Chapter 24 #2
Hank huffs but doesn’t leave. He never does.
He’s been my shadow since the day I moved in—always a few steps behind, always watching me like he’s worried I might disappear if he looks away too long.
He waits for me outside the bathroom when I shower.
He curls up at my feet when I’m on the couch with a book.
I keep mixing.
Cadmium red, burnt sienna, the smallest swipe of Payne’s gray. I push them together on the palette until the edges blur, the colors softening into something close to the tone of my dad’s skin on a summer afternoon—tan and sun-weathered, with hints of all the work he never stopped doing.
It’s the painting I can never quite finish.
His hands. Not his face. Not his boots or his Stetson or the way he leaned against a fence post. Just his hands, the way they looked when they held a deck of cards or gripped the edge of a watermelon rind while he salted it or tucked me into bed at night. Strong but gentle hands.
Mixing color is the only part of painting that feels simple. It doesn’t ask me to be certain. It doesn’t need to be anything yet. Just motion and instinct. A little of this, a little more of that, until something in me recognizes it.
I’ve always had a thing for warm colors.
Earth tones. Terracotta, burnt umber, mustard yellow—colors that sound more like spices than paint.
The ones that look like they’ve been sun-dried or left out in the rain.
I swirl a little ochre into the mix and watch it shift—softening the red, grounding it, making it feel like something I recognize.
I test a streak on the corner of the canvas and study it.
Close enough for now.
There’s a knock behind me—soft, careful—and when I turn, Riley’s leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.
“I’m here to take Hank on a run,” he says, like he’s been officially assigned the task by someone higher up.
At the word run , Hank launches up from the floor like someone’s promised him a steak dinner.
“Sounds fun,” I say, turning back to my palette.
I hear Riley step into the room and stop behind me. I can feel him studying the painting, quiet and curious in that way people get when they’re not sure what to say yet.
“Well shit,” he says. “That’s…that’s really good, Wren.”
He’s looking at the canvas, then at the stack of paintings leaning along the walls. “These all yours?”
I nod and reach up to push my hair out of my face, immediately realizing I’ve smeared paint into it. I glance at my fingers, vaguely orange. Great.
“They are,” I say anyway.
Riley lets out a little whistle. “Wow. Okay. So in addition to being intimidatingly observant with horses, you’re also stupidly talented with paint. That’s great for the rest of us.”
I stick my tongue out at him without looking up, but I’m smiling anyway.
In another life—one where this was real and not some quiet, complicated arrangement—he’d make a good brother-in-law.
Him and Ridge would probably get along disgustingly well.
Charismatic, overly confident, and, annoyingly, the type of guys people always like.
The ones who somehow manage to get away with everything.
“I’m gonna grab Hank’s leash and head out,” Riley says, already backing toward the door.
I give him a little salute. “Godspeed.”
He pauses, hand on the frame. “If Sawyer gets home early, just tell him I temporarily borrowed his dog. You know, in the spirit of community.”
I snort. “Sure. I’ll make it sound noble.”
He winks like I’ve made his day and disappears down the hall. A beat later, I hear the front door click shut, and then it’s just me again.
Me and the canvas. Me and the still-not-quite-right color.
There are things I know now that I didn’t when I first started painting.
Like how white is never just white. It’s cream or bone or pale blue or warm gray—depending on where the light is coming from, depending on who’s looking.
I’ve learned how to let colors do the work instead of trying to control them.
When to layer, when to leave space. I’ve learned that negative space matters more than you think.
That restraint can say just as much as detail.
That sometimes the thing you’re painting changes halfway through, and you just have to follow it.
I lose track of time when I paint. Not because I’m in some blissed-out creative flow state, but because I stop narrating my life in my head. Just brush, pigment, movement. Tiny decisions that aren’t life-altering but still add up to something real.
I blend a little more red into the mix. Shift the tone slightly. Try again. That’s most of what painting is—trying again.
I don’t hear the footsteps right away, but when I do, I turn, assuming it’s Riley back with Hank already.
It’s not.
Sawyer’s leaning against the doorframe now, arms crossed, sweater clinging to his biceps in a way that should be illegal in this much daylight. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches.
