Unconventional Series Collection (25 page)

Jenny straightened one of her paintings hanging
in the gallery. She considered it to be her finest. Her other painting, a field
of sunflowers swaying in the wind, with a waterfall splashing off cliffs into a
raging river, had been the product of her imagination.

The first painting—sunrise over her parents'
cabin, with maple and oak trees hugging surrounding hills and mist clinging to
the road leading to their cabin—made her homesick. She loved the picture and
had poured her heart into every stroke.

Finally, she sighed and left the gallery,
calling goodbyes to fellow students preparing their allotted spaces for the
evening's event. She would return later to stand proudly beside her paintings
hoping attendees would not only enjoy her depictions, but
feel
them in
the depths of their souls.

Back at her tiny flat located in a respectable
section of town, thanks to the generosity of her brother who had insisted on
paying not only half of her two year tuition for the academy—her father
insisting on paying the other half—but also her living expenses while in New
York, she viewed the dresses hanging in her armoire with distaste. She wished
she had considered what to wear for her special night before now. It was too
late to shop for a pretty dress. Besides that, she had already spent her
monthly living allowance on more art supplies.

Sighing heavily, she reached for her nicest
dress, a simple cut calico shirtwaist with cuffed three-quarter length sleeves
that was a little too big because excitement and nervousness had caused her to
lose weight after coming to New York. Reaching to the shelf above the armoire,
she pulled down her white bonnet, remembering with fondness her mother tying
ribbons under her chin when she was a child and reinforcing the fact that a
lady
always
covered her head when going outdoors. Jenny suddenly had a
vision of Prisca in her fancy urban hat with feathers and bows.
Maybe
someday I'll wear a hat with feathers.
The thought made her giggle.

* * *

Jake Ryder wanted to order his horseman to turn
the carriage around and return to the seclusion of his mansion, but he had
promised his partner, Jonas "Soaring Eagle" Winston that he would
attend this year's gala showcasing the artwork of talented students attending
their academy.
Talented? Yes. Gifted? No.
Jake knew there was a huge
difference. At one time he had been talented, but circumstances had caused him
to develop his gift.

In a moment of time, flashes of his many works
passed before his eyes and the familiar depression clutched his heart, making
him ill-tempered.
I just want this night to be over.

Adjusting his perfectly tailored black suit jacket
with tails and matching vest embroidered with golden thread, he made sure the
sleeve on the side of his missing arm was secured to the pocket of the jacket.
He hated when the sleeve flapped. He had fired more than one tailor for
botching that part of his instructions.

His driver opened the door of his modern
carriage and he hopped down holding the head of a cane carved into the likeness
of a viper's head about to strike, with the length simulating that of an
undulating serpent.

Immediately upon entering the gallery, he was
greeted by Jonas. His friend said, "Ryder, I'm happy to see you attending
this year's event. I hope this portends frequent visits to the academy."

With a grin that held no amusement, he
responded, "Don't count on it. I almost had my man turn the damn carriage
around."

Unfazed by his harsh words, Jonas replied,
"Well, at least pretend you're having fun and say nice things to the
students. They
do
pay to attend our academy."

Ryder rolled his eyes. "I'll do my
damnedest, but I can't promise niceties."

"That's all I ask," Jonas said softly,
and patted Ryder on the shoulder of his good arm. "Before you leave, I'd
like you to view Jenny Samson's work. Remember, I told you about her. I think
she's extremely talented and I want to hear your impression of her paintings.
She's easy to spot with her white bonnet."

"Sure. Sure."

At that moment, one of the art world's
socialites, a beautiful woman who had been trying to get Ryder into her bed for
years, entered the gallery.

"Ryder, I'm so happy to see you," she
gushed. "I heard you were back from an extended stay in Europe. We really
must
get together."

The meaning behind her words and flirty stare
were not lost on Ryder. The last thing he wanted to do was kindle a
relationship with Adele Wainscot. She may be beautiful, but she was probably
the shallowest woman he had ever had the displeasure of knowing.

He replied, "Good evening, Adele. I hope
you enjoy this year's showing by our most talented artisans." Abruptly, he
said, "If you will excuse me, I must perform my duties and introduce
myself to the students since I have yet to meet them, having been out of the
country." Ryder stepped away from Jonas and Adele, but not before
observing her displeasure at being rebuffed and Jonas' amusement of his discomfiture.

