Color of the Wind Page 13

  "I've kept Uncle Franklin's household accounts for years," she offered. "I can show you what you need to know about the ledgers."

  Before he could refuse, she crossed the room and snatched up one of the big, leather-bound volumes. She brought it back to the table and opened to the page dated "October 1881."

  "If you want to know how many cattle the Sugar Creek had at the end of last season," she said skimming her finger down the columns of figures, "add this up."

  "Ardith—" Baird warned her.

  She handed him one of her sketching pencils and a scrap of paper. "Use this for your figuring." She began to read.

  Baird dutifully copied down half a dozen figures—the number of bulls, cows, heifers, steers, calves, and weanlings.

  "How many is that altogether?" she asked when she was done.

  He hunched over the paper at the end of the table, mumbling to himself and scratching at the page. Though she couldn't see his face, she could see that he was squeezing the life out of the pencil.

  Ardith couldn't imagine what the problem was—a boy Durban's age should have been able to do the sum. She reached for the paper. "I'll add that up if you like."

  He batted her hand away. "I'll—I'll get this figured out if you'll just be patient."

  Another full minute passed. Two minutes. Five. Ardith counted every tick of the mantel clock. Baird's ears got redder and redder.

  She offered again. "I told you I'd be happy to—"

  Baird shook his head and then with a vile imprecation, hurled the pencil across the room. He crumpled the paper in his fist and stood there, breathing hard.

  Ardith stared at him, at the angry line of his mouth and the resignation in his eyes. She held out her hand. "Let me see."

  Baird didn't move.

  "I want to see," she said, more forcefully, and curled her fingers around his fist. Maybe if I see, I can figure out what's happened here.

  She pried at his fingers, as if they were children and he was playing keep-away. But she knew he wasn't doing this to vex her. He was hiding something.

  "Baird, please," she whispered.

  With a vivid curse, he gave up the scrap of paper and turned away.

  Ardith smoothed out the creases and looked down at what he'd written. Somehow he'd got it all wrong. She'd read off that they had "nine hundred thirty-seven weanlings," and Baird had written it as "three hundred ninety-seven." He'd completely reversed the numbers of heifers, as well, and the addition on the first column of figures was incorrect, throwing off everything else.

  When she looked up, he stood with his head dropped low, like a child who'd been shamed and stood in the corner. She reached for him instinctively, wanting to pat and console him the way she did Khy.

  He shied away. "Showing me how to do the ledgers won't do a damn bit of good," he told her. "My father might well have been able to calculate the apogee of the moon, but I'm a hopeless blunderer when it comes to numbers."

  Now that he'd reminded her, Ardith recalled that when her father and the earl had been arranging their betrothal, Northam had suggested that Ardith control their finances. He'd laughed and said that Baird couldn't add up two and two—but no one had taken him literally.

  "Very well then," she began again, determined to make this right for him. "If I needed your help with something, do you think we could arrange an exchange of services?"

  "What do you mean?"

  She could hear the suspicion in his tone and plowed ahead. "I've been giving Durban riding lessons."

  His head came up. "Have you really?"

  "I've taught him as best I can," she continued, "but I think he would benefit from having a more experienced teacher. If I promised to bring the ledgers up to date and keep them current, would you take Durban's lessons in hand?"

  The brightness in his face dimmed. "Do you think the boy will agree to taking lessons from me?"

  Ardith was gambling that Durban's growing fascination with horses would carry the two of them through the rough spots—and maybe if they spent time together, Baird would find a way to reach his son.

  "I know he respects your horsemanship..." It wasn't really an answer, and both of them knew it.

  "Well, if Durban agrees..." he hedged. "...I suppose you and I would both be getting something out of it."

  "I'll talk to him tonight."

  Baird leaned his hip against the edge of the table and slid a slow, sideways glance at her. "Now I don't suppose I could convince you to write the reports for London as well, could I?"

  Ardith pursed her lips. Was Baird just bettering the bargain, or was there more he needed to tell her? "Is there some reason I should?"

