Chapter 21
Brie
It wasn’t real until I stood smack in the center of my own gallery, breathless in the hush between violin notes and the low, bubbling talk of a crowd that now belonged to me.
Wildbrush Gallery was filled with who’s-who of Dairyville, and art buyers from Amarillo, Santa Fe, and throughout Texas.
The core of the Iron Valor pack surrounded me with warmth and a sense of family.
The storm that had howled through the panhandle last night left the glass storefront so clean it looked newly minted.
The light—that impossible Texas sunset light—came in gold and lavender rays through the windows, lighting up the whitewashed walls like a movie set.
My paintings hung around the perimeter, circling the beautiful exhibition we’d curated of Inez’s paintings.
Every frame was aligned, every piece perfectly spot-lit so you couldn’t see a single flaw.
The gallery temperature was perfect, not just from the air conditioning, but from the glow of bodies in dresses and jackets and boots; some that still carried a dusting of pasture on the heels.
People stood in small groups and lines, clutching crystal flutes of champagne, glasses of whiskey and even a margarita or two from the cash bar.
They were tilting their heads at my work, making appreciative “hmmm” sounds and talking about “color story” and “emotional depth” like it was all perfectly normal and not the result of two years spent scrabbling in obscurity with a paintbrush and a chip on my shoulder.
I was honestly shocked. I thought all eyes would be too focused on Inez’s breathtaking canvases to have bothered with the paintings displayed against the bricks.
Deep down I knew my pieces were good. But it’s not a thought I’d ever allowed myself to speak aloud.
But since this gallery was mine, I figured no one would balk at the display of my own work.
I’ll be damned if strangers didn’t agree with my assessment and think my painting had merit.
Good on me. I smiled to myself as I strolled along listening to strangers’ assessments of my use of light and how my brushstrokes “capture the movement of the wind on the wildflowers.”
Through the open doors of the connecting archway to Harper’s dance studio, I saw happy people enjoying Aspen’s delicious food. The sounds of the string quartet drifted through, contributing to the comfortable atmosphere. It wasn’t stuffy or pretentious. It was just comfortable; peaceful somehow.
I continued to drift between paintings, trailing my fingers over the air like a ghost afraid to touch the living.
I watched as people posed with my art—selfies, group shots, even a few “serious” patrons trying to look more profound than they probably were.
I caught my mother, Nanette, in the act of straightening one of my business cards on the reception table, her face a brittle mask of pride that looked more like a disbelieving joy, but I knew her well enough to understand.
She’d spent years telling herself I’d outgrow my rebellion.
Now here she was, standing in a room built by that same stubbornness, and the only thing left was to feel it.
It was overwhelming, almost suffocating. I’d spent so long in the trenches, painting as an escape, attending art school as we hid from wicked men, that being here—seen, appreciated, respected—felt obscene.
That’s when Gunner appeared at my side.
He was in his finest: black Tom Ford suit, crisp white shirt and black silk tie.
His auburn curls wrangled into something tamer than usual.
The suit clung to his shoulders, all business from the neck down, but his eyes still held the wildness of a man who’d rather be out on the range, or naked in a bed, than under gallery lighting.
He leaned down, his breath warm at my ear. “Look at you, Maverick. You built this.”
I tried to laugh, but the emotion caught in my throat. “I just hung the paintings.”
“Don’t do that.” He squeezed my hand. “Don’t undersell yourself. I’ve never been prouder of anyone in my life.”
I shook my head, blinking fast. “Don’t say that. I’ll start crying and ruin my makeup.”
He grinned. “Then I’ll have to carry you out of here, won’t I?”
“God, you’re such a caveman.”
He kissed my cheek, and the heat of it stayed with me long after he pulled back. “Stay close tonight.” His voice had gone low and tight. “Want you near me.”
I nodded, too grateful for words.
We did a slow lap of the gallery, taking in the spectacle. Nanette caught sight of us and beamed, straight-up beamed, as if she’d never once doubted her wild, artsy daughter would amount to something. She flagged us over with an urgent wave.
“Oh, Brie, darling, I’d like you to meet the McCulloughs from the Amarillo Museum!” Nanette was on a cloud. “This is my daughter; she owns this gallery! And her paintings are the ones along the walls in the gallery.”