Finding his way to a waiter balancing a tray of
flutes filled with red wine, he grabbed one, sipped, and was immediately
pounced on by more socialites, male and female. After half an hour of
meaningless talk, he excused himself and started perusing the artwork lining
the gallery and introducing himself to awestruck students. As he had known, the
students were all talented, but not gifted. There was no spark in their art that
called to his inner being.

He was impressed, however, by a boy, probably around
twelve, who had sculpted a pack of wild horses. Under the right tutelage, the
child could turn his talent into a gift. Ryder made a mental note to mention
the boy to Jonas and ask that he be set up for lessons with Michael Santos, a
premier sculptor who owed Ryder a favor. When he paused before the boy's work,
whose name was posted on the stand supporting the sculpture, he said,
"Nathaniel Marsh, when did you first discover you wanted to sculpt?"

The boy gulped and his Adam's apple bobbed.
"You're Mr. Jake Ryder, ain't ya?"

"I am. Now answer my question."

"I was five and playin' in the mud makin'
figures of my daddy's horse."

Ryder pondered the boy's response. "Did
your daddy like your mud figures?"

"No sir, he tossed them on the ground after
they dried and they broke all to pieces."

"So how is it that you continued to
sculpt?"

"My mama told my pa that if he ever broke
any of my figures again she wouldn't let him in her bed."

There wasn't much that shocked Ryder, but the
boy's answer made him choke on his wine. After he'd regained his composure, he
laughed a real laugh, something he hadn't done in a long time.

Nathaniel stuck out his hand. "I'm right pleased
ta meet ya, Mr. Ryder."

"Son, I'd be pleased if you'd call me Ryder
and forget the Mister, part." Ryder shook the boy's hand. Yes, he would
call in that favor to make sure the kid got lessons from a true master.

After leaving Nathaniel, Ryder determined he'd
stayed long enough. He wanted to escape the gallery because of the oppression
he always felt around artists. He was about to retrace his steps to the
entrance when he remembered Jonas' request that he view the paintings by Jenny
Samson. Sighing, he walked further into the gallery.

Because the placement of the artists was
determined by lot and not talent, he realized that Jenny had received the least
desirable location. Stepping around a wall, he walked toward the back and saw
the girl's profile before he saw her paintings. She was typical of a country
bred girl with her unbecoming dress and unstylish bonnet. She was the kind of
young woman he used to paint when he traveled the land. Despondency stabbed his
heart knowing he could never again capture the western woman on canvas. Jenny
Samson was the country girl personified.

He glanced from Jenny to her paintings and
stopped in his tracks. The scenes she had created were so flawlessly executed
and sweet as to make him angry. Life was not sweet or innocent or perfect or kind.
Life was harsh and cruel.

Without thought, he said loud enough for her to
hear, "Your paintings are artlessly poetic. Perhaps in time you will
reveal yourself to have a gift, rather than talent."

Looking back at the girl who was now looking at
him, his heart thumped. She was not lovely, nor pretty, but her eyes captured
and held his soul within their sapphire depths. For a long time, they just stared
at each other, and then a tiny tear grew larger before trickling down her
cheek. Ryder fought an overwhelming urge to touch the drop with the tip of his
finger and taste it.

The girl swiped the tear away. "I have
longed to meet the great Jake Ryder. Now I wish I never had."

Ryder responded, "It appears you have yet
to learn the first lesson in life, Miss Samson—No one is great." He turned
and walked away.

Jenny's mind wandered back to her encounter with
the great Jake Ryder.
No, not great—mean and hurtful.
The awful tears
threatened to spill over again. For the week since Mr. Ryder's cruel words, her
wayward emotions had refused to come under control. Apparently, her despondency
wasn't lost on her instructor, Mrs. Whipple, who said with concern in her
voice, "Jenny, could you stay for a minute after class?"

While Jenny waited after class for Mrs. Whipple
to finish speaking with the youngest student in the school, Nathaniel Marsh,
she heard again that accusing voice in her head.
If Jake Ryder hates your
paintings, you might as well give up and go home. You might as well marry Tate
Brandon and have twelve kids. You might as well…"

"Jenny?" Her teacher tapped her shoulder.