  It was a moment before he realized what she was asking, and he immediately straightened. "No!" he assured her. "I can do them."

  "Good, then the only reason I'd write those reports was if you were incapable of lifting a pen."

  "I can't say that's likely," he said. And then he grinned. It was a quick, wry grin that rearranged his features and brought a spark of genuine appreciation to his eyes.

  His smile was as intimate as if he'd reached out and skimmed his hand along her skin. A frisson of warmth moved through her. A soft, unsettling hum began in her veins.

  She abruptly thought of China and her questions. How could Ardith give in to this dangerous awareness—especially now? Especially with Baird?

  Just then Bear Burton came lumbering in from the back of the house. "This mail just come in from Rock Creek," the big man told them, spilling his armload of packages, wrappers and envelopes at the far end of the table. "Buck said you'd be wanting it right away."

  The intensity between Baird and her dimmed, leaving Ardith with a strangely hollow sense of relief. To cover her confusion, she headed toward the pile of mail.

  "There's another package from my father for the children," she observed, "and three more letters from your uncle in London." Then, with a crow of delight, she pounced on a letter from Gavin.

  "What's that?" he asked her.

  "A letter from Gavin Rawlinson."

  "Rawlinson?" The scowl on Baird's face made her wish she had been considerably less demonstrative.

  "My publisher," she prodded him. "He saw the children and me off in Boston."

  "Why is he writing to you?"

  Something in his tone made Ardith bristle. "It could be business," she answered. "Or something more personal."

  He snorted in disgust and turned toward the door.

  "I thought you promised to take care of these letters from London," she nettled him. "This one's marked 'Urgent.'"

  "It'll keep until you get those ledgers updated," he told her. He was gone with a rumble of boots, leaving Ardith alone to savor her letter from Gavin.

  * * *

  This isn't going to work, Baird thought and paused in the doorway of the barn to swipe his sweaty palms on the seat of his trousers. No matter how determined Ardith was that he and Durban settle their differences, a few riding lessons weren't going to mend the rift between them.

  How was he to make peace when the boy's animosity was virulent—and completely justified? Baird had been an abysmal husband and father. He'd abandoned his wife and children at Heatherleigh for months at a time. Then, God knew, he'd arranged for them to traipse halfway around the world on a journey no woman in Ariel's condition should ever have made.

  But since Baird had accepted Ardith's skill as a bookkeeper, he thought he should get on with the riding lessons he'd promised to give his son. Breathing a sigh, he adjusted the cant of his Stetson and stepped out of the barn into the afternoon sun.

  After the dimness, the sky was such a stunning shade of blue that Baird had to squint things into focus. When he did, he saw that Durban was already saddled up in the corral and talking to someone on the near side of the fence. At first Baird was pleased to see the boy was making friends here. Then he realized the friend was Cullen McKay.

  Baird swallowed down the swift, hot surge of anger. He didn't want McKay s
howing up on the Sugar Creek, didn't like the way the boy looked up to McKay.

  Just then Durban saw Baird coming, and eyes that had been alive with interest and amusement went flat. With that change the small, carefully budding kernel of hope Baird had been harboring shriveled away.

  McKay assessed the situation at a glance, and a smug smile crawled across his face. "Well, Northcross, here you are at last! Durban says he's been waiting for quite some time."

  A second wash of heat swept up Baird's neck. Who was Cullen McKay to question him? He'd been busy in the barn, goddamnit, patching up one of the horses that had run into a fence. And trying to shore up his courage.

  Baird jammed his hands into his pockets and tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. "And to what do we owe the honor of this visit, McKay?"

  Cullen grinned, knowing he'd rankled Baird. "I came to issue an invitation. While one of our London stockholders is here, we've decided to host an evening of dancing."

  People from London—exactly who Baird wanted to see.

  "Well, I'm sorry, McKay," Baird said, without even asking the time or date. "I'm not at all sure we'll be able to attend."

