Redeeming the Rancher (Meier Ranch Brothers 2)

Wes took greedy, drowning gulps and mumbled, “It’s time to go home.”

* * *

Wes had been right.

Pluots probably should have factored into Livie’s decision to stay last fall. At Close Call’s annual Pluot Festival, where she was the honorary guest judge of the pluot baking competition, she was pretty sure the hybrid fruit came a close second to being exceptionally kissed.

After the statue’s ceremonial ribbon cutting, the high school’s wind ensemble played a song that sounded like someone had pranked their instruments. The mayor gave a poignant speech about how the bronze, entitled Gulverson and the Company of Giants, would be an important cultural and economic draw for generations to come. Willie’s artist introduction flattened Livie and left her unable to say more than a few words of thanks. Beyond all that, Livie spent the better part of the afternoon beneath the shade of her bronze and an impressive oak. She shook hands, took photos with townspeople in front of the statue, autographed the special edition of the Close Caller-Times when asked, and hugged Willie when it all overwhelmed. All those months finalizing the piece in Dallas and a quick trip back to New York made her forget just how many people she knew here—Mona, January, Harvey, Clyde Hammond, Chet, every single ranch hand that made the Meiers’ operation the biggest for a hundred miles. Bess Scandy circled a few

times until Livie’s friendly wave sent the buxom woman scrambling away on her decidedly non-festival stilettos. Even Chase rearranged a few appearances to return home for the day.

Had Wes been present, the day would have surpassed her happiest final days on the Amsterdam estate with Daniel.

Not seeing Wes for months had left a crater-sized hole in her that not even art could fill. It was true that her pain sharpened her focus and funneled her into a zone of perfectionist craftsmanship that was unparalleled for her. The finished product was immaculate. Livie, however, was tarnished.

A late-day tap on her shoulder drew her attention. She turned to find a man who looked vaguely familiar holding an expensive and massive digital camera.

“Miss Blake?”

“Yes?”

“Jake Sweeting, Houston Chronicle. I interviewed you for your piece in front of the Colonial National Oil and Gas headquarters last year.”

Recognition locked into place. She shook his offered hand. “I remember, Mr. Sweeting. Good to see you again.”

“Do you have some time for a photo and a few questions?”

“Sure.”

He crouched to snap the photo, a perspective that, no doubt, gave the statue a heightened perception, a greater degree of importance. They settled on a bench and began the interview with the basics—dimensions, materials, process, date of completion. Jake didn’t stop there.

“This is a departure from the surrealist tone of your other works. With it bringing two largely exclusive themes of patriotism and segregation together and the hidden, themed elements of light and dark in the shadows it casts at different intervals during the day, critics are even saying it could be the most iconic bronze of this generation. The work that brings people back to art.”

“Iconic?” she repeated lamely.

“What J.K. Rowling did for the stagnant children’s literature market. How did you come up with the idea for the play of light and dark—essentially, an interactive experience with the viewer?”

Livie thought of the dish soap bubbles at the ranch, the porch light against Willie’s face, rodeo lights she could configure countless ways, the artificial light that squeezed beneath the door of The Gritty Somewhere and the natural light of a volcanic sunset on the ranch, the fire from her past and the fire within that came from loving someone. The truth was, she owed the idea to Wes. In every day and from all angles, he was a light to her dark. But he wanted no mention, no association, so she dug deep and crafted a substitute truth.

“I was inspired by George Langley’s work. Specifically, The Infinite Nows. His experimental, almost reckless contrast in light and dark, his reminder that art should be an intimate experience, artist to viewer.” If she couldn’t be honest, at least Langley’s legacy and family could benefit from the publicity.

“You do realize what this will do for this unknown town,” he said, more a statement than a question on the record.

She didn’t. She hadn’t. But in that moment, she glanced up and saw the passers-by pointing, dancing through the late-day shadows cast on Main, parents reading Augusta and Mildred’s story to their children so that not one more dark day would set on this town as it did in 1966, and the tears surfaced.

Jake Sweeting gave a slight smile. He squirmed inside the moment but kept it professional.

“Thank you for the interview, Miss Blake. I look forward to hearing great things about you in the years to come.”

Livie might have thanked him, shook his hand, smiled as he left. She couldn’t be sure. Every truth she had ever believed had just slipped from its axis. Iconic. Her work was iconic. A little like Atlas dropping the world.

Willie took Jake’s place on the bench.

“Seems like he just blew your happiness theory to shit.”

In the perfect show of life’s synchronicity, a tear galloped down Livie’s cheek at the same moment she burst out laughing.

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