yet Bridget had managed to catch that spark of humor and openness that shone from within.
“I like this one, don’t you?” Dinah said, pointing to a cowboy. He stood by a worn wooden fence, holding a coil of rope and gazing out at a field dotted with cattle. “I think you should do yours outside. Maybe with one of your planes.”
“Now that is an excellent idea.” If he had to spend hour upon hour posing for this asinine portrait, at least he could do it outside, in comfortable clothes. And when it was done, his portrait would stand out among the coat-and-tie Statler men hanging in his mother’s library. “Call the Van Zandt woman and tell her I’ve decided what I want. Make arrangements for her to meet me at dawn at my house—you remember how to get there, right?”
“Yes, but why don’t you call her yourself?”
“That’s what I hired you for,” he quipped.
The fact of the matter was, Bridget unsettled him. He would undoubtedly be spending a good deal of time with her, and he intended to keep their relationship cool and professional. He was sure that was how she wanted it, too.
DAWN. Dawn! What had Bridget been thinking to blithely agree to such insanity? She couldn’t possibly be presentable by 7:00 a.m., not if she had to stick her head in the toilet every five minutes. Unfortunately she didn’t have Nick’s home phone number, so she couldn’t call and cancel. She would just have to pull herself together or stand him up, one of the two.
Dripping from her shower, she glared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and her skin was pale. Makeup helped, but not much. She threw on the first clothes she could find, a pair of faded jeans and a white ribbed shirt.
Then she remembered that Liz had said the shirt made her breasts look bigger. Forget that. She didn’t want Nick to think she was advertising. Initially she’d been intrigued by him—and still thought he was gorgeous—but since the Oilman’s Ball she’d put any thoughts about getting to know him better right out of her mind.
She chose a red cotton blouse and a studded denim vest instead. By the time she’d dried her hair she felt almost presentable, though certainly far from her best. She tied her hair back with a red ribbon.
What did it matter, anyway? she grumbled as she gathered her sketch pad and pencils, a Polaroid camera, some light-reflecting boards, and an industrial-size bottle of Tums. He didn’t have to look at her while she was painting him. And since he was the one who had specified this uncivilized hour, he could suffer the consequences.
Over the past few weeks Bridget had scoped out all of Oaksboro for every gas station and convenience store with a decent bathroom. She plotted her route to Nick’s house so that several of these nausea-friendly pit stops were on the way. She stopped three times and still was only ten minutes late when she pulled into the driveway.
His house was beautiful, she noted with some surprise. She’d been expecting to see something in the same state of disrepair as his business. But this charming, white frame house looked as if every square inch was lovingly cared for, right down to the marigolds and zinnias in the front flower beds.
That was all the time she had to study Nick’s domicile. He burst out the front door as soon as her car pulled up, and all her attention became focused on him.
“You’re late,” he said in lieu of a greeting as she got out of the car. He seemed more anxious than irritated, though.
“I apologize,” she said in a carefully neutral tone, mindful of the negative impact anger could have on her body chemistry. She offered no explanation for her tardiness. For some reason the thought of Nick knowing she’d succumbed to something as weak and…female as morning sickness filled her with apprehension.
She started toward her trunk, where her supplies were stored, but he grabbed her arm. “No time for that. I want you to see something before the light is ruined. Come on.”
He more or less dragged her along the red brick path that went around the house. The path was uneven, making her glad she’d decided against hose and heels this morning. She was having enough trouble in her sneakers.
From the backyard they climbed over a wooden fence. That’s when Bridget saw what he wanted her to see. Parked in the middle of a field was a brightly painted World War I biplane. Behind it the rising sun cast a pink glow over a grove of pecan trees.
Dew soaked through Bridget’s canvas shoes as they made their way closer, through tall, pale-green grass. They stopped a few feet from the plane, and she simply stared, drinking it all in—the mists rising from the wet grass; the shiny, dew-dappled plane gleaming red, yellow and green; the pink and orange sky gradually giving way to blue.
“What do you think?”
She had no words to describe her awe. The scene he’d orchestrated was breathtaking, better than anything she could have imagined. All it lacked was him.
“Go stand by the plane,” she said.
“Oh, but I’m not really—”
“Just do it.”
“Okay.” He walked over and stood in front of the plane’s wing.
Bridget held up the thumb and forefinger of both hands, forming a rectangle in the air. She came closer, until Nick filled the frame, then backed away slightly so that she could see enough of the plane to identify it, and a bit of trees and sky in the background.
The light was the best part. That misty, early-morning light would make this portrait her masterpiece. That, and the subject himself. His had to be the most intensely interesting face she’d ever painted. So many facets to his personality. So many layers. As little time as she’d spent with him, she knew that about him.
“So, what do you think?” he asked impatiently, as if he was eager for her to approve.
She started to answer. Then she got a whiff of something—gasoline, motor oil. Her stomach roiled like an ocean during a hurricane. She held on to a brief hope that she could contain the nausea, then abandoned it. She was going to hurl.
She looked around frantically for somewhere to hide herself, but there wasn’t a bush or tree within twenty yards. So she turned without explanation and fled toward the house, praying Nick wasn’t the kind of man who locked his doors whenever he stepped outside.
Unfortunately she didn’t make it as far as the house. She slid behind a wisteria bush and retched. There was nothing in her stomach, but she convulsed violently.
She heard Nick come up behind her and fervently wished the earth would swallow her up.
“Bridget?” His voice sounded full of concern, and at that moment she both hated and appreciated him. Appreciated him for caring. Hated him for seeing her like this, crouching in the bushes sicker than a dog. How humiliating!
“I’m fine, just give me a minute.” She took several deep breaths and promptly passed out.
When she came to, probably only a few seconds later, she was being held in a pair of strong and utterly secure arms. She stifled the urge to insist that Nick put her down. For one thing she felt weak as a baby bunny, and she wasn’t completely sure she could stand unless someone staked her up. For another it felt good to lie back and just let him take charge.
Nick was warm, and he smelled like the country and morning sunshine—the way her cotton clothes smelled if she dried them on a clothesline. She pressed her face against his shirt and closed her eyes again.
He didn’t stop until he’d carried her all the way to his back porch, and then he paused only long enough to elbow the door open. Once inside, he set her down on a big, striped sofa as gently as if she were an armload of eggs.
She opened her eyes and blinked at him.
“Thank God. You’re awake. Are you okay? What am I saying, of course you’re not okay. You fainted.” He ran his hands through his thick, chestnut hair.
Bridget thought irrelevantly that he was adorable