Nocturne (7 page)

June 12, 1867,

Fish Creek, Colorado

Still cloudy and overcast. Caught two wild horses yesterday, a stallion and a mare, which I hope to train and breed. Will keep them in the round pen until I build a barn. This valley is the ideal spot for them to

Her reading was interrupted by the sound of a truck approaching and the automatic garage door opening. Nicole quickly replaced the journals on the shelves, heat rising to her face; she doubted Michael would approve of her reading these private documents. She hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

A door slammed on the lower level. Nicole found Michael in the mud room, hanging up his black parka by the back door. He was wearing a long-sleeve blue work shirt, his usual jeans, and a pair of square-toed, dirt-encrusted black leather boots with scarred heels and toes.

At the sight of him, Nicole felt all lit up inside—ridiculously happy—as if it had been days since she’d last seen him instead of just overnight. She hadn’t forgotten how good-looking he was, or the effect he had on her.

Her intended bright greeting, however, died on her lips when she saw the look on his face. It was remote, withdrawn, impassive.

“How’s the head?” He pronounced the greeting with such indifferent politeness, she sensed he didn’t really care about the answer.

“Better. Thanks,” she replied uncertainly.

“Good.”

He didn’t say another word, just sat down on the bench and removed his dirty boots, exchanging them for sneakers, without even glancing in her direction.

Nicole’s heart lurched with disappointment. She felt as awkward again as she had when she first arrived. The man who’d talked with her so congenially for hours last night, and had later looked at her with such intensity in his eyes, had once again disappeared behind his stony, breathtakingly handsome exterior.

Why? she wondered. What had she done? Or did it have nothing to do with her at all? Could it be that this brilliant, highly successful author was just an eccentric and socially un-graceful hermit? She suddenly became determined to break through that icy shell. Somehow, she’d keep a conversation going, even if it killed her.

“So,” she said, “were you out clearing your roads again?”

“That, and taking care of the horses.”

“Horses?” She should have guessed that Michael would have horses. The main characters in his books often loved the horses they owned or cared for, and even great-great-great grandpa what’s-his-name had apparently raised and trained them.

“I just keep two,” he said matter-of-factly. “They live in the barn down in the valley at the back side of my hill. I have to feed them twice a day, snowstorm or no snowstorm.”

Michael stood up and started past her toward the open doorway. Nicole cast about for a way to engage him further. “You must be freezing. Can I make you a cup of coffee? All I could find was instant, but with a couple of dozen sugar cubes, a sprinkle of verve, and a dash of imagination, it actually tasted pretty decent.”

Michael paused and looked back at her, a smile tugging at his lips which he seemed to be struggling to contain. “No thank you. I don’t drink coffee. I keep the instant for my cleaning lady.”

“I could make tea, if you tell me where you hide it.”

“I think I’m out of tea.”

“An Englishman without tea. Now there’s a contradiction in terms. How will you survive?”

“In difficult times, we all must learn to make do.”

“Indeed. I had oatmeal for breakfast—not that you asked—and I’ve never much liked oatmeal. But that’s all there was.”

As if despite himself, his smile now broke out full force. “They say, never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

She shook her head, grinning back at him. “What does that even mean?”

“It’s a warning not to question the quality or use of a lucky chance or gift, but to appreciate the spirit behind it.”

“But what does it have to do with a horse?”

“A horse’s value is determined by its age, which can be roughly determined by examining its teeth. St. Jerome first said it in AD 400 in reply to his literary critics. I believe his exact words were, ‘Never inspect the teeth of a gift horse.’”

“How on earth do you know that?”

Michael shrugged. “I have no idea. But let it be a lesson to you.”

“Aye-aye, captain.” Nicole gave him a mock salute, pleased that he was talking to her again. “I will eat oatmeal every morning and be grateful for it. But what else do
you
eat? There’s no food in this house!”

“There’s food—I expect we’ll get by—I’ve just been preoccupied with writing lately, and didn’t plan for the storm. Had I known you were coming to visit, I would have given the matter more serious thought, I assure you.”

