Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
GRACE
I fire up Blue and stow the new blue travel cup Mack bought along with my new phone three days ago in the center cup holder. Coffee secure. The weather is getting colder. Mack, Hudson, Harry, and Louisa are busy on the ranch, herding the cows and calves closer to the barns before the wolves find them.
I rub my hands against the cold, pulling my coat tighter before checking my hair in the rearview mirror. If I make it home early enough, I might even have a chance to help feed up in the yards. The prospect of cuddling a sweet little calf is too much. Today is going to drag. All I want to do is return home and get my fill of baby cow cuteness. And Mack, of course.
Huddled up in their jackets, the Rawlins make a fierce posse as they trot away from me, rifles slung over their backs and hats pulled down against the icy winds that have been up for a few days now. Mackinlay taps two fingers to his forehead over the most gorgeous smile as he rides away. I wave at him, returning the smile. The second in time freezes, solidifying this exchange between us into a memory.
Louisa trails the line on her black horse. It’s the first time I have seen her on horseback. She turns back as I pull away from the house and onto the driveway and tips her hat with a smile.
Pretty sure when I grow up, I want to be Louisa Rawlins. Or Ruby Rawlins. Gosh, those two women know exactly who they are. They own it. They have all their ducks in a row. Mine have absconded, died from the cold or ended up someone’s supper, I swear. With only work and Mack in my life, I sometimes feel a little like I’m missing something.
Heavens knows what on earth that something is.
By the time I hit the gravel road, the Rawlinses are deep into the fields, loping away, heading for another herd. I focus on the road and make town in under an hour. Pulling up to the curb, I kill the engine and down the last of my coffee. The street is relatively quiet for a Thursday. Only a few cars parked outside businesses.
I step out of the car, grabbing up my bag and phone, and lock her up. The wind picks up, and I shiver. Flipping my collar up, I glance up and down the street. A somewhat familiar scent carries on the frigid air. I frown, but don’t find anything amiss, or anything to place the scent. Putting it down to my imagination, I cross the pavement and go inside.
The warm inside air thaws my frozen nose and ears. They burn as blood flow returns. Don meets me at the front desk. “Mornin’, Grace. Cold out this early.”
“Sure is. I hope it doesn’t deter the attendees tonight.”
“Doubt it. We mountain folk are used to whatever the weather decides to dish out. You’ll have your first class full and humming along, mark my words.”
I chuckle and put my bag under the counter. Flipping the power switch under the desk, the lights blink to life and the computer buzzes alive. I settle into the tall stool and double-check the list of students for tonight’s first adult oils class. After having all but memorized their names, I walk out back to check I have everything I need, plus a little extra. It’s always better to have too much than not enough.
Satisfied that I have everything I need, I return to the front showroom to find patrons filling in through the front doors. They rub their hands together, as I did, chatting away as they peruse the artwork.
“Morning,” I offer.
“Good morning. Do you have any of those canvases that you paint on? My grandson fancies himself a painter this week. I promised to pick one up for him,” an older lady asks.
“Actually, supplies can be bought at the craft and art store. We only provide canvases to students in our mixed medium classes.”
“Oh, shoot. Of course! Where’s my head? Doris would have my guts for garters if she knew I forgot her shop. I’ll pop in there next. Thanks for the reminder, lovely.”
“Anytime. And if your grandson would like to sign up for classes, we have ones for the kids on Mondays and Thursdays.”
She waves a hand and cackles. “Oh, bless your heart. He’s thirty, but I’ll be sure to tell him about them. What days are the adult classes?”
“Oh gosh, sorry, I assumed...” I straighten a pile of handmade cards, hoping the heated flush infiltrating my neck will disappear.
Her soft, wrinkled hand rests on my wrist. “Don’t be. He’s a grown man, should have come here himself.” She winks.
The blush that crept up my neck sinks to guilty heat in my gut. I’m not interested in meeting guys. Now I fear I gave her the wrong idea entirely.