I managed a smile, shook their hands, and endured a round of soft-voiced compliments that bordered on embarrassing.
Nanette squeezed my arm, and for a heartbeat I thought she’d actually cry, but she didn’t.
She just looked at me like I was the answer to every prayer she’d never had the nerve to ask for.
Across the room, Lysander was holding court.
He’d dressed for the occasion. The velvet lapels of his suit wouldn’t have worked on anyone but him.
And with his platinum hair styled just messy enough to look deliberate, he was impossible not to notice.
He moved through the clusters of guests like an eel, magnetic and always just a little out of reach.
He laughed at the right moments, touched arms and shoulders, drew people into his orbit, and when he talked about my art, he made it sound as if I’d invented painting from scratch.
I watched as he drew two older women and a banker from the city over to the big triptych in the far corner. He set up the group, hands gesturing, describing my brushwork, then paused so the others could step up and stare. He caught my eye across the room and winked.
I flushed, but this time it wasn’t embarrassment; it was gratitude.
At the edge of the crowd, I caught Harper in a pale blue sheath dress, hair up, her arm through Arsenal’s. He looked quite dapper in a navy suit that included a vest. She caught my gaze and grinned, her eyes shining with pride.
This was what I’d always wanted: not fame, not money, but a moment where I could see, with my own eyes, that I belonged somewhere.
I glanced at Gunner, who was deep in conversation with Big Papa and Wrecker near the front door. He looked up, caught my gaze, and gave a chin nod. It was enough.
The noise rose and fell, conversations orbiting Inez’s paintings, people moving from wall to wall, some even making notes on the little cards Lysander had supplied.
The wine flowed, the food disappeared, and as the sun went down, the world inside the gallery became its own universe, untethered from the rest of Dairyville.
I let myself bask in it.
For once, I didn’t feel like an impostor.
I felt real.
I felt seen.
And that feeling, that impossible, intoxicating feeling, was worth every sleepless night, every hour spent doubting if I’d ever get here.
I let myself believe it.
I let myself belong.
And as the evening stretched out, the storm still rumbling somewhere far off, I stood in the middle of it all and thought: let them come.
I’m ready.
It was Aspen who started the clinking. From there, it rippled through the room as glasses of champagne were passed around.
The quick hush of the crowd signaled that they were ready for the show.
Someone dimmed the lights just a touch, and the faces around me turned toward the far end of the gallery.
For a second, I considered ducking into the bathroom, just to kill time until someone else started the toasts, but Gunner’s hand slipped around my waist and pinned me in place.
“You’ve got this.” His steady confidence lifted me up.
I squared my shoulders, stepped into the little pool of light, and watched as the crowd stilled, all those sharp, hungry, hopeful eyes tracking my every move.
I’d written my speech three times and torn it up twice. Now, holding the champagne flute, my hands shook so badly the bubbles spilled over the rim.
“Hi,” I said, a little too loud.
The laughter that followed made it easier, and I let the next breath out slow. “Thank you for coming. Seriously, I didn’t think even half this many people would show up, and if I’d known I’d have made Aspen bake twice as many cakes.”
A soft murmur of approval rippled from the bakery contingent.
“There are a lot of people I want to thank, and I’ll keep it quick because I hate speeches almost as much as I hate attention, which is ironic considering I’m standing up here with every single person I know staring at me.
So, uh, first—thank you, Inez Chavez, for choosing Wildbrush Gallery for your first ever exhibition.
I’m so proud that I’ll be able to say, ‘I knew her when…’.
I’m honored and thankful you allowed me to hang my work alongside yours.
When I first saw your work and learned my gallery had the opportunity to host your first show, I couldn’t believe how very lucky I’d gotten. So, thank you.”
Inez raised her glass, eyes glassy.
“Harper, for being the best big sister and role model I could ever have. If you hadn’t believed in me—even when I didn’t—I wouldn’t be here.
And thank you for not kicking my ass when I stole your boots in high school.
And your sweaters, and earrings…” I trailed off.
The crowd laughed, and Harper dabbed at her eyes.
“My mom.” I looked at Nanette; her face lit up with a pride that made my chest ache. “You pushed me to be better every day, even when I didn’t want to hear it. You showed me what real grace looks like, even in the most difficult situations, and tonight I hope I made you proud.”