Perfect Touch by Elizabeth Lowell Read Free Book Online

turned sharply onto another gravel road. This one was posted as Vermilion Ranch, private property, no hunting, no trespassing, and no turnaround. A locked gate was set back just far enough to keep the pickup truck from blocking the larger dirt road where the tourist zoomed eagerly past, spraying gravel, unaware of the muddy bottomland and huge tow bill waiting a few miles farther on.
    Jay swung down out of the truck cab, opened the combination lock, and pushed the gate wide.
    â€œWant me to drive through?” Sara called.
    â€œThanks. Appreciate it.”
    She scrambled over the console into the driver’s seat, took the truck through, and then slid back into the passenger seat.
    â€œAgile lady,” he said, giving her an appreciative glance as he got back in. “Don’t tell me it’s yoga.”
    Laughing, she shook her head. “I ride horseback in the Sierra Nevada every chance I get. BLM and national forest lands are full of gates.”
    â€œHear they have bears, too.”
    â€œNot where I ride. My horse wouldn’t put up with it.” Then, “Why are all the big estates up on the grassy ridgelines? There was flat land closer to Jackson.”
    â€œCity people like the view up there. When Liza hounded JD for more money, he leased off some of the more useless ridgeline pasturelands to rich folks. Resorts, condos, miniature estates, whatever.”
    â€œLeased, huh? That’s smart.”
    â€œThe only thing JD was stupid about was Liza. Every time I look at the fake rustic estates crouched on the heights, I see more proof that when an older man marries a much younger woman, money always changes hands. A lot of it.”
    Jay drove on down the road at a good clip, slowing only when fence lines gave way to sunken cattle grates that worked as barriers for hoofed animals. Some dust rose behind the truck, but not much because it had rained the night before.
    When Sara caught herself admiring his profile or lean, strong hands too often, she forced herself to look out at the land. She was here for the Custers, period.
    Custer painted this land. What did he see that moved him to set up an easel? The shadows of aspens on a rough slope? The sharp angles of fence meeting fence? The racing line of the wind across the grass?
    â€œDo you have many memories of Custer?” she asked after a time.
    â€œSome. I was twelve when my mother died and JD married Liza. Custer took off about that time. He didn’t like kids much, especially when I got taller than him, which happened when I was about ten. From what I learned after I grew up, Custer had an eye for the ladies and they returned the favor.” Jay shook his head. “Never could understand it. Maybe it was the smell of oil paints and turpentine, or whatever the hell it was that he used for cologne. Or maybe he was hung like a prize bull.” Then, “Sorry, don’t mean to be coarse.”
    Sara bit her lip against a laugh. “When I was twelve years old, I spent more than a few hours up to my armpit in a cow’s birth canal,trying to grab the second slippery little hoof so that dad could put a rope around both of them and pull. I know all about birds, bees, and how bulls hang.”
    He glanced away from the road and smiled. “You’re one surprise after another. You sure you live in San Francisco?”
    â€œVery sure. I love it there—the taste of so many different cuisines, the color of faces from white to black and every shade in between, fog like a cold cat winding around my ankles, the horns of cars and big ships, clothes and goods and art from all over the world. It’s exciting, energizing. Always something new to discover. And the only cows are hanging in upscale butcher shops.”
    â€œYeah, I used to feel that way.” He shrugged. “I changed.”
    â€œDid Custer love the land?” she asked.
    â€œLove, hate . . . there’s a real fine line between. I don’t