“Well, if you need anything, give me a shout.” I hurry back to the front desk and update my new phone number, if only to give myself something else to focus on. I update it on the Art Center’s website for the classes’ contact number while I’m at it.
Is that the only reason people come in here? To check out the new girl in town? I knew small towns were tight, but this is next- level. I mean, everybody knows everybody, sure. They all know I’ve been living out at the ranch with Mackinlay. And if that’s the case, shouldn’t they also know that Mack and I are together?
I make a mental note to ask him about the small-town protocols where romantic relations come into play. Raymond is no metropolis, but Lewistown is literally a speck on the map in comparison. Quaint and appealing in some ways. Outdated and intrusive in others. I mill about until after lunch, when I set up the large back room with eight easels and canvases. Eight lots of paint, palettes, and water jars.
Six o’clock rolls around and the sun has made its retreat, leaving us in the cold darkness of winter’s shadow. Don locks his office and wanders to the front doors.
“See you Monday, Grace. Don’t forget the security panel before you lock up, hon.”
“Of course, have a great weekend.”
He’s worried about me being here by myself. But I assured him that Lewistown is safe with regard to crime. I’ll be fine.
He frowns but leaves with a small smile and heads for his car.
I turn the open sign to closed and have my supper while I wait for the first of my students to arrive for my first oils landscape session. I brought my mountain landscape in a few days ago as an example to show the class.
Remembering I never sent a picture to Ruby, I slide off the stool and walk to the back room to snap a picture. As I’m rummaging in the room, the door rattles. I startle. Shit.
Maybe being here alone was not my brightest idea. I’ll be a quivering mess before the cohort even arrives. I walk into the hallway and make a beeline for the adjoining room. Flipping on the light, I look around. Nothing. Only office supplies and out-of-date technology. The sounds echo overhead again. Scurrying.
I huff a wobbly laugh. Just something in the ceiling. A squirrel or the likes. I press a hand over my thundering heart and shake my head. Grace, how on earth are you going to own this ship if you can’t be left alone in a place that’s your everyday? That’s safe?
“Stupid girl,” I mutter to myself.
Returning to the back room, I finish setting up. The alarm on my phone rings.
Showtime.
My gut flips.
No, Grace. I haven’t come this far to flake out now.
I push my shoulders back and decide to own this shit. Now and from this moment on. Channeling my inner Ruby Rawlins, I open the front door and greet the small crowd of excited folks. A range of ages, from my age to somewhere around the eighty mark, with the oldest man wobbling in on a walking stick. Good on him.
“Evening! My name is Grace. Come on in.”
Every face beams back at me with wide smiles.
Of course they know who I am. I usher them to the back room and wait while everyone finds a place. Sucking in a long, grounding breath, I clap my hands together. “Welcome to your first painting class.”
And we’re off.
The next ninety minutes fly by. With me showing the class basic skills, we prep and dream up projects for the next ten weeks in which they will sketch out their piece and decide on technique and use of color. Then finally, in week five, we will put brush to canvas and make a start on their first oil piece.
Eight o’clock rolls around too fast, and I have an excited and motivated bunch of brand-new artists. We pack away our work for the night and study each other’s brush strokes, the techniques learned tonight. “Well, that is all for tonight. Tuesday, our next class, we will start sketching out the project. So, over the weekend put some thought into what landscape you want to paint. You all have done amazing work this evening. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
They collect their belongings and file out, chatting with fervor as they go. I switch off the lights, trailing behind. Once the last student finds their car and is safely away, I tap the code into the security panel and lock up. That familiar scent from earlier today lingers on the gentle night breeze. I scan the street, now convinced I have missed something I shouldn’t have. But in the darkness, nothing is amiss. Again.
Unlocking Blue, I toss my bag and phone onto the passenger’s seat and slide on in. It’s when I close the door and turn over the VW engine that I see it. The car parked in front of mine. Stilling, I let my gaze roam the street. Every other car has left. Leaving Blue and the banged-up white Volvo in front of us.
I study the car, my gut sinking at a rapid rate.
Mississippi plates.