"Oh, sorry, ma'am. I guess I was
daydreaming."

Mrs. Whipple scrutinized Jenny's face and then
asked kindly, "Jenny is everything all right? You haven't been yourself
for several days. Did something happen to upset you?"

Jenny glanced sideways and tried with all her
might to keep a tear from leaking; to no avail. Mrs. Whipple saw it.
"Honey, tell me what's wrong."

The genuine concern of her teacher was Jenny's
undoing and she started spilling all the hurt she had been trying to cover up.

* * *

Ryder walked into the drawing room of his
country estate on the outskirts of New York and said, "Jonas, it's eight
o'clock on Saturday for god's sake. What has you up and pounding on my door so
early?" He motioned for his friend to sit, but the look on Jonas' face alerted
him to the fact that this was not a social call. "What's up?" he
repeated hesitantly.

""What's up is that I'd like to punch
you in the mouth."

"And the reason for that is…?" Ryder
walked to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantle. Although he had an
idea as to the reason, he waited to hear it.

"How could you be so callous? Do you
realize Jenny Samson is one of the most talented artists we've ever had the
pleasure of training and now she's considering leaving the academy. And do you
know why?" Jonas answered his own question. "Hell yes, you know why!
Because you let your mouth override your intelligence. She told Hattie Whipple
that if Jake Ryder sees no potential in her paintings, there's no reason for
her to continue her lessons. Have you any inkling of how much you've hurt that
girl?"

"I never said she had no potential."

"Well, what the hell did you say?"

With a guilty look, he responded, "I simply
said her paintings were artlessly poetic."

Jonas looked like he was about to explode.
"Pray tell, what does that mean?"

"It means she might as well write syrupy
poetry, that's how disgustingly sweet her paintings are. They carry no emotion
other than…sweet," he finished lamely.

Jonas' eyes widened. "That is absolutely
the biggest crock of shit I have ever heard."

Ryder turned angry eyes on him. "How can I
expect you to understand? You're not an artist. You could never know–"

"Spare me your explanation. You need to
make things right with Jenny. The world will lose a great artist if she up and
quits because of your callousness." With a final glare, Jonas stormed out
of the room and slammed the door.

Ryder watched him go but didn't make a move to
follow. After the door slammed, he hung his head. When his friend had arrived
he had instinctively known the visit was because of Jenny Samson. Hell, her
hurt expression and words had been haunting his dreams since he'd stupidly
opened his mouth.

After crashing his fist on the mantle, he
returned to his room, called his valet to help him dress for an outing, and
then asked his butler to have his driver prepare his carriage and bring it
around. He needed to visit the school to find out Miss Samson's address and
then eat crow.

By eleven, Ryder's driver had pulled to the
front of Jenny Samson's building. He was relieved that she lived in a decent
section of town. For some of the students, after paying their tuition, there
wasn't much money left for appropriate housing. Although the school assisted as
much as possible, there was only so much they could do. They barely made a
profit as it was. When Ryder had suggested closing the school after his
accident, Jonas had refused to listen. Instead, he had reminded Ryder that
their academy was the only one of its caliber with at least a reasonable
tuition and scholarships for the poorest students. After that, Ryder had
dropped the subject and fallen into an abyss of self-pity and depression. Thereafter,
he'd traveled to Europe to socialize among the elite and listen to accolades
over his paintings hanging in the estates of rich and titled gentry. After two
years of that nonsense, he'd returned to New York and holed up in his mansion.
At one point, he'd tried to paint with his left hand, but given up, throwing
the paints across the room and stomping on the canvas. Now, at the age of
thirty-four, his life was an endless ocean of self-defeat and melancholia.

Stepping from his coach, he made sure his empty
sleeve was attached to the pocket of his jacket, set his top hat on his head,
and approached the building. Entering the foyer, he searched the mail slots
until he found Jenny's name to ensure she truly lived there.

Following the stairs to the third floor, he
determined which direction to turn in the hallway and then walked halfway down.
When he knocked on Jenny's door, part of him hoped she wouldn't answer, but the
other part just wanted to get his apology over with so he could return to his
fortress and hide from the world.

The door opened.

