hitched her bag higher onto her shoulder.
Zach took it from her and said, “We can come back for this.”
“But—”
“Isn’t the tape recorder enough?”
She studied it. Why did she need anything else right now? “Yes. I guess it is.”
Zach hung her bag from a fencepost and started to amble along the side of the corral.
Her wistful glance lingered on her bag. She didn’t need it at the moment, but this interview seemed to be moving out of her control. But that wasn’t Zach’s fault, really, was it? Lee had done that to her. He’d rattled her.
Struggling to regain some semblance of her identity as a reporter, she asked, “What motivates you, Zach?”
He swept his arm wide. “This is it—all the motivation I need.”
They rounded the back of the stable and started into a field. Nadine pointed to the low mountain in the distance. “I recognize that. That’s what you were working on in the studio.”
He nodded. “My favorite part of the ranch. The view from the top is spectacular. We’ll head up there at some point. You need to see it to understand my paintings.”
She stumbled and he caught her elbow. “Okay?”
When she was steady, she shied away from his firm touch. “I blame the mismatched boots.”
He frowned. “Do you want to go back for yours?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. What do you see when you look at your land?”
“I imagine the same thing you do. Maybe my brain interprets it differently, that’s all.”
She stopped. “You aren’t giving me much.”
He held up his hands, palms out. “What do you want me to say? I see the land. I paint it. It’s that simple.”
Nadine struggled to rein in her frustration. Maybe she wasn’t asking the right questions. “But where does the depth come from?”
“From a love of the land.”
If he didn’t give her more than one-sentence answers and circular explanations, she wasn’t going to end up with much of an article. She glanced around.
“Tell me,” he said. “What do you see?”
“A pretty landscape, but what I see doesn’t matter, does it? This article will be about you. How does the vision for your paintings develop?”
“It doesn’t develop. It just is.”
“Do you mean you see the world differently than other people do?”
“Differently than you do, that’s for certain,” he said under his breath. “When I’m out on my own, I’m aware of every little thing. I can’t be articulate and poetic about the land. Words aren’t my forte. Painting is. So how can I describe the process to you when there isn’t one, when what you see on my canvasses is the answer to all of your questions?”
She frowned. At least he was talking more. “I can’t write an article on so flimsy an account. I can’t just publish photographs of your work.”
“Why not?”
“Because the public wants to know who you are, the man behind the paintings.”
“Everyone in Rodeo already knows who I am.”
“The Rodeo Wrangler’s readership spreads through the entire county. You know that.”
“They don’t need me to explain my paintings to them.”
“That’s my job. I can explain that to them.”
“I doubt it. You don’t know me from Adam.”
She choked out a sound of frustration. “That’s why I’m here today. To get to know you better.”
He didn’t respond.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you what I saw while you were painting.” She sensed Zach becoming still beside her, but she pushed on. “I saw such intensity. You don’t seem like an emotional man, but I sensed an emotional connection to the land.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“But it’s also a spiritual connection, I think. You looked...at peace, Zach.”
If she sounded a little envious, it was because she felt that way. How did a person find that connection to the world? How did a person find where they belonged?
In New York City, Nadine. Remember?
Nope. Not anymore. She brushed aside the sadness that thought brought on, ruthless in her need to deny and forget.
Her stomach rumbled. She had a bad habit of skipping breakfast before heading out to interview or write an article. This morning had been no different.
Zach heard and steered them back toward the house. “Sorry about the painting. I took so long we’re going to miss some of today’s interview time. Dad will have lunch ready by now.”
“But I need more, Zach.”
“I understand. You’ll get more. You’re coming back tomorrow to ride, remember?”
He grinned and she swore her heartbeat stuttered.
But she wanted this all settled quickly. As much as she wanted to avoid Lee’s angle, she couldn’t. Only when it was written and published could she move forward. One more life destroyed. But it was the price she had to pay if she wanted her life back. Wasn’t it?
Oh, God.
Her fingers tingled with the need to learn the awful secret and type up everything, finish the article and then crawl into bed to hide from the fallout that was sure to follow. How had her life become so screwed up?
They entered the house together. Zach toed off his cowboy boots while Nadine left the rubber boots he’d given her neatly on a mat.
“Lunch is ready,” his father called from the back of the house.
Zach led her to the kitchen where the two boys already waited at a large wooden table. Three other places had been set. Zach pulled out a chair for her and she sat.
While Zach and Rick served canned tomato soup and basic grilled cheese sandwiches, Nadine thought back to some of the amazing sandwiches she’d had in New York City with all of its different restaurants and cuisines. This didn’t begin to compare.
Zach sat down and met her eye. Had he guessed what she was thinking? She should be careful that she didn’t let that kind of attitude bleed through. Why should she compare the two? Rodeo, Montana, was valid in its own right. She’d been raised on canned soup and white bread sandwiches, even if her tastes had changed.
Fortunately these days, she could indulge her new tastes at the Summertime Diner. Violet Summer did an amazing job of elevating old classics.
Who knew? Someday Nadine might be working for Vy. If Nadine couldn’t get the information Lee wanted, she could kiss her career goodbye, a thought that pained her deep in her soul. She probably would end up working as a waitress for Vy.
Not that there was anything wrong with the job, but it wouldn’t fill her passion for reporting, interviewing and writing, would it?
She wasn’t meant to do anything other than report on people, places and things. Journalism had saved her life. It had made her adolescence bearable. It had made life with her aunt less devastating.
How could she give it up now? Writing was her only purpose in life. Her passion. Without it, she would be aimless and lost.
A part of her would die.
Throughout