Chapter 4 #2
“I love it.” It’s not a lie. It’s so stunningly beautiful here, and I love being smack-dab in the mountains. I just don’t love the solitude the way I expected to. I’m sure I’ll make friends eventually. “Once the twins were launched, I was ready for a change of scenery.”
He nods at the series of small paintings above the backsplash. “Are those yours?”
“Yep.” Even though I no longer have to hide my art in order to protect it, talking about it freely is a work progress.
He lifts his mug toward the big mountain landscape of the jagged Picket Range hanging on the wall opposite the dining table. “And that?”
“That was a commission. But they changed the décor of their house at the last minute, and it no longer fit.”
He frowns. “Did you still get paid?”
“It wasn’t worth arguing over.” I sip my tea. “I could have tried to sell it, but…I’m glad I got to keep it.” I almost didn’t hang it in such a prominent place, but I couldn’t resist.
He walks to the dining area and gazes up at the painting. “How do you paint something so big?”
I join him. Up close, contrasting textures and subtle color changes are more visible.
So are the brush strokes that I failed to line up perfectly and the blend of yellow-gold that never quite warms in the light the way I wanted it to.
“I start with a plain color background, then I outline the mountains in pencil, which determines the scale, and everything flows from there.” That’s the goal, anyway.
We’re standing close enough that Rowdy’s warmth mingles with mine. I also get a hint of his scent. It’s familiar, like the woods, and intriguing, like some kind of spice.
“The clouds…” His gaze drifts from left to right, like he’s drinking in details. “Makes me think of summer storms.”
Don’t get sucked in by his praise. “I wouldn’t have pegged a conservation officer to have an appreciation for art.”
He arches an eyebrow. “How many conservation officers have you met?”
Good point. “You’re my first.”
“So where’s this bias coming from?”
“Most, uh, people…don’t show an interest.” Most men anyway.
My ex included. Drew might have occasionally remembered to ask what I was working on, but if my reply stretched past four syllables, his attention would drift, or he’d sigh like I was testing his patience.
However, if I spent over my meager budget we’d agreed on for my art supplies, he wouldn’t fail to give that subject every drop of his focus.
Rowdy has wandered into the hallway leading down the side of the house, where I’ve placed a set of two new pieces.
One is half evergreen tree with a moody, stormy sky forming the background, and the other is the extension of one of the boughs, the bristles spiky and aggressive thanks to how much I obsessed over them, which contrasts with the colorful Ojo de Dios weaving I found hanging from it.
“These are different.” His serious gaze sweeps the designs before he glances at me. “Darker.”
“You picked up on that?” I laugh but it comes out high and flighty. “It’s based on something I saw last fall on one of my rambles.” Lest he think I’m dark. Though why should I care what he thinks?
He shoots me a curious look. “What’s with the ornament?”
“It was just hanging on the tree.” That day I’d strayed too far from the trail and stopped at the creek to get my bearings.
The weaving looked so out of place against that angry sky, and at the time, I was feeling out of place too.
Not lonely, but restless, melancholy in a way I didn’t understand yet.
“Huh. Where were you?”
I pull out my phone and scroll through my pictures. “Here.” I tap the info button below the image, and a map pops up of a narrow valley with a thin ribbon of blue running down the center of it.
He gives a little shake of his head. “That’s not a safe area.”
My hackles perk up.
But he’s still looking at my map. “The Sons of Eden compound is just north of there.”
I sip my tea as I process this. Now that I know they hurt their children, they should be more afraid of me. “Is Sons of Eden some kind of cult?”
He licks his lips. “It started up north, but it’s spreading. The closest sect is just north of the county line, in a tiny town called Elk Flats.”
I swallow the sticky knot forming in my throat “You’ve dealt with them…harming their children?”
“There have been a few other runaways. We’ve been trying to shut the cult down for over a year.”
I cock my head. “We?”
“The Finn River Sheriff’s Department and other law enforcement agencies.”
“And you’re involved because they’re also hurting wildlife?”
“And abusing natural resources. Illegal logging. Poaching. Squatting on public lands.”
I wince. “That’s awful.” No wonder he carries a gun. “Why haven’t they all been arrested yet?”
“Crimes against wildlife and public resources come with pretty light consequences. In all my years on the job, I’ve maybe sent half a dozen poachers to jail. That’s why the task force is going to be so important. We’ll be able to share resources and concentrate our efforts.”
“It sounds dangerous.”
“There’s always that potential, yeah.” Framed by long, dark lashes and crow’s feet that somehow sharpens his blue eyes, his earnest gaze holds mine for only a second, but it’s long enough for that same spark to fire between us. Curiosity? Desire?
“When you said you’d been busy chasing a poacher, was it someone from Sons of Eden?”
“Yes.”
“So that wasn’t just some line you gave me? You were being honest?” If he truly didn’t call me because he’s trying to make our world a safer place, maybe he’s earned a little leniency.
“My family and my work take up a lot of my time.”
I look away, the sting of rejection somehow worse this time around. Okay then. Time to usher him to the door.
I lead us back to the kitchen. “Do you think I could give Colton some clothes? I texted Micah. There’s some of his stuff here that he doesn’t need anymore. I should have donated it before I moved, but…” I set my mug next to the sink. “Micah said it’s okay.”
“Sure. I can get it to him.”
I hurry up to Micah’s room and pack up the items from his closet that he greenlighted in his text. Jeans and sweatshirts and some nice warm socks, a pair of pajamas, and a couple of sweaters. I will find a way to do more, but this feels like a decent start.
When I return downstairs, Rowdy’s inspecting the framed photos on my mantel with that same intense curiosity.
What would it be like to be with a man who found me worthy of such attention?
I yank my head out of the clouds, because that person is obviously not going to be Rowdy Whittaker.
We meet in the entryway and he slings on his coat and steps into his boots.
When he tucks on his hat, he looks like the cowboy version of Patrick Dempsey.
Manly and sexy and capable. As he takes the bags from my hands, my stomach flips because he’s lifted his gaze, his lips pursed like he’s going to say something.
But I’m not opening myself to another misread signal, so I step back to let him go.
To my relief, he slips into the night without another word.