* * *

Jenny opened her door expecting it to be
Nathaniel. Over the months, they had become friends and developed the habit of
lunching together every Saturday at Jenny's flat. Nate, as he liked being
called, always brought bread for their simple meal. Jenny knew he had very
little money and had lived in an orphanage since the age of nine. She had
visited him there a few times and learned that he was beloved by the nuns, who
spoke of his artistic ability as being a gift from God. Sister Theresa was the
one who had approached the academy pleading for a scholarship for him.

Jenny said as she opened the door, "Nate, I
got us a special treat…" Her eyes widened when she recognized her visitor.

"Miss Samson, I apologize for calling on
you unexpectedly, but there is a matter of urgency that I must speak with you
about. When I entered the building, I noticed there is a drawing room
downstairs, would you accompany me there?"

"You can come into my room, Mr.
Ryder."

"No. I would not want my visit to be
misconstrued by your neighbors."

Confused by his presence, she said, "Very
well."

Mr. Ryder motioned for her to lead the way to
the drawing room. With her heart in her throat and the sound of her blood
pounding in her ears, Jenny felt like a convicted felon marching to her
execution. When they reached the drawing room, Mr. Ryder politely held the door
for her.

Jenny lowered herself nervously onto the settee
and hoped she didn't look as alarmed by his presence as she felt. Mr. Ryder
perched his tall frame at the edge of a chair across from her and she tried to
avoid his eyes, but like a magnet, she was drawn to them, their gray color
similar to that of a brewing storm.

He cleared his throat. "Miss Samson, I have
come to apologize for my unseemly behavior and remarks during the gallery
exhibition. What I said was inappropriate and–"

Jenny interrupted. "Please do not apologize.
Although I was hurt at the time, I have come to realize the truth in your
words. I have decided to return home–"

He interrupted. "That would be foolish. You
have a talent that–"

"I do not believe you."

"Why do you doubt me?"

"Because you are a man of forthrightness;
you would not have spoken thus if it were not true."

* * *

Ryder ran his hand through his hair in
frustration. The woman was pushing him to his limits. Why couldn't she just
accept his words and not make him explain his insensitive behavior. Besides
that, her blue eyes were beautiful and made him uncomfortable in their
scrutiny.

When she started to protest again, he lifted a
hand to stay her response. He had no alternative but to bare his soul.
"Please listen. You have talent and I was wrong to criticize. With
continued effort you–"

The girl interrupted again. "According to
you, talent is not enough. I must have a gift to–"

"Damn it! Stop interrupting. I believe you
have a gift. When I first saw your paintings they reminded me of…hell, they
reminded me of my own paintings when I was your age. They're sweet and depict a
world of perfection. They will sell well and you will make a fortune. Finish
your studies at the academy and I'll give you introductions to the best
galleries. Do you understand what I'm offering you?" he finished,
exasperated.

The chit replied softly, "I do not want
your charity. I do not want to be talented. What must I do to paint like
you?"

Pain lanced Ryder's heart because of his
inability to recreate the visions in his mind since his accident, but he
answered her nonetheless. "Learn the secrets of light and shadow and your
paintings will touch the hearts of those fortunate enough to view them."

The girl's eyes rounded, their irises increasing
in blueness. Barely above a whisper she beseeched, "Teach me."

Now it was Ryder's turn to look at her with
astonishment. "Impossible. I do not paint and I do not teach."

"But you have the school–"

"For others to teach. I repeat, I do not
teach." The pain of speaking to this persistent girl was weighing on Ryder
and he wanted nothing more than to escape her presence and youthful desires. He
wished he had never seen her or her paintings. "I must leave," he
said, and stood to go.

"You are a cruel man, Mr. Ryder."

Ryder frowned and paused. "I just
apologized and revealed things I never expose to anyone. If you want more
accolades over your artwork, you'll not receive them from me."

"I care not for accolades. I only care for
the art. You are cruel because you dangle the carrot in front of me only to
snatch it away. I want to learn what you have discovered."

"I do not teach," he emphasized again,
and turned toward the door.

"How did you learn?"

Her words made him pause. Reaching for the
handle, he said, "I painted the light, then I lived the darkness and
painted them both together." He stepped through the door, his thoughts
morose.
And now I live in darkness, unable to balance it with light.