Then he nods toward the walls. “They’re beautiful,” he says, his voice quiet but certain.
He doesn’t step into the room. Doesn’t move closer. It almost feels intentional—the way he stays right there, like there’s some invisible line he’s decided not to cross.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I turn back to my canvas.
“Why don’t you ever use an easel?” he asks.
I shrug, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I used to hide all my canvases back at the barn. Couldn’t really hide an easel.”
When I glance over my shoulder, his brow is lifted. Curious, not judgmental.
“You hid all of these?” he asks.
I let out a breath. A little heavier than I meant to. A strand of hair blows out of my face with it.
“I guess I didn’t want anyone to see them.
My paintings,” I say, eyes back on the palette.
“They weren’t for them. They were just mine.
And if no one saw them, no one could tear them apart or ask what they meant or tell me how to make them better.
” I shrug again, softer this time. “I just wanted one thing that didn’t have to be perfect. ”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just nods slowly, like he’s turning that over in his head. And I appreciate that he doesn’t offer some speech about how I should share my paintings, or how everyone feels that way, or whatever people say when they don’t really understand.
Instead, he looks at the canvas on the floor and asks, “But doesn’t it suck? Painting like that?”
Yes. Yes, it does.
My legs fall asleep about twenty minutes in. My tailbone starts aching somewhere around the hour mark. My back usually stages a full protest after I stand up. But I don’t really notice until after. And by then, it’s already worth it.
I glance back at him and give a small shrug. “It’s not that bad.”
He nods once, slow. That same thoughtful expression still on his face. Then his eyes flick to the tarp and the mess of color spread across it. “You’re almost out of paint.”
I glance down at the tubes scattered around me. Most are squeezed nearly flat. A few are crusted at the tips, the caps permanently fused with dried pigment.
“Yeah,” I say, picking one up and rolling it between my fingers. “A lot of these weren’t great to begin with. They survived a few too many Montana winters in the barn.” I hold up a tube of titanium white. “They weren’t really built for that kind of weather.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, just shifts his weight in the doorway like he’s not quite sure if he’s staying or leaving.
“When’d you start painting?” he asks eventually.
I keep my eyes on the palette, like it’s something that needs my attention. “Middle school, I think. I had this art teacher—Ms. Hutchins—she always gave me the leftover supplies at the end of the year. Said I had talent.”
I pause and shrug. “I don’t know if that’s true. But it gave me something to do. Something that made my brain quieter.”
He nods. “That’s how the gym is for me. Not the same, obviously. Less color. More swearing.”
“Fewer berets. Less tortured staring into the far distance.”
He laughs under his breath. “Exactly.”
For a moment, we just look at each other.
Not like we’re searching for something—just…holding. Letting the space stretch a little too long, like both of us are aware we should break it, but neither of us wants to be the first to move.
His eyes don’t leave mine, and mine don’t leave his, and there’s something unspoken hanging there that feels bigger than either of us knows what to do with. My heart does this annoying little kick. I pretend it doesn’t.
And then, finally, he steps in.
He moves slowly, like he’s still deciding if he should be in here, but his gaze moves with purpose, scanning the canvases lined up along the wall. He stops in front of one of the middle pieces. The sunflower field.
“She was right,” he says, still facing the painting.
I blink, unsure if I misheard him. “About what?”
He glances over his shoulder, then nods toward the canvas. “Your teacher. You are talented. These are…really damn good.”
Something shifts in my chest—small, but distinct. I look at the painting he’s stopped in front of and smile, almost without meaning to.
“This one’s my favorite,” he says, pointing to the sunflower painting.
“That one’s mine too,” I say. “I painted it in July.”
He doesn’t move away. Just keeps looking at it like he’s trying to figure out how it ended up in this room, in this house, like this.
“There used to be a field like that near the ranch when we were little,” I tell him.
“Not a huge one, but it felt endless back then. Ridge, Boone, and I would play hide and seek in it. The stalks felt like trees. We were so small, and everything felt so much bigger than it was. We’d get so turned around we’d start yelling Marco Polo instead. ”
He huffs a small laugh, but it’s soft. His eyes are still on the painting.