  "Don't you think Aunt Ardith would want to go?" Durban broke in. "And China? China loves dancing."

  In that moment, Baird almost wished his son to perdition. He didn't doubt how China would feel. Ariel had always loved parties, and China was her mother's daughter through and through. It was Ardith he wasn't sure about. He couldn't imagine her taking the same delight in primping and flirting and gossiping than his wife had.

  "When is it?" he asked, careful not to commit himself.

  "On Saturday night," Cullen answered. "All the hands are invited, too. And our cook has asked that Myra make one of her special cakes. Will you come?"

  Knowing that if everyone else was there, their absence would be remarked upon, Baird surrendered. "I suppose we will."

  Cullen grinned again, this time in satisfaction. He reached across the fence to shake Durban's hand. The smiles the two of them exchanged were warm. The connection Baird could see between this man and his son was a spike through his heart.

  "We'll look for you on Saturday," Cullen called as he mounted up.

  Baird glared after him, then turned to Durban. "I want to let your Aunt Ardith know about this. Keep circling the paddock. I'll be right back."

  He found Ardith where she spent most of her afternoons, sitting at the long pine table before the hearth writing or working on her sketches. She was so deep in thought that when he came into the house she didn't even stir.

  Baird stood for a moment, watching her, noticing how the sun streaming in the windows set off sparks of copper in her dark hair. It traced the graceful curve of her throat and etched her strong, clean features with gold. It warmed her skin to the consistency of Devonshire cream, and made her lips look ripe and sweet as raspberries.

  Ardith seemed younger and softer in this light, infinitely more appealing than he'd imagined she could be. The notion that he could find this strong-minded, difficult woman attractive unsettled Baird somehow. He cleared his throat, suddenly eager for her to notice he was there.

  Ardith looked up and smiled. "Did Durban's riding lesson go well?"

  He could hear the hopefulness in her voice, and instantaneous contrition crushed down on him. "He's out there now. I need to get back to him. What I came to tell you was that Cullen McKay stopped by to invite us to a dance at the Double T Saturday night."

  "Oh?" Interest flared in Ardith's eyes.

  "One of Cullen's stockholders is here," he went on. "He's brought a party from London to hunt in the mountains."

  "Oh." Her excitement dimmed the way an oil lamp did when you turned down the wick.

  For an instant Baird was at a loss to explain her reaction. Then it dawned on him that she might have reasons of her own for dreading a confrontation with people from London—people who might once have been friends. He'd been dreading questions about Ariel or Bram. Now he wondered what kind of comments Ardith might be concerned about—especially if she arrived at the party with him.

  "I suppose everyone else around here will be going," she offered hesitantly, a frown tugging at the corners of that raspberry-colored mouth.

  He drew closer, not quite sure why he wanted to protect her. "That doesn't mean we need to."

  "No, it will be all right. Besides, I can't imagine that China would be happy staying home..." She gave a long, shaky sigh that sounded like it was at least partly in resignation. Then she glanced up at him and scowled severely.

  "You can manage to be civil to Cullen for an evening, can't you?" The way she'd turned the mood of their conversation surprised him, delighted him. He swallowed down a chuckle.

  "Oh, I suppose," he answered with a groan of great forbearance. "Though his impudence will certainly test my mettle."

  Ardith laughed outright and picked up her pen. Baird grinned at her and shifted nearer.

  "What is it you're working on?" he asked, remembering how intently she'd been scribbling when he came in.

  "A letter to Gavin."

  Gavin. Her publisher.

  "What's that you've done around the edges?" he asked, trying to get a better look.

  Ardith eased the sheet of stationery in his direction. "Just a few illustrations of things I've seen. I wrote describing the roundup, and Gavin wanted more details. Sometimes it's easier for me to paint things than explain them."

  Baird bent nearer. The illustration at the top of the page showed the scene around the branding fire. Two men holding a calf, someone—Baird himself judging by the clothes and stance—wielding a branding iron, and a woman—Ardith—minding the tallybook. On the left side, a roper was riding down the page toward the calf he'd lassoed at the bottom.

