created with the same technique, fitting hundreds of tiny sticks together to produce a unified whole.
Jess ran a finger along the fish’s spine. “Incredible detail.”
On the next table there was a stalking wolf, almost half life-size, and a rabbit stretched out at a run, both executed with enormous visual talent and technical precision. Walking around the room, she appreciated the many hours Dylan had poured into these sculptures. That bear she’d seen in the living room at the house had been an early prediction of this full-blown talent. No doubt there would be many buyers for these beautiful works of art.
But... She covered her eyes with her shaking fingers.
The response of the art world Dylan had once conquered would be scathing. Cruel. Because of who he’d been and what he’d done, when the critics evaluated these pieces, they would laugh. Then attack.
And her article, the one Trevor Galleries had sponsored as a comeback announcement, would be the call to arms.
Jess dropped her hands to her sides and shook her head. “Artistic suicide.”
Why would Patricia Trevor, the owner of the gallery, choose this kind of work to exhibit? Her showrooms were known for presenting avant-garde, cutting-edge art. Surely Dylan was aware of that. Why would he expose himself to ridicule this way?
From the loft above, she heard the shower cut off. He would be coming down soon, wanting to get her reaction to his pieces. Expecting her to appreciate his output of the past two years.
She needed some time to frame a response. Panicked, Jess ducked under the loft and headed for the shadows along the rear wall of the barn. One of the tables she passed held small clay figures, probably models he’d made as he planned the larger wooden pieces. The entire surface of another table was stacked high with books—anatomy manuals, collections of wildlife photographs, volumes on working with wood, finishes and stains.
The table in the corner under the stairs was illuminated by a large hanging light and covered with sheets of paper. These were his sketches, Jess realized as she came closer, three-dimensional drawings of animals in different poses, from different angles. Some of the studies she recognized from the sculptures she’d already viewed, but not all. He clearly had ideas for more work.
Footsteps sounded on the floor above her. “Be down in a couple of minutes,” Dylan called. “Just making myself presentable.”
“No problem,” Jess said loudly. “Take your time.” She’d inadvertently glanced up as she spoke, but as she brought her gaze down again, a picture on the wall behind the drawing table caught her attention. She hadn’t noticed any other hanging art in the studio, so this one must be important.
The drawing was deceptively simple—a woman with a baby in her lap. Looking from behind the woman, over her shoulder, the viewer could see the very young child with its feet tucked against the mother’s belly, its head resting on her knees and its tiny hands curled around her two middle fingers.
It’s a boy, Jess decided. Something about the baby’s face convinced her of that fact. The delicate lines and shadings were so persuasive, so filled with emotion, she felt as if she was indeed standing in that room, visiting with mother and child. She could almost hear the woman’s voice, singing a nonsense song, and her son’s infant gurgle in response.
Suddenly, Dylan spoke from right behind her. “What in the world are you doing back here?”
* * *
JESS GRANGER WHIRLED to face him, her mouth and eyes wide with surprise. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
He hadn’t expected her to get this far into the studio. No one but him came into this space. “I can be sneaky. There’s nothing important here in the dark under the stairs.”
“Except for this wonderful sketch.” She nodded toward the frame on the wall. “Is it yours?”
“No.” Dylan pulled together a bunch of the papers spread over his drawing table and started to straighten them. He shouldn’t be such a slob, especially with nosy reporters showing up to investigate.
She wouldn’t let the subject drop. “It’s not signed. Did you know the artist? Have they done other work?”
How was he going to get out of this? “We’re here to talk about sculpture, right?”
“Right, but—” She gasped and then leaned over to pick up one of the papers on the table. “What’s this?”
He saw the sketch and swore silently. “Not much. Just an...idea I was playing with.”
When he reached for the sheet, she held it away from him. “This is your brother. Wyatt, right?”
“At least you recognize him.” He wasn’t sure how to get the drawing away from her, short of wrestling her to the floor.
And now she was in full journalist mode. “Are you working on this as a sculpture?”
“Just considering it.”
“You haven’t started. Why not?”
“What did you think of the stuff that’s done?” Dylan said desperately. “Isn’t that what you’re here to write about?”
“It is.” She blew out a breath and put the sketch on the table. “But you won’t want to talk about that, either.” Stepping around him, she went toward the main part of the studio. Dylan followed, as prepared as he could be for what lay head.
“These are fantastic sculptures,” she said, walking along the line of display tables to survey the various pieces. “Lovely representations of the wildlife you obviously value.”
“But?”
“But, Dylan, this is nothing like the abstract work you were doing in college and afterward—the cerebral, confrontational pieces that got you noticed. You know as well as I do, the art that gets talked about isn’t a reproduction of reality. Nobody on the international art scene will be interested in a statue of a buffalo.”
Truth, with a vengeance. He shrugged. “That’s not my problem. This is what I came home to do. I won’t apologize for it.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. The question is, what am I doing here? Any article I write about your new style is going to bring down catastrophe on your head.” She paused for a moment. “And mine, for that matter. My editor will not appreciate a neat-and-tidy piece about a wildlife artist. It’s just not what Renown readers expect.”
“I can understand that.” He stroked a hand over the head of a fox on the table near him. “So cancel the article.” That would mean she had no reason to stay, of course. He didn’t acknowledge the sense of loss that realization stirred inside him.
But Jess was shaking her head. “Magazine issues are planned long in advance. I’ve got a certain amount of space in this issue. I have to write an article. And after my last assignment...well, I need to turn in good copy.”
“What happened?”
She gave a dismissive wave. “I showed up to interview the next country music legend and found him having an alcohol-fueled meltdown. Smashing guitars, punching walls, throwing furniture. I waited two days for him to sober up. But then all he wanted to do was get me into bed. My editor was not happy. I need to revive my career with this piece.”
“No pressure there.” Now he felt responsible to help her keep her job.
“Exactly. Anyway, Trevor Galleries paid for ad space because we were doing an article on you. It’s a complicated relationship, advertising and content.” She continued walking, examining his work.
“No,” she said, finally, “you won’t be coming back to the contemporary art scene. Not with these sculptures. I’m going to have to find some way to slant this, make it work for my editor. I’ll have to find another hook.” She stared at him with a worried frown. “Any ideas?”