Nicole followed him into the hall, dying to ask about the journals in the study, but she decided not to mention them. Instead, she gestured toward one of the photographs on the wall—the one of the old bearded man beside a cabin. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: who’s the man in this old photo? Is he the guy who homesteaded this property?”

“Yes. He was the first Tyler to set foot in America.” Michael paused, then added, “Three generations of Tylers lived in that old cabin before I got here. I found those pictures in my grandfather’s trunk.”

“Who are the people and horses in the other pictures?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied quickly. “Probably some of the animals my grandfather and great grandfather trained over the years, and the clients he sold them to. I thought they were interesting, so I kept them.”

“They are interesting,” Nicole agreed. She wanted to study the pictures more closely, but Michael moved on to the mysterious door she’d been unable to open, and withdrew a set of keys from his pocket.

“I hope you’ll find some pleasant way to occupy yourself today,” he said, glancing her way with another brief smile.

Nicole sensed that he expected some equally polite response and that she’d be on her way. Instead, she blurted abruptly, “Why do you keep that room locked?”

“To keep my cleaning lady out.”

“Why? What do you keep in there? The skeletons of all your ex-wives?”

“Not all of them,” he replied, without missing a beat. “Just the last six or seven.”

“Six
or
seven?”

“I’ve lost count.”

“I’d love to see them. I’ve always had a deep interest in osteology.”

A smile took over his face. He jingled the keys in his hand, and she saw his mind working on the problem, the way he’d deliberated the night before when she’d brashly intruded into the private domain of his library. Finally, he inserted his key in the lock and opened the door. “I’m not deliberately trying to be rude. I’ve just never had anyone else in here before. You might find it boring, but you’re welcome to come in.”

CHAPTER 8

M
ICHAEL ENTERED, flipped on a light switch, and stood aside, motioning for her to join him. Nicole had no idea what to expect, nor any time to reflect on it. Entering the room, the first thing she became aware of was the pungent, fresh aroma of new wood, as if she’d entered a grove of trees. Looking about, she caught her breath in surprise.

It was a woodworking shop. Like the rest of the house, the spacious room was meticulously clean, and it was outfitted with a wealth of woodworking equipment—dozens of machines, saws, presses, and other things she didn’t know the names or functions of—some that looked new, and some that looked quite ancient. An array of cabinets and drawers was built in along one wall, and beside it—somewhat incongruously—stood a full-size refrigerator. A large pegboard held a neat display of

Scattered throughout the shop were several woodworking projects in different stages of completion. Among them were a small end table with scrolled legs, similar to the table and chairs in the kitchen, and an elegantly carved picture frame that appeared to be ready for painting or staining. Overwhelming all this was the delectable, balsam-flavored scent of cut wood, a fragrance that seemed almost visible, as if the trees were still alive and breathing around her.

“Michael, I had no idea,” was all she could think to say, hoping that her tone and expression gave some indication of her delight.

Her gaze fell on an object that lay atop the large workbench in the center of the room, and she crossed to it with a little gasp. It was a music box—at least, it would be a music box when it was completed—she felt certain of that. The bottom of the box was fully formed of unstained hardwood with delicately curved sides and corners. The lid was as yet unfinished and lying in pieces. She recognized the style of the craftsmanship and looked up at Michael in astonishment.

“You made most of the music boxes in the cabinet upstairs, didn’t you?”

He crossed the room and stopped at the edge of the workbench a few feet away. “Yes.”

“And the furniture in the house?”

“I made a lot of that, too.”

Nicole shook her head, awestruck. The man had so many talents. “When I admired them yesterday, why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged unpretentiously. “I wanted to, but . . .”

“Where do you find the time? You write a new book almost every year.”

“I can’t write 24/7. Everyone needs a hobby. And,” he added with a small smile, “I don’t have much of a social life. This keeps me busy, and I enjoy it.”

“Everything you make is so beautiful.”