  Her paintings were skillfully done, accurate, colorful, and a little wry in their depiction of the events and characters. Still they caught this bit of life and froze it in time.

  Baird liked that she'd made a memory that could never fade. He found himself wishing this extraordinary letter was meant for him. He'd never received anything in the post that was so personal or so fascinating.

  The salutation at the top of the page read, "My Dearest Gavin," and something about the phrase made him bristle. He hadn't much liked the fuss Ardith made over the letter she'd received from Rawlinson the other day, and he didn't think it was right for her to be addressing her publisher as "her dearest" anything.

  He shoved the paper back at her. "That doesn't look very businesslike," he observed. "Besides, if you're going to paint scenes of the ranch, why waste them on letters?"

  A line came and went between her brows. "Are you saying I should be making actual paintings of things I see?"

  Baird wasn't sure what he meant.

  Ardith didn't wait for him to answer. Fresh color blossomed in her cheeks as the idea seemed to take root and grow before his eyes.

  "I could do a few genre sketches, you know," she went on, half to herself. "Some lovely little landscapes. And portraits—maybe portraits of the hands. Oh, Baird, don't you think Frank Barnes would make a wonderful subject?"

  Baird nodded, knowing Frank Barnes wouldn't thank him for agreeing with her.

  "And Myra. I really must paint Myra." She looked up at him and smiled, a smile so warm and bright that Baird just stood and basked in it. "I love the idea of painting things here at the ranch!"

  For a moment he thought she meant to throw her arms around him in appreciation, and he couldn't help a little start of anticipation. He wondered how she'd feel against him. Long-boned and solid, he figured. Womanly, soft. She'd definitely be soft. He really enjoyed women who were soft.

  He was distinctly disappointed when Ardith didn't make a move in his direction. She nibbled on the tip of her pen instead, lost in thought.

  He shifted his feet to regain her attention.

  "Oh," she said, looking up as if she'd forgotten he was there. "Shouldn't you be getting back to the corral? Isn't Durba
n waiting?"

  "Right," he agreed gruffly, feeling dismissed. The encounter with Ardith had knocked him off balance somehow, as if something one of them had done or said had set the world a little out of kilter, a little awry. He didn't like the feeling one bit.

  He headed for the corral. When he reached it, he saw that Durban's sulky frown was still firmly in place. For reasons Baird didn't care to examine too closely, the tension in his shoulders eased. He might not like the way things were with his son, but he never had to wonder where he stood.

  * * *

  Ardith picked her way up the trail that led into the foothills of the Big Horn Mountains, up to the ridge where Baird had taken them that first day. She'd been back here once or twice, but never alone, and never with her painting supplies.

  Now, in the full bloom of summer, the grasslands of the Powder River Valley rolled away before her, lying thick and golden in the sun. It was a scene of primitive majesty that begged to be captured, immortalized.

  Settling herself on a boulder a few yards back from the edge of the ridge, Ardith unpacked her brushes and paints, poured water into the ceramic bowl, and pinned a paper in place on her drawing board. She bent above it, laying down washes ripe with yellow and brown, thin translucent glazes that faded toward the rim of the vast horizon. She worked to mix a bright, fierce blue for the summer sky and struggled to show how the hot, cloudless expanse dominated the land beneath it. She used deeper colors to simulate shadows and added details to the painting as the washes dried. As hard as she worked, her efforts did not please her.

  She set the paper aside and began again, struggling to give the scene context, scope. She sketched in the shapes of the boulders near at hand and framed the right edge of the painting with the bristly branches of the pines that grew along the edge of the cliff. Her nerves hummed as she worked. Her face flushed with concentration. She recognized the feeling—the sense that she was one with the brushes and paints—but it had never been so strong before, so powerful. Yet as the painting progressed, Ardith could see she'd failed again.

  She pinned a third paper in place and focused her concentration.