Chapter Nine
Riley seemed suddenly tense, and Miles had no idea why. At least, not until she turned to Jeremy and spoke.
“Come along, then. It’s in one of the bedrooms.”
He knew then, with an odd certainty, exactly what bedroom it was in.
Hers.
They headed down the hallway she’d indicated.
She kept her focus on Jeremy, never even glancing at him.
She opened a door at the end of the hallway and gestured the boy inside.
Miles followed, a little hesitantly, because he had the definite feeling he, unlike Jeremy, was intruding in a space she’d rather he didn’t.
The room was smaller than he would have expected, but he guessed her father had the master bedroom.
Or maybe she wanted this one because of the large windows looking out toward the barns he’d noticed when they’d driven in.
It was painted a cooling ice blue, and the bed, big enough to suit the room—or the inhabitant—had a quilt in a geometric pattern with that same blue and a darker one.
No flowery stuff here. And the only sign of the owner of the room was a matching dark blue robe tossed over the foot of the bed, and a couple of photos on the dresser.
Miles realized his mind was racing, taking it all in, making guesses and assumptions.
The biggest photo was of the man they’d already met, her father, and there was no doubt that she was the woman beside him.
The other was of her astride the horse she’d been riding and had carefully seen to before they’d come inside.
That had brought him a smile, when he’d seen how eagerly Jeremy had jumped in to help with the big buckskin.
And it couldn’t be coincidence, could it, that the dark blue touches in the room—and the robe—exactly matched the blue of her eyes?
Before he could say or ask anything stupid, Jeremy saved him. He’d darted over to the wall opposite the windows and stood looking up at the framed drawing.
“Wow,” he said. Then he looked at Riley. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.”
Jeremy’s brow furrowed as he studied the drawing. “But it’s not King.”
She smiled. “Good call. No, King wasn’t even born yet.”
Miles was so busy watching the interplay between them—and dealing with what he was now certain was the fact that this was her bedroom—that he’d actually only glanced at the framed piece. But now he looked. And probably, he admitted, gaped.
He admitted his ignorance of such things—all he knew of rodeo was what he’d picked up from Tucker. And that had been simple, really, a matter of climbing onto a huge creature whose goal was to toss you on your ass and trying to stay aboard until the whistle blew.
But this…what he was looking at seemed like a physical impossibility.
A young, slight girl aboard a big, dark brown horse who was leaning at what looked like an impossible angle as it rounded a bright red barrel the size of a fifty-five-gallon drum.
How the animal didn’t fall flat on its side he didn’t understand.
And even in the drawing it was clear the horse knew exactly what to do, because the reins were loose and barely laid against the side of its neck, as if that were all the direction it needed.
And the girl…she was leaning in that direction, urging the horse on, more upright than the horse but still solidly in the saddle, her gaze sharp and clear, and a look of joyful determination on her face.
“How old were you?” he asked, unable to look away from the drawing that somehow captured both the strength and grit of horse as well as rider.
“Sixteen.”
He gave a slow shake of his head. Even at sixteen, Riley Garrett was solid, set, and in her element. “You won, didn’t you.” He said it softly, and it wasn’t really a question because somehow he knew.
“That was my first win at the state level,” she said just as quietly.
“And Mr. Keller’s dad drew this?” Jeremy asked, clearly fascinated.
“He did,” Riley confirmed. “He was already that good that young. And,” she added, turning to face Jeremy, “when he was your age, he won a contest in school. I’ll bet you could, too.”
“Aw, I just do it for fun,” Jeremy said, but Miles could see the interest spark in the boy’s eyes.
“And what could be better than doing something for fun and getting really good at it?” Miles asked.
“Especially when you start out already good,” Riley added, gesturing with the drawing she still held carefully in her hand.
Jeremy grinned and went back to studying the charcoal drawing.
“It makes me think of that drawing of the saloon,” he said after a minute. “The one that’s on the newspaper.”
Miles had to think for a moment to remember the drawing Nic had said had been done in the early days of Last Stand, when the saloon was the most solid building standing. And when he did, he realized the boy was right.
“It does kind of have that same feel,” he said.
Jeremy blinked. “Can pictures feel?”
He laughed. “I meant it makes me feel sort of the same when I look at it.”
“How’d he get all those different colors in there? I mean, they’re all black or gray, but different.”
“Now that,” Miles said, “I think you’re going to need a pro to explain. So I guess we’d better find one. I’ll bet your aunt Tris knows an art teacher.”
“And if not,” Riley said, “the police department uses somebody in town when they need a sketch.”
Miles appreciated that she didn’t elaborate on the situations where a police sketch might be necessary. “I’ll tell Jackson,” he said.
It wasn’t until they were out of the bedroom, Miles regaining the ability to breathe normally again, which he seemed to lose around Riley Garrett, that Jeremy asked brightly, “You’re comin’ to my birthday party, aren’t you?”
