Agnes and the Renegade (Men of Defiance) by Elaine Levine Page B

the day’s heat hadn’t set in yet, she was already uncomfortable.  
    She switched her brush to her left hand, freeing her right hand to loosen the buttons at the base of her throat. She moved behind the canvas, hoping he wouldn’t see the adjustment she made to her clothes.  
    This was ridiculous. She’d painted men before, even nude men. Theo had had her paint nude men and women over and over until she lost her shyness around them and began to see them with artist’s eyes first and always. When she could objectify them, she could see them as representations of color, emotion, life.  
    Why was her training failing her now?
    Theo had taught her that every painting had its own story. Perhaps the sensuality that she was experiencing had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Chayton. Perhaps that was the story of this painting. That realization let her distance herself from Chayton and focus on her representation of him. Which she did, with such intensity that when she next looked over at him, she found his stool was empty. The sun was high overhead, the bluish light of morning giving way to the yellowish glare of afternoon, even muted as it was by the heavy fabric of the tent.
    She stretched, then went outside, wondering when he’d left his perch. She was still in something of a daze when she stepped into the sunlight. He was nowhere to be seen. She looked toward her corral. His horse was there, outside the corral, calmly munching on grass. Her horse was missing, however.
    Just as she made that discovery, the ground began to rumble with the sound of a rider fast approaching her little spread. She looked around, uncertain which direction the rider was coming from. As she looked toward the hill that was east of her house, Chayton rode over it on her gelding, his brightly colored saddle pad a stark contrast to her horse’s sorrel coat. Chayton’s dark hair flew behind him. His feathers danced and jumped. He wasn’t using the bit she used for riding, but his halter made from braided leather.  
    Chayton stopped in front of her. He grinned and called out something in Lakota, directing the horse to dance in a tight circle. He rode off again at a fast pace, calling for his horse. When it caught up to them, Chayton leapt from her horse to his, then back again—while moving at a full gallop. He had complete control of both horses. They came back around her tent and over the hill, easing to a stop outside her corral.  
    Aggie couldn’t help but smile at him, amazed at his skill—and the fact that he’d obviously been training her horse. When he stilled, he smiled down at her and once more said something she didn’t understand. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Chayton. I don’t understand. Could you say that in English?”
    The joy in his eyes slowly died. He did not repeat what he’d said. Instead, he turned her horse out in the corral, retrieved his tack, put it on his horse and rode away. Aggie rubbed her horse down. He’d been exercised hard. She sent a look toward the tent, wondering how long she’d been focused on her work. She brought fresh feed and water for him, then took a break herself before resuming her work.  
    She wondered if Chayton would return in the morning. How wonderful it had been to see him smile, see his joy this afternoon. She wished she understood what he’d been happy about.

CHAPTER NINE

    Chayton did not show up the next morning. Or for the next several days. Aggie finished his painting, then did a study of him smiling down at her from atop her horse. When a week went by without any sight of him, she began to fear, once more, he would never return. In the quiet of her cabin that night, she retrieved the pictograph he’d given her. She sat on her bed and spread the fine deerskin out over her knees so she could study the images that represented his life. One hundred and eighteen images were drawn in an oval wheel moving clockwise around the first four images. If he’d used