Chapter Four
chapter-seperator
HOME.
The word rattled inside Gwynn’s head as they turned off Interstate 90 onto a local highway that wove through the Bridger Mountains. The steep rock faces rolled past her window, one after another.
Had she ever considered any place home? Technically, not even Poppa Jeb and Mama Edith’s farmhouse had been “home.” And the one place that could have claimed the label she’d rather not recall.
Gwynn shuddered and hugged her arms.
“Cold?” Cash turned the temperature dial on his dash.
She smiled. “Thanks.”
“Remind me again of your relation to the Davisons.” Cash glanced at his rearview window, then at her. He’d removed his hat, and loose chestnut curls fell over his forehead. Why did guys always get the to-die-for hair? “I believe Miss Maude told me you’re her niece? Have you ever been out to visit?”
His question may have implied “been here before,” but she latched onto his actual words. “Visit? No.” She hadn’t come back since she’d fled. “And I’m more like Maude’s great-niece. Uncle Russ and Mama Edith were siblings.”
“And this Mama Edith is your …?”
“Grandmother.” Of a sort. Before he could ask about her parents, Gwynn angled toward him and said, “Please fill me in on the latest with Uncle Russ.”
“The latest?”
“Yeah. Has he been released from the hospital yet? Aunt Maude won’t tell me anything about his condition, but I was on the phone with her when it happened.”
Cash frowned. “When what happened, exactly?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. We were having a normal conversation when she started exclaiming and saying Uncle Russ needed to get to the hospital.”
“Russ? Oh!” Cash let out a half-laugh. “No, you misunderstood. Miss Maude didn’t take Russ to the hospital. They took their dog to the hospital. The Wonderfur Animal Hospital . Seems Brisket had a seizure.”
“What?” Gwynn’s heart bungee-jumped behind her ribcage. “You mean, Uncle Russ is okay?”
“Russ is as healthy as anyone half his age.”
“He’s not dying?”
“Nope.”
“You’re sure?”
Cash grinned. “Positive.”
Gwynn exhaled on a whoosh and slumped against the seat. “What a relief. I’ve been wallowing in guilt for not having visited sooner, even though—” She shook her head, letting the sentence drop. Then she straightened again. “But that means I came here under false pretenses, and my job is on the line because I left with barely a warning.” Whisking off her cap, she told him of the terse exchange with Irene, adding, “Why would Aunt Maude lie to me? Why would she lead me to think Uncle Russ was on his deathbed?”
“You’re sure she knew you thought Russ was at the hospital?”
“Hundred percent.” Gwynn fidgeted with the brim of her cap. “It’s not like her to deceive me.” But it’s a concept you’re all too familiar with , she chided herself, so who are you to judge?
The childhood scar on her left hand peeped out from her coat sleeve. Was it a trick of the light or did it glow neon red? She glanced at Cash and tugged her sleeve lower to hide the scar.
Who was she to judge, indeed?
Settling back into her seat, Gwynn pressed her temple against the windowpane with a conflicted sigh.
“Can you change your flight?” Cash asked.
A narrow valley blanketed in snow unfurled around them, heads of cattle meandering in the distance. “I used a small airline—cheaper that way—and they only fly on Mondays and Thursdays. I’m stuck for the next few days.”
“So, make the most of your visit. Especially now that you know Russ is fine.”
She smiled out the window. “I’ll certainly enjoy these Montana views.” She had adjusted to city life, but the broad valleys and majestic mountains reignited something dormant within her. For several quiet moments, she soaked up their splendor.
Eventually, however, she couldn’t ignore the probing glances Cash tossed her way as he navigated the winding road. She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. “It’s rude to stare, you know,” she said, keeping her voice light. “What happened to the gentleman from the airport?”
“Sorry.” He spliced a hand through his hair, the brown locks flopping back over his forehead. “You remind me of someone, but for the life of me, I can’t remember who.”
Heat crept up her torso, and she loosened her scarf. Keep him blind, Lord.
“Plus, you seemed … hungry a moment ago, peering out the window.”
“Ah. Well.” Gwynn emitted a soft laugh. “I am an artist. And this landscape is beyond inspirational. Just imagine these mountains and evergreens painted as a mural on a living room wall. Or a field of wildflowers dancing above a baby’s crib on a frameless canvas, their petals dappled from a late spring snowfall. Add a whimsical touch for a child’s playroom. For so long, I—” She squelched her thoughts. A mere twenty minutes in the truck with Cash had her running at the mouth. What did that mean for her over the next three days? “For so long, I listened to Aunt Maude gush about Montana’s beauty, and now, here I am,” she finished.
“Here you are.” He ran a hand over the scruff on his jaw, his gaze moving between her and the road. “You mentioned Boston earlier. Is that where you live? You’ve done well if you can afford Boston prices on an artist’s salary.”
“Oh, I’m only an artist when I’m not adulting. To afford Boston, I work in an art gallery, dine on ramen noodles, and share an apartment with two suite mates. Mia is an accountant with long office hours. The other, Holly, is my best friend from college and a fellow starving artist. She was the one I was talking to when I got bulldozed—oh! Hang on a sec.” Gwynn reached into her backpack, withdrew her phone, and texted Holly she was okay and would call her later. She sent Cash a rueful smile as she tucked the phone away again. “Sorry. I try not to text in the middle of a conversation, but I did end my chat with Hols rather abruptly.”
“Fair point.” Cash inclined his head. “As a ‘starving artist,’ does she also paint?”
“No, she throws. As in pottery. She makes amazing dinnerware … and brings new meaning to the Bible verse that says we are the clay and the Lord is our potter.” Gwynn plucked a piece of fuzz from her cap. “You should see her frustration with stubborn, hardened clay.”
“Hence why we should stay moldable.”
“Yeeess.” She propped her elbow on the window frame. “Tell me I’m not the only one who finds that concept challenging.”
“You’re not the only one who finds that concept challenging.” His eyes crinkled as he glanced at her. “Are you a believer, then?”
Gwynn nodded.
Cash inclined his head. “Me too. Though I’ve veered off course at times.”
“Don’t we all?”
They shared a grin, a measure of understanding and friendliness in his gaze, and her pulse kicked at the full impact of his blue eyes. A memory flashed from another time. Another truck. Another conversation drawing two lovestruck teenagers closer together. An ache burned in her throat, and she looked away. Pull it together, Sadler!
“So, what about you?” she asked once the threat of tears subsided. “What do you do? Aunt Maude said you had business that took you into Bozeman.”
“Yeah, I’m seeking another vendor to sell my work. Not many options for that in li’l ol’ Prospect.”
“Are you an artist too?”
“Not in the typical sense. I’m a carpenter. Power tools are my canvas.”
“Carpentry.” Gwynn’s mouth lifted at the corners. Had he seen his dream to fruition, then? It suits him.
“It does? How so?”
Oh, heavens, she’d said that out loud? She squirmed and pulled the scarf fully from around her neck. “I-I just mean, you look like a guy who’s comfortable with power tools. An all-around handyman.” Gwynn’s eyes flared. “Don’t take that the wrong way. I’m sure you’d rock a business suit, but tool belts are hot—” Oh. My. Word! She hid her face in her scarf, her cheeks flaming. “ Ignore me. I’m alone in the art gallery most days, and I’ve formed this annoying habit of talking out loud.”
Cash chuckled. “Annoying to you, perhaps. Helpful for me.”
She lowered her hands. A grin lingered on his lips, and she cocked an eyebrow. “Helpful?”
“A man can learn a lot from a woman’s inner thoughts.”
She swallowed. He could learn too much if she didn’t check herself.