“Thank you.” His blue eyes were humble but he seemed genuinely pleased.

A tray on the workbench held a variety of little templates and pieces of multicolored, precut wood. Nicole picked up a colored pencil sketch and studied it. “Is this the design for the lid?”

“Yes.”

The design featured a quill pen and ink pot in the center, surrounded by a rectangular border of alternating geometric shapes enclosed between thin black-and-white stripes.

“It’s so complex. I’ve never met anyone who did inlaid woodwork before. How do you do it?”

“It’s really not all that complicated. Would you like a demonstration?”

“I’d love one.”

Michael seemed delighted by her interest. “All right. We’ll make the inset band for the border.”

He explained what he was doing as he worked. First, he glued together three long, thin strips of wood in three different colors, melding them together like a sandwich.

“Now we cut this strip at a 45 degree angle into a few dozen small segments.” Fitting a hand saw into a contraption he called a miter box, Michael cut through the wooden strip as if it were butter.

Nicole stood beside him, her eyes drawn to his hands. They were beautiful, his fingers long and slender and uniquely masculine. Each slow, precise movement was the practiced effort of a skilled artisan.

Michael picked up the first product of the saw in his fingers, took Nicole’s left hand in his, and dropped something into her palm. The firm pressure of his hand on hers sent a shiver dancing up her arm, rearranging her heart rhythm, distracting her from the object she was supposed to be admiring.

She’d never felt such immediate, all-encompassing physical desire for a man before, and it was both startling and disconcerting. Yet she knew this desire was more than physical. She’d had a fierce crush on Patrick Spencer ever since she was a girl, based on the man she’d imagined him to be, inspired by his writing—and the man in the flesh was even more attractive and fascinating than she had envisioned.

“What do you think?” he asked, abruptly letting go of her hand.

Freed from his touch, she gave her attention to the tiny mosaic piece in her palm. It was no larger than her little fingernail, pyramid shaped, and made up of three ultrathin stripes of the different colors of wood.

“This is very cool,” Nicole said, willing her heart to regain its natural pace.

“We have to make a few dozen more just like that.” Michael flipped the wooden band over and sawed through it again and again, creating a succession of the tiny pieces.

“How do you know where to make the cut?”

“I just eyeball it. They’re going to vary a bit no matter what you do.”

“Where did you learn how to do this?”

“My father taught me. I’ve been working with wood ever since I was a child.”

“So you learned in England?”

“I did.”

Nicole watched him work, captivated—not so much by the activity but by his proximity, which was so intoxicating that she had to remind herself to keep breathing. Trying to distract herself through conversation, she asked, “You inherited this place from your grandfather, right?”

He nodded, his eyes on his work.

“If your grandparents lived here, how is it that you were raised in England?”

He hesitated before answering. “The Tyler who homesteaded this place—my great-great-great grandfather—emigrated from England. My own father was born here. One day, he decided to follow his roots. He went to England, where he met my mother. She disappeared soon after I was born. Dad raised me and taught me the woodworking skills he’d learned from my grandfather.”

“I see. And what happened to your father?”

“He got sick and died.” Impatiently, Michael went on: “My grandfather left this property to me, so I came to Colorado.”

Nicole’s heart went out to him. “So you never knew your mother or your grandfather?”

He frowned. “No.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s in the past. I don’t think about it.” Michael had sawed off more than two dozen little wooden pieces by now and paused, looking at her. “Would you like to try?”

“Sure.”

Michael handed her the small saw, which felt sturdy in her grip. Nicole fit what was left of the wooden band into the miter box, guessed at the proper point to begin, and started sawing. It took more arm strength than she’d anticipated—he’d made it look so simple—but it was such a little piece that she cut right through it.

“Easy, right?” he said.

“And fun.” She was delighted with her accomplishment. “Can I make a few more?”

“Be my guest.”

Nicole flipped the band over and continued sawing. She felt his eyes on her, studying her in a steady way that made it difficult to focus on the task at hand.
Careful, or you’ll saw your finger off
, she silently warned herself.

