She gave her brother a shy but grateful smile as he carried some dishes into the kitchen. Isabelle poured out a couple glasses of champagne and walked over to Harvey. He looked up at her and smiled as he accepted the glass.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Of course,” she replied and chewed on her bottom lip, suddenly nervous. “Would you − ahh − like to go outside with me? It is a lovely night.”
“Sounds good to me.”
He gave Wolf another pat and stood up, following her to the door. They stepped out and walked down the steps to the yard. Isabelle wandered aimlessly. Now that they were outside, she had no idea where to go or what to do.
But as if moving of their own accord, her feet led them out to her studio. She opened the door and stepped inside, setting her glass down long enough to get a couple of oil burning lanterns lit. When the small studio was illuminated, it revealed some of the paintings she had been working on.
Isabelle looked at them lovingly, as a mother would proudly look at her child. She had not spent as much time working as she would have liked. All of her chores plus pitching in to care for Charley − as well as spending more time with Harvey lately − had eaten up most of her free time.
But she had worked some and was pleased with the results so far. Of course, she felt she was still working off the rust of having not painted a lick in so long but she saw her progress in getting back to form and was pleased.
She picked up her glass and took a sip, watching as Harvey set his glass down and picked up one of her works − it was a rendering of the apple orchards and the distillery with the snow-capped mountains framed in the distance. The painting was one of her more recent and one she thought had turned out fairly well.
“This is your work?” he asked.
Isabelle nodded. “It is. I am still trying to round myself back into form. I fell out of practice while back in Grimepass.”
“If this is you out of practice, I can’t wait to see what you can do when you’re in practice, Isabelle,” he said. “I mean, I’m not particularly smart when it comes to art but I know what I think is good and this − is amazing.”
Isabelle blushed more furiously than she ever had in her life. She had always been a little shy and insecure about her work so to hear Harvey praising her and validating her efforts was a feeling unlike anything she had ever felt before.
Mark always praised her work but she never failed to take it with a grain of salt. He was her brother and as such, was inherently biased. But she knew Harvey was not a man given to false platitudes or insincere flattery.
While she knew Harvey would never be mean-spirited or cruel, she knew him well enough to know that he simply would not comment on something he did not care for.
“I know I’m not Rembrandt or Vermeer, but I am working on my technique,” Isabelle said.
“Well I don’t know much about these Rembrandt or Vermeer fellas, but as far as I’m concerned, I’d say your technique is pretty good,” he replied.
“I do not know what to say,” Isabelle said. “But thank you. That means a lot to me, Harvey.”
He turned to her, his expression serious. “I think you should think about selling your paintings, Isabelle,” he said. “I’d be willin’ to bet there’s a whole lot of people who’d be proud to hang your work on their walls.”
Isabelle’s eyes burned with unshed tears of gratitude. She had never expected to hear the kind of praise Harvey was heaping on her − praise she knew was sincere. It sent a rush of emotion through her that shook Isabelle to her very core.
She had been so wrapped up in her feelings that she only noticed Harvey was moving toward the sheet draped easel when it was too late.
“Oh no wait, that’s not −”
But Harvey had already slipped the sheet off the unfinished canvas sitting on the easel. Isabelle’s stomach lurched and her legs suddenly felt weak as Harvey silently surveyed the painting − a portrait of Harvey, Charley, and Chenoa she was working on.
He took a step back and folded his arms over his chest, surveying the painting from different angles. Isabelle shuddered, feeling her insides tighten and a greasy roiling in her stomach. She had not told him she was working on this painting − she had intended to make it a gift at some point. But it was not close to being ready nor was she sure she was going to actually go through with it and give it to him.
As she got closer to finishing it, she thought it somehow seemed too personal. Maybe a violation of his privacy or something. Isabelle feared that maybe he would be offended or think she was being too forward.
But then he turned around, a wide, warm smile on his face that nearly stopped Isabelle’s heart in her chest.
“I - I was going to surprise you. I’m sorry if I was being too forward or too −”
“Nonsense. It’s amazing work, Isabelle,” he said. “This is truly incredible.”
She flushed with pride as Harvey turned and studied the painting again, that smile and a look of admiration still on his face. Isabelle stepped forward and stood next to him, pointing out some of the smaller details she had worked into the painting she thought he might appreciate.
They stood side by side in silence for a few moments. The scent of the apple orchards wafted in through the open windows, filling the studio with a crisp, sweet aroma.
As they stood beside each other, Isabelle became aware of their shoulders touching. She felt the heat radiating from him and her heart spinning wildly in her chest. Isabelle took a couple of deep, steadying breaths and let them out slowly, trying to quiet the churning in her belly. She turned away, walking out of the studio and out onto the small deck her brother had built for when she wanted to paint outdoors.