“I did get an official invitation,” she said, smiling at the boy again.
“You gotta come. There’s gonna be cake and ice cream and everything. And Dad needs grown-ups for company.”
She laughed at that and shot Miles a sideways look. Miles shrugged. “I think the whole third-grade class is coming.”
“Well, that should be nicely chaotic,” she said.
“And now I get to show them the new pony. Hey,” the boy said as if it had only just occurred to him, “what’s his name?”
Miles liked the way she took the boy’s every question so seriously. “You know, all they ever called him was ‘the pony,’ so I guess you get to name him yourself.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Whoa. I have to think of something good.”
“I agree. And he deserves a very cool name,” Miles said, “so you’d better start thinking.”
“You’ll help, won’t you?” he asked, looking worried.
Miles had to swallow before he could say, “Always.”
When he looked up again, Riley was looking at him in a different sort of way. But it was Jeremy she spoke to.
“I’ve got some very special hot chocolate made. Would you like some?”
“Is it the stuff from the saloon?” he asked, looking hopeful.
“That it is, you genuine Last Stander,” she said with a grin.
“Cool!” Jeremy’s brow furrowed. “Or should that be hot?”
She laughed, shaking her head a little as she prepared the drink for the boy. Then she looked at Miles. “You want this, or do you need more caffeine to deal with this livewire?”
“The more the better,” he said, a little fervently. He hadn’t had his usual morning hit, and he was feeling the lack.
“Then you’ll want my dad’s coffee. Fair warning though, it’s strong enough to walk into your cup on its own.”
He nearly burst out laughing at that one. “Sounds about right, then.”
They ended up sitting on the stools at the kitchen counter, with Jeremy between them.
Which, Miles thought, was probably for the best. He took a longer look around the living room, liking the feel of it.
Which was a little surprising given how opposite it was to his own, rather modern décor at home.
The color scheme was consistent, shades of blue with a splash of yellow here and there, and the sturdy, solid furniture looked like exactly what you’d want to sink into after a day of hard ranch work.
Nic had told him it was just her and her father living here, but not much else. Other than a rather pointed warning about her dear friend and former babysitter having been twice burned and triple wary. An unnecessary warning, he’d told her. He wasn’t at all in the market for that kind of trouble.
“So a personal question, Mr. Flint,” Riley began, but stopped when he shook his head.
“I only answer personal questions from people who call me Miles.”
“Was that permission?” she asked, arching a brow at him, and Miles found himself smiling again.
There was something about this woman, over and above that glorious fall of dark hair, those impossibly deep, dark blue eyes, and that shape that made a pair of ordinary jeans look…
extraordinary. There was depth there, and a deep-seated confidence that he doubted any man could shake.
Although why he’d be wondering what it would take to rattle this woman was beyond him.
“Of course,” he said, a little hastily because he knew he’d gotten lost in unaccustomed thoughts.
“All right…Miles. Why aren’t you an actor? You’ve certainly got the looks.”
The coffee he’d just taken a gulp of threatened to choke him.
But in a way that was a good thing, because the extra seconds it took for him to swallow gave him time to rein in his own reaction.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t been told that over the years, that he had the looks to be on the other side of the camera—he had. He’d just never had the desire.
“I never wanted to be,” he finally got out. “That isn’t what matters to me.”
“What does?” she asked, with that head tilt again that said she was genuinely interested in the answer.
“Seeing stories I love come to life on screen, the way I’d pictured them.”
“Doesn’t the director mostly control how a show looks?”
“Yes.” He shrugged before saying, “That’s why I make sure to only work with directors I trust. Who see the same thing I do in a project.”
She seemed to ponder this for a moment. “So that’s why you’ve had such big successes. You stick to your vision.”
“I try.”
“As someone who’s enjoyed Eastside and Far Gone, I’d say you succeeded.”
He couldn’t help saying, “But not Stonewall?”
“I have the same complaint most Texans do.”
He grimaced. “Yeah. I’m getting that a lot. And I get it, too. We faked it, and that’s…”
“Insulting?” she suggested.
He sighed. “Yeah.”
He wanted to tell her the real, whole truth of it, but he was still rattled by the discovery that the place he’d truly wanted to film at, the place in his painting, was right here on her ranch. Because that wish had suddenly gotten even more complicated.
He flicked a glance at Jeremy, who had finished his chocolate—and carefully carried his mug to the kitchen sink—and gone over to look at the painting again.
“Here’s where it should be,” Jeremy announced, and Miles realized he’d once again underestimated the boy’s capability of overhearing things when he thought he was otherwise occupied.
And on the entire drive back to the Baylor ranch he had to fight off all the images Jeremy’s words had started to churn in his brain.