Chapter Eleven
I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my handiwork…I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realize.
I venture into town and find River and his buddies at Oskar Blues, one of the more popular watering holes in Sugar Pine.
They’re sitting around a fire table, drinking beer from mugs that sweat in the evening light.
The place is crowded, seemingly with a mix of locals, tourists, and students.
The servers, many of whom are in various phases of tattoo sleeves and turquoise hair dye, are harried.
I smooth out my blue jersey sundress. It’s the only item of clothing I packed that isn’t jeans, cutoffs, flannel, or an art museum T-shirt.
“Jane! Over here!” River waves me over with a wild, enthusiastic energy.
He introduces me to the group of five individuals.
Two of them are also students at Sugar Pine University.
But there’s also a married couple who look maybe a couple years older than me.
And there’s a woman named Jocelynn, who works as a nurse at the local hospital.
Of course I don’t ask her age—that would be rude—but she’s thirty-five if she’s a day.
“Last time we went backpacking,” River says, “Cam got bitten by a western hognose. Thank God Jocelynn was along. She knew how to administer first aid.”
I gasp and look at Cam, the male half of the married couple. “You were bitten by a . . . western hognose? That sounds awful!”
Everyone laughs. “A western hognose is a nonvenomous snake that likes to play dead,” Cam tells me. “I accidentally stepped on one and got bit. It was kind of like a bee sting. But Jocelynn here fixed me up.”
Jocelynn waves her hand dismissively. “It was nothing,” she says to him, before turning to me. “Jane, you should come on our next trip. It’s just for two days.”
“Hell yes, you should!” River exclaims. “We’re going up Vallecito Creek Trail, making it up to Johnson Creek Junction before heading back.”
“Sounds like fun,” I say.
“Oh, it will be,” says Mal, one of River’s friends from school—the one who makes horse art. “And for you, it’ll be a great intro to backpacking. Then you can decide if you’re up for our month-long trip in August, when we go along the Colorado Trail.”
“A month-long trip?” Curious, I lean forward. Not that there’s any way I could be gone for so long, but still. It sounds like something out of Escape from the Springs.
***
The next day, Chet and Axel Rose again insist that I take it easy.
But I’m allowed to stay on the ranch. Problem is, too much time on my hands just makes me worry about Betty.
So I unpack the last of my boxes, the one with my art supplies.
The paintbrushes show their age, and this canvas from Michaels was definitely on the clearance rack.
But soon I’m all set up, painting Miss Adele with those gorgeous San Juan Mountains behind her.
It’s like a shot of narcotics into my heart. Nothing heals like horses and horizons.
Until my inner critic gets all loud and bitchy.
“Talentless hack,” I mutter to myself. “Never seen such piddlin’ work.”
The sun is beating down, and my fingers tighten on the brush as I desperately try to suggest both the shadow and sun on Miss Adele’s back. Instead, I’ve painted a browned banana with legs.
From behind me, there’s a muffled crunch. Chet walks into my patch of shade, standing close enough to see everything on my makeshift easel. “Who are you talking to?” He scowls. “And why are you being so mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I was talking to myself.”
Chet grunts. He’s dressed for a run, hair sweat-dampened and heavy at the temples. “Well, damn,” he murmurs, surveying my progress. “No need to beat yourself up. You nailed her.”
“Okay—now I’m seriously questioning your taste. Do you also like finger paintings and noodle art?”
“Sometimes. What’s wrong with finger paintings and noodle art?” He glances down at my T-shirt. Today’s choice features a Frida Kahlo painting. “Wait, don’t answer that. You’re obviously an art connoisseur.”
“Not quite. But I’d like to be. My parents weren’t ever able to travel—couldn’t leave the horses—so I haven’t made it to any big-city art museums. But I visited every single gallery in Lexington, plus a couple in Louisville.
And during Covid, I took advantage of all the free, virtual tours that the art museums offered .
. .” I press my lips together, worried I sound like a hick.
“Anyway, I’m self-taught, for what that’s worth. ”
He raises an eyebrow. “It’s worth a lot. Somehow, you’ve accomplished—I don’t know—capturing Miss Adele’s energy.”
I put my hand over the canvas. “She came out wrong. Like a taxidermy fail. I’m going to paint over her with wildflowers.”
“No you won’t. I forbid it.” Chet’s voice drops to a growly baritone. That should make my toes curl. Instead, my breath catches. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because the air seems to thicken. Like a storm is brewing.
“Umm . . . pretty sure that whatever I decide to do with my own painting falls outside your royal decree.”
Chet steps closer, looming over me. “Not true. My property. My employee. My horse.”
“Is that right? Do you also own the air I breathe?” I dab my brush defiantly into a pool of purple paint. Just one stroke and Miss Adele will disappear.
“Jane Adkins!” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop right there, or I’ll fire you!”
I arch an eyebrow, but my paintbrush hovers over my canvas. “Really. After everything we went through with Freckles, you’re gonna fire me? Over a painting?”
“Don’t. Test. Me.” Each word is its own sentence.
I try for a breezy laugh, but it dies in my throat when his jaw clenches. Tension seems to emanate from his pores. Even Miss Adele stops grazing. She watches our standoff before deciding the fence post looks more appetizing than our drama.
My brush is suspended, midair, as I weigh my options. One—cover Miss Adele’s likeness in purple and keep my dignity. Or, two—surrender and keep my job.
“Fine.” Since any hope of buying Betty disappears if he fires me, I drop my paintbrush, splashing it into my water jar. “You win. But if you like this terrible horse portrait, then you can’t tell crap from a crab tree.”
Chet wrinkles his brow. “Is that an insult? Because both things are inherently bad, right? Nobody likes crap, but few people like crab trees either. So why did you say—”
“Never mind,” I snap. “Just, please explain. Why is my painting so important to you?”
Chet sighs and leans against the fence. “There’s something magical about it.” He studies my canvas with genuine interest. “Like painting her made you disappear into another world.”
Embarrassed, I fix my gaze on the ground. “It’s just how I spent my day off.”
“To me,” he says, his eyes finding mine again, holding them, “it’s perfect.”
The compliment blooms warm in my chest, and I can’t look away. “Then it’s yours.”
“No, no.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t hinting that you should give it to me.”
“Too late. You put the chairs in that wagon with your ‘no wildflowers’ decree. Now this painting can’t belong to anyone but you.”
Chet’s grin catches me off guard—all warmth and crinkled eyes. “What’s with you and idioms? Not that they aren’t charming, but I have no idea what they mean.”
My heart does a stupid little flutter. “Oh, please. Of course you do.”
“Fair enough.” His fingers brush my shoulder. Electricity shoots down my spine. “Thank you for the painting.”
I swallow hard. “You’re welcome. Just let me finish it up. When it’s dry, I’ll hand it over.” Our eyes lock again. “One condition, though—no hanging it where anyone but you will see it.”
“Oh, in my bedroom then?” His voice drops lower. Even though he’s joking, heat floods my cheeks. “I’ll put it on the ceiling above my bed.”
“Ha, ha.”
Suddenly, against my will, I’m picturing Chet lying in bed. He’s bare-chested, hands behind his head, covers pulled down and skimming his navel. He’s looking at my painting, thinking about me . . .
Jeezle-Pete. Someone should just shoot me now.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I manage to say. “Nobody likes a whiner.”
Chet steps away, toward the fence. “You got a minute?” His voice is so soft that he almost sounds shy.
I nod. “Sure.”
“Great,” Chet says. “I want to show you something.”