“Are you all right, Isabelle?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
She leaned against the railing that surrounded her deck and stared up at the sky. The stars looked like sparkling chips of cold diamonds set against the unrelenting black of the heavens above. It was simply gorgeous and made Isabelle appreciate just how amazing the world God created for them was.
“I am just not used to having such kind things said about my work,” she said.
Harvey grinned. “I have a feeling you never give them the chance,” he said. “How many people you let see your work?”
Isabelle’s smile was rueful. “Well, there’s Mark and − you.”
“That’s kinda what I thought,” he said. “You really ought to let other people see your work, though. Keepin’ it locked up like you do is a shame, Isabelle.”
They stood in silence together as a soft wind whispered by them. Isabelle looked up at Harvey, her heart thundering in her chest. They looked deeply into each other’s eyes as long moments passed, the air between them crackling with tension and a charge of anticipation.
As Harvey started to move, Isabelle’s breath caught in her throat. They drew closer to one another, the pull magnetic. Inexorable. And when Harvey’s lips touched hers, flares of light blossomed behind her eyes. Her skin felt like it had been set on fire and her stomach roiled as if something was alive inside of it and was trying to escape.
Isabelle’s lips burned and her body trembled with desire. Their kiss seemed to go on forever but when Harvey slowly pulled back, Isabelle realized it had ended far too soon. His eyes were still locked onto hers and Isabelle could see the maelstrom of emotions swirling around inside of him. Yet she saw no trace of regret.
“I - I’m sorry if that was too forward,” he said.
“Too forward? No, not at all. It was − it is − fine. It is fine.”
He chuckled softly. “Good. I’m glad.”
Isabelle held his hands in hers, still looking into his eyes. Her heart swelled to the point she thought it might burst. Was she being too forward? Maybe. But she could not deny that it had felt natural.
That it had felt right.
Chapter Thirty-One
Harvey was up with the sun after a night spent tossing and t
urning, his mind consumed by guilt. He threw the covers off his bed and pulled on his trousers and a shirt. The house beyond his room was silent and still. Chenoa and Charley were still asleep, giving him a chance to wake up and enjoy a little quiet time before the day started.
He moved silently out of his room and through the house. Rubbing the back of his neck, he stepped into the kitchen where he put on a pot for coffee. A few minutes later, he poured himself a cup and walked out to the porch. A cool wind rustled the bushes and sent a chill running through him.
The first fingers of dawn stretched across the rapidly lightening sky with hues of purple and pink painted upon the heavens. Harvey stared out at the distant mountains for a moment before letting his gaze drift over the orchards on Mark’s land, then finally settling on Mark’s house itself.
He saw the glow of an oil lantern in the windows. Mark was probably up and fixin’ to get to work. His gaze drifted up to Isabelle’s bedroom window. There was no glow of light behind her curtains − she obviously was not awake just yet.
Harvey let out a slow breath as he gazed at the darkened window, the gentle memory of the kiss they shared floating through his mind. His lips still tingled pleasantly at the memory even though he was besieged by guilt over it.
He knew he should have stopped it before it ever happened. He knew he should have never let it get that far. He was not officially courting her. He was not her beau, her betrothed − or anything to her. And since he wasn’t, Harvey knew he had no right to go and plant a kiss on her like that.
The wave of guilt that washed over him in that moment was powerful. He felt as if he had betrayed the memory of his late wife − and had sullied the reputation of a sweet, young woman. It did not matter that she had wanted the kiss every bit as much as he did. As a man, he should have been able to resist that temptation. He should have been stronger than that.
But he had given in. He had let his moment of weakness consume him and lead him down a path he knew he should not have ventured down. He had been weak and was now ravaged by guilt over it.
And Harvey felt all the more guilty because it had felt natural. It had felt − right. The moment their lips touched, it had been magical. It had moved something within him that had not been moved in so long that Harvey did not think could be moved. And it felt good. Amazing.
“I’m sorry, Amy,” he whispered.
“What are you apologizing for?”
His heart leaping into this throat, Harvey whirled around, surprised by the voice behind him. Chenoa leaned against the doorjamb, sipping from her cup of coffee, an amused twinkle in her eye. Harvey cleared his throat and straightened up, quickly composing himself.
“Sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you?”
Chenoa shook her head. “No,” she replied. “So what are you apologizing for? And to who?”
Harvey smiled ruefully and raised his mug. “Need some more coffee.”
He walked back inside, went into the kitchen, and poured himself another mug of the rich, dark brew. Chenoa followed him and stood in the doorway, her hands wrapped around her coffee mug, looking at him expectantly.
