A Husband In Wyoming. Lynnette Kent

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СКАЧАТЬ it.” He stalked to the rear of the studio, under the loft, and went to the drafting table. She would be in here sometime in the next day or two, so he might as well get this mess straightened up. No one was allowed to view his sketches. They were for his use alone.

      But as he organized the papers—a stack for the ones he had sculpted, a stack for the ones he might get to, the trash can for failures—he came across the drawing of Wyatt that Jess had found. In a moment, another human figure surfaced from the pile—a woman with a baby in her lap. Dylan sat down in the chair and laid the two sheets on the surface in front of him. He should throw these away, too.

      But if he did, he would only draw them again, as he had so often over the years, always determined that this time he would take the project all the way. This time he would create the sculptures that lived in his brain.

      He never had. And he wasn’t sure why...except that when he tried, he came up against a mental brick wall that stretched higher, wider and deeper than he could reach. What he wanted to create stood on the other side. And he couldn’t get through.

      With a sigh, Dylan stacked the two pages, folded them in half and dropped them in the trash. There was no point in beating himself up over what he couldn’t produce. He had plenty to do over the next couple of months to get ready for the gallery show, and he was comfortable with the work that had to be done. Letting go of those images would free up more energy for the tasks at hand. Artistic and otherwise.

      With the remaining sketches neatly slotted inside a file folder, Dylan made his way to the mare and foal and sat down, forcing himself for the first few minutes until the process started to flow—

      A knock on the door jerked him around and he swore as he dropped the piece of wood he’d just glued. What had happened now? His brothers rarely bothered him at night except for an emergency.

      Through the glass, though, he could see this was not a brother. He opened the door. “Jess? What are you doing here?”

      Her hair was loose again, rippling around her shoulders and lifting with the wind. She wore a bulky blue sweater over a T-shirt and what appeared to be plaid flannel boxer shorts, with sneakers on her feet. Her legs, minus jeans and tall boots, were shapely and smooth. Gorgeous.

      “I couldn’t sleep.” She’d taken off her makeup, revealing light freckles over her nose and cheeks. “I thought I would come watch you.”

      “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Okay. Come in.” The last thing he needed when he was having trouble working was an audience. Especially this audience. “I was about to make some coffee. Join me?”

      “Yes, please.” She drifted along the display tables while he brewed two cups. “Heavy cream and two sugars, please.”

      “I like mine sweet, too.” He brought her a mug. “Is your room not comfortable?”

      “Oh, no, it’s great. Flying just disrupts my internal clock.”

      “I remember. Eventually you stop being able to tell what time it should be.” They were standing by a bighorn ram he’d finished a few months ago. “I haven’t missed that, the last couple of years.”

      “You don’t enjoy traveling?”

      “I enjoy visiting new places. My preference would be staying somewhere for a month—or six—and really getting to know the people and the environment. I’m not into ‘if it’s Tuesday this must be Rome.’”

      Jess eyed him over the rim of her cup. “Not just four days?”

      “You won’t know everything about this place in four days or four months or years.” He didn’t mean it as a challenge.

      But she heard one. “I think you’ll be surprised.”

      So they were adversaries again. Dylan didn’t intend to argue with her about who would win. “Anyway, make yourself comfortable—not that there are many decent chairs to sit in around here. I’m going to get to work.”

      “Thanks. Just pretend I’m not here. I don’t want to disturb your process.”

      Yeah, right. Dylan lost count of how many mistakes he made in the next hour as he tried to concentrate with Jess Granger in the room. She’d rolled his desk chair out from behind the staircase and over to where he was working. He couldn’t argue that she’d picked the most comfortable seat available. The problem was the way she curled her body into its leather embrace, knees drawn up and ankles crossed, looking all warm and cozy. That blue sweater didn’t reach much below the hem of the boxer shorts, so there was a long length of leg left to view, if he happened to glance over.

      Which he did, too often. And each time he found Jess’s gaze intent on his hands. She didn’t say anything, but he was constantly aware of her presence.

      Eventually, though, the spirit of the piece drew him in. Dylan found his focus, fingering through the collection of wood on the table for the next element, making adjustments, setting the fragment just right. He worked until his neck began to ache, until his back stiffened and his fingers fumbled, until his eyes burned.

      “Enough,” he said, capping the glue and pushing away from the table. “I give in.”

      A single glance at Jess revealed she’d surrendered before him. Arms folded, eyes closed, she’d slipped down in the chair to rest her cheek on the padded arm. She was deeply asleep.

      In his studio. At 3:45 a.m. What was he supposed to do about it?

      He should wake her, walk her to the house and send her to bed in the guest room while he returned here. And how painful would that be, for both of them? There was a reason he’d built the bedroom loft. All he wanted at this moment was to drop onto the bed and pass out.

      He could leave her in the chair to sleep, even if she might not be able to straighten up for the next three days. That would teach her a lesson, though he was too tired to figure out about what.

      Or...there was a king-size bed upstairs, a place to get some real rest without taking a predawn walk through damp grass.

      Dylan rubbed his eyes and then put a hand on Jess’s shoulder. “Hey, you. Bedtime.”

      Her eyes slowly opened to show him the bleary, confused expression of the very tired. “Huh?”

      “Let’s go.” He took her hand and pulled.

      She sat up with the coordination of a rag doll. “I don’t understand.” Her eyelids drooped.

      “I’m tired. We’re going to bed.”

      He’d carried her halfway up the steps before his last statement fully penetrated. Jess came awake, twisting in his arms. “No. We can’t.”

      “Yes. We can.” He took a tighter grip under her soft, bare knees and her arms, driving himself to the top of the staircase. Keeping hold, he walked over to the side of the bed and set her on her feet. “Crawl in.”

      “No.” This protest was weaker. When he pulled down the covers, she gazed at the pillow with longing.

      Dylan was about to collapse himself. Palms on her shoulders, he sat her down, slipped her sneakers off and tucked her feet under СКАЧАТЬ