down with a critical eye at the photographs she’d used as a reference, and the sketches she’d made. “If you’d like to weigh in—tell me what you think about what I’ve done so far, what needs work, or what I might be missing…”

      Matt shook his head, no more equipped to do that than his dad had been.

      How was it possible that his mother could have been gone for ten years now, and the grief was still so raw?

      He thought he’d gotten past this. Accepted fate. Moved on.

      The truth was he was still as rocked by it as his father was. No wonder Jen had been reaching out, trying to comfort Emmett. She probably felt sorry for him and wanted to protect his macho image.

      Matt didn’t need her doing that for him, too.

      “I don’t think so,” he said gruffly, ready to run from the scene like an emotional coward, just as his dad had.

      He turned away from Jen and headed toward the door.

      First, he’d had to dig his mom’s paintings out of storage and carry some up; he had no idea which ones, since they still weren’t unwrapped.

      And now this… His dad all weepy over sketches and photos of his deceased wife, and Matt feeling the same.

      Still, he had a duty to at least be civil to Jen. She probably knew what she was stirring up, but had to do it anyway, as part of her work here.

      Swallowing, he paused in the doorway and glanced back, meeting her gaze. Somehow making his voice sound almost normal, he announced, “I came up to tell you that Scully has food over in the bunkhouse if you want to join him and the hands for dinner. That’s what Dad and I usually do when Luz is off. But if not,” Matt continued, with the requisite politeness shown to guests on the Triple B, “you’re welcome to either have some chow sent over, or cook here. Naturally, you can help yourself to whatever is in the kitchen.”

      Jen held his eyes, looking as if she wanted to say something important, but didn’t dare.

      She swallowed, too, then nodded with the same careful politeness he’d shown her. “Thanks for the information and the invitation, but I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll grab something later.”

      Matt couldn’t say he was surprised. Sometimes solitude was the best medicine. And right now, he needed even more time on the range.

      “Suit yourself.” He tipped his head at her, then walked off.

      * * *

      JEN ENDED UP WORKING until almost ten. By the time she hit the kitchen, the rest of the house was silent. An indication that Emmett had either gone out or gone to bed. The same with Matt.

      Trying not to feel disappointed about the lack of company, she opened the stainless-steel fridge. It was filled with all sorts of goodies, and she was still trying to decide what to eat when footsteps sounded behind her.

      Matt walked in, a disgruntled look on his face. He was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His hair was damp and he smelled of soap and shampoo. Which reminded her of their lovemaking that afternoon.

      Had it only been eight hours or so since they’d been together? she wondered wistfully.

      It felt like a lifetime ago.

      More than a lifetime.

      She studied Matt’s surly, withdrawn expression, and couldn’t help but wonder if Emmett was still feeling poorly. Or whether Matt had noticed. Even if he wouldn’t yet admit to himself that his dad was ailing.

      A feeling of unease sifted through her. She had to tread carefully here so as not to let anyone down. “Everything okay?”

      Matt shoved a hand through his curly black hair. “Depends on what you mean by okay.”

      She drew a conciliatory breath and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Okay…”

      Her pun did not elicit the smile she had hoped to see.

      Which likely meant he was still wrangling with his residual grief.

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