Rode Hard, Put Up Wet (Rough Riders #2)(92)

“No, that you wouldn’t understand.”


Macie wanted to scream. Instead, she snapped, “I wouldn’t understand? Because I don’t have a f*cking Masters of Fine Arts that I can’t see I’m utterly naked?”


“Stop actin’ like a child. It’s art. It’s my art. And to put it crudely, darlin’, I don’t give a shit if you like it or not. This collection of stylized portraitures are the best I’ve ever done and I’ll be damn proud to display them at the gallery.”


Hollowness replaced her earlier joy. “Is that all I am now? A collection of portraitures to you?”


“See? You’re confusin’ you with the pictures.”


“Same thing.”


“No, you aren’t a thing. These pictures are an extension of you. How can you not see that?”


“How can you not see how wrong this is?” She swallowed with difficulty because her mouth was bone dry. “Please. I’m begging you.”


A muscle in his jaw flexed.


“Carter. Please. Don’t show them.”


“Macie. Stop.”


“Don’t display these.”


He looked away.


“If you loved me you wouldn’t do this.”


Carter’s hard gaze boomeranged to hers. “If you loved me you wouldn’t ask me not showcase my best work.”


Macie wondered if he could hear her heart breaking in the silence. Without another word, she turned and walked out.


And this time, he didn’t chase her down.


Luckily her father was gone when she returned to the Bar 9. She suspected the pictures—or Carter McKay—wouldn’t live to see another day when he found out.


Just imagining her dad, or anyone else, looking at those paintings made her stomach hurt. She didn’t remember ever feeling so alone. So helpless. So literally heartsick. Lord, she needed someone to talk to. Since her best pal Kat was hours away in Denver, she tracked down Gemma and poured out the whole story.


After the tears settled, Gemma assured her she hadn’t acted like a child; Carter had stepped over the line. Besides soothing her and listening without judgment, Gemma didn’t have any advice, beyond offering to run interference with Macie’s dad if Macie needed to get away to think things through.


So with a week’s vacation looming, rather than mope around the Bar 9, Macie packed her bags and did what she did best: ran.


Chapter Thirty-seven


Two days later


“The foundry in Gillette, Wyoming, called me, in Denver, to ask why you hadn’t picked up your statues. They’ve been sitting there two weeks? Which means they’re not finished. And here’s where, as your agent, I remind you of the major showing you have in less than two weeks.”


Carter scowled. He knew better to answer his cell when his agent called and he was in such a vile mood.


“What is going on, Carter?”


“Nothin’ I can’t handle. Look. I was just on my way to Gillette—” a total lie, “—to pick them up. They won’t need a lot of polishin’ so they are essentially done.”


“My advice is to get them on a truck as soon as possible. What else is the gallery waiting for?”


“I shipped the major pieces last month. I’m finishin’ up some portraits, but I ain’t shippin’ those directly.”


“Why not?”


“Because I want to hang them myself.”


Buck swore. “No way. That was not in the contract. The gallery will have an absolute fit.”


“Tough shit.”


“You do not get a say in how anything is exhibited, McKay, least of all paintings.


Your job was to finish the art work, theirs is to display it.”


“Then get the contract changed. Ain’t that your job?”


Silence on the receiver. “My job is to look out for my client. Which I’m doing, by telling you not to push the issue on this, because you are wrong. Get the paintings packed up. Either ship them by next Friday or I’ll have the gallery send a truck for them. And the cost of that, my friend, will come out of your pocket, not mine.” Buck hung up.



“Fuck!” Carter threw his cell phone against the wall. It cracked in two pieces and plastic shards scattered everywhere. Like he cared. Like anyone had called him.


Jesus. The last couple days had been a f*cking nightmare. After his fight with Macie, he’d needed a day to cool off. When he’d swung by the diner around the time she usually clocked out, he saw the faded sign on the front door: Closed until further notice.


Why hadn’t she told him?


Who said she didn’t? Maybe you didn’t hear because you haven’t really listened to her in the past few weeks.


Talk about being a self-centered *. Dammit. This art show had sucked the life out of him. Had it sucked the soul and the conscience right out of him too?


Yes.


Regardless. He needed to talk to her to set the record straight. To make her understand.