When she’d added several more pieces to the pile, Michael said, “I think we have enough. Now we sort them.” Spreading out the tiny wooden pyramids on the workbench, he added, “We just want the ones with the white stripe at the bottom and the bit of brown walnut at the top.”

As Nicole helped him sort through the pieces, their hands came close to touching several times. The mere anticipation of that contact caused a fluttering in Nicole’s stomach that mimicked the rapid cadence of her heart.

When they’d set aside the pieces he wanted, Michael showed her how to clean off the fuzz on the edges that had been left by the saw blade. “They have to be nice and smooth so there aren’t any gaps.”

Following his lead, Nicole picked up a tiny triangle and rubbed off the little wood fibers with her fingernails. Michael

Nicole blushed at the thought, which was most unlike her, and sought relief in conversation again. “So where did all these tools come from? Some of them look really old. Did they belong to your grandfather?”

“Some did. I bought the newer ones.”

“What about this house?”

“The house that Jack built?”

He said it with a teasing smile—referring, Nicole realized, to the funds generated by the sale of his Dr. Jack Barclay novels.

“You mentioned yesterday that you built this place ten years ago. You didn’t actually build the entire house
yourself
, did you?”

“No. That would require far more time and skill than I possess. I stick to furniture and music boxes. The box you were looking at yesterday, with the red rose design? That was one of the first boxes I ever made.”

“Really?” she replied, puzzled. “But that one looked like an antique. And I thought you said it was your father’s.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he responded quickly. “I was thinking of another box I made. Okay, these pieces are ready to go. The next part—the final step—is the best part.”

“What do we do?”

“We assemble all these bits into a nice geometric shape in between some strips of holly, and make a band.”

Michael glued together two more thin strips of wood—one white, one black. At his instruction, Nicole interlocked the tiny striped, triangular pieces in a straight line atop one of these wooden bases, creating a lovely pattern of alternating shapes and colors. Michael stood just behind her as she worked, looking over her shoulder and reaching around with his right hand to dab drops of glue in between each tiny pyramid as she added it.

He moved even closer now. Her breath caught as she felt the hard length of his body press up against her back, the weight of his muscled arm against hers, and the cool caress of his breath on her cheek. Rattled, Nicole struggled to concentrate on the delicate process at hand. He drew a zigzag of thick white glue across the entire geometric band they’d created, then placed the other band of white and black wood on top of it.

“Push all the pieces together now and hold them,” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough and deep, “until they’re nice and tight and locked in position.”

Still nestled against her, he reached around with his other arm, and both hands closed over hers. They sandwiched the fragments and strips of wood together, holding them in place for a long moment—a span that might have been a minute or two, but was so awash with erotic sensation, it felt to Nicole like a dizzying eternity. Her fingers were wet with glue. His fingers, pressed tightly against hers, were equally moist and slippery. She felt the warm roughness of his cheek pressed against hers. Against her back, she could feel each breath he took, each tightening of the muscles in his arms and chest, each thudding beat of his heart. Even the fluorescent lights above seemed to

“Hold tight to that,” Michael said softly. “We have to clamp it together.”

Without changing his body position, he grabbed two small clamps from the workbench and expertly fitted them around their little creation, locking it in place with two supporting pieces of wood.

“You can let go now.” His voice was low and husky against her ear. Nicole let go of the piece as instructed—but Michael didn’t let
her
go. Still pressed against her from behind, his arms still wrapped around her, he picked up a soft, clean rag and, with gentle strokes, methodically wiped all the glue from her fingers.

Nicole swallowed, light-headed from his touch and the effort not to show it. Forcing herself to look down at the intricate wooden mosaic band inside the clamps, she said, “I can’t believe we just made this.” She’d only seen the like in exceptionally crafted pieces and fine antique furniture. “It’s . . . a work of art.”

“Was it as complicated as you thought?” he asked quietly, still pressed up against her, now cleaning off his own fingers.