Harvey leaned against the counter and blew the steam away, trying to come up with an excuse to get out of there without saying anything. The last thing he wanted to admit was that he had kissed Isabelle.
“You going to tell me what you have to be sorry about?” Chenoa prompted.
“If I say no, will you leave me alone?”
She smirked. “Doubtful.”
Harvey rolled his eyes but chuckled and walked out of the kitchen and back out to the porch. Chenoa of course, followed him out and leaned against the railing, her eyes sparkling with an inquisitive but mischievous light.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Harvey grinned.
“Not until Charley decides to wake up.”
His grin was wry. Chenoa was a persistent woman. She could be like a dog with a bone sometimes and once she got her teeth into something, she did not often let go easily. And much to Harvey’s dismay, he was the bone this time.
They stood side by side on the porch, watching the sun begin its slow crawl up into the sky. He caught her looking over at Mark’s house and then turned to him, a grin quirking one corner of her mouth upward.
“You two look good together,” she said. “You and Isabelle.”
Harvey almost spit out his coffee. He looked away, feeling his face warming. He was not a man who blushed easily but hearing the knowing tone in Chenoa’s words had struck a chord in him that set his face on fire.
“You like her,” she pressed.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to. I can see it in the way you look at her,” she said. “And in the way you don’t look at her.”
He chuckled. “The way I don’t look at her?”
Chenoa nodded. “Yes. It’s very obvious that you are trying not to look at her.”
Harvey nodded and looked away. He did not realize he had been so obvious but he did try to avoid making eye contact with Isabelle in the presence of others. Mostly because he feared not just what she might see in his eyes but also because of what others might see.
“I also see the way she looks at you,” Chenoa said.
Harvey said nothing. He did not think there was very much he could say to that. He knew how Isabelle felt about him. He could see it in the love and care she put into that painting he saw. He had felt it in the kiss they had shared.
Harvey sighed. “It can’t happen, Chenoa.”
“Why can’t it?”
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling that familiar, heavy weight in his heart. It had been there since Amy passed and Harvey knew it would be with him for the rest of his life. It was a dull ache, fainter some days more than others, but always present. It was his constant companion − whether he wanted it to be or not.
“It just − it can’t,” Harvey said.
She pursed her lips as she looked at him. “Is it because you still mourn your wife?”
Harvey blew out a long breath then took a drink of his coffee. He stared out at the mountains in the distance, a small piece of him wishing he could be out there, scaling up to the peaks where he could be alone, far away from everything and everybody. If only for a little while. In the quiet and peace of the mountains, he thought perhaps he could slow the wild churning of his heart and understand the thoughts that rocketed through his mind.
“Do you believe that your wife would want you to spend the rest of your life in mourning, Harvey?” she asked gently. “Do you believe she would want you to spend your life alone?”
A small, wry grin touched Harvey’s lips. “You sound like Isabelle. She’s said something pretty similar.”
“She is a smart woman.”
“She is,” he replied softly. “That she is.”
“Do you care for her?”
Harvey’s mind flitted back to that moment they shared in her studio and brief though it might have been, it packed a lot of punch. It made him feel things he had not felt in a very long time. Things he did not believe himself capable of feeling anymore. That seemed like it was becoming common where Isabelle was concerned.
The truth of the matter was that he felt something for Isabelle. He did care for her. But he was having trouble reconciling those feelings with the grief that still sometimes seemed so sharp and cutting. Yes, it had been a couple of years now, but there were some days when the wounds still seemed so fresh and raw. It was like Amy had passed on just yesterday.
With Amy taking up so much space in his heart, even still, how could he even contemplate having feelings for Isabelle? It seemed to Harvey there just wasn’t room for anybody else.
“I can see you do,” she said. “And that is a good thing, Harvey.”
“I ain’t so sure about that.”
She gave him a tight, rueful smile. “I did not know Amy. But I know how much you loved her. Still love her. And I am sure she loved you the same way,” she sai
d. “But I cannot believe she would want the kind of sad, lonely life you are forcing yourself to live.”
“It ain’t so bad,” Harvey said. “I got you. I got Charley −”
“You are still young. Vital. You have many years left before you,” she pressed. “It is not natural for you to spend them alone. I cannot believe that is what she would have wanted for you.”
Harvey looked down into his coffee mug as if the answers to the questions and conflict gripping his mind could be found within the dark liquid. He raised his eyes and met hers. They were firm and resolute
“What about you? You’ve been alone for a lot of years,” Harvey turned it around on her. “Ain’t it unnatural for you to be spending your life alone too? I reckon your husband would want you to be happy too. Wouldn’t he want you to have somebody in your life?”
A Healing Love For The Broken Cowboy (Historical Western Romance) Page 21