Chapter Five
Emily stood in front of the easel, paintbrush in hand, but nothing came. No stroke, no color, no impulse. Besides yoga, painting was the one thing she could count on to center her. She painted through her emotions, or lack thereof these days. She painted through her concerns. She painted through her memories. And yet now, when faced with one hell of an upset in her life, she stared at the blank canvas like it was a traitor who had turned its back on her.
What on earth had she done last night?
She could still feel Adam’s lips, the hardness of his body, and she’d wanted it. Wanted more of it, and he had, too. That was the cold bath that guilt washed in with. Was it fair to even entertain another moment with Adam Conley? She was broken. She belonged to someone else even if that man had died three years ago. She could never commit her heart to anyone again. How could she betray Drew’s memory? How could she enjoy another man’s kisses, his hands caressing her? How could she want more even as she tried to recall another man’s face from her memory?
More? That thought slapped some cold water on her. There would be no more. It was one night. All she’d hoped for. She’d scratched the itch and now knew she wasn’t broken—at least physically. Clearly, all parts, bells, and whistles worked with alarming intensity.
Ignoring the heat from her memories, she refocused on the canvas. Still nothing. Traitor she hissed.
One aspect she hadn’t thought through about last night was how they would react when they saw each other again. But she’d managed to successfully avoid the majority of the town for three years. Surely chance encounters with a man you kissed could be avoided, couldn’t they? He worked on the ranch, and she worked in town. No need to cross paths. She focused on the guilt and not the disappointment of never seeing Adam Conley again.
“More red?”
With a gasp, Emily whirled around, pointing her paintbrush at the intruder, drops of red paint dripping onto the floor.
Adam took off his hat and pointed to the canvas. “See, exactly what I was going for.”
She turned away from him but not before she caught his smirk, complete with those make-a-girl’s-knees-weak dimples. Concentrating on wiping the excess paint from the brush on the towel at her waist, she wondered when she’d even dipped the brush in the color to begin with. She rarely used red. It signified strong feelings, and most people had a love/hate reaction to it. Was her mind really that uneasy over the events of last night? Or was her subconscious answering concerns she hadn’t recognized? And the biggest question of all—how the hell had he gotten in without her hearing? There was a cowbell the size of Rhode Island on the door.
Jabbing the brush into the Mason jar of citrus thinner, she grabbed another smaller rag and dipped it in the liquid. Taking a deep breath, she turned and smiled, then dropped to her knees to clean the spill. It didn’t have to disappear. She just needed it clean enough that someone stepping on the spot wouldn’t be tracking red paint like bloody footprints wherever they went.
And to be honest, she needed twenty more seconds before she had to face the man whose feverish kisses had kept her awake long after they left each other last night.
Satisfied no crime scene canvas would appear, Emily stood, threw the rag on the counter behind the easel, and finally looked at Adam.
“What are you doing here?”
She winced. That seemed to be the phrase du jour when it came to him, and her tone certainly hadn’t come off as welcoming or accommodating, but, well, why should it? Adam shouldn’t be standing there less than twelve hours after her rude and unflattering exit, acting as if they were best friends who routinely talked with one another. Hell, she didn’t routinely talk to anyone. Period.
“Had to pick up some boards from Gunther’s Ranch. I saw you as I drove in to town and thought I’d stop by.” He smiled. “I even came bearing gifts. Tea from Potter’s.” He gave her a thorough onceover. “You don’t strike me as a coffee kind of girl.”
Determined to level the field, she returned the favor, letting her gaze rake him from the tips of his dusty boots, up jean-clad legs stretched over thighs her body had been pressed up against last night, past a simple silver buckle, and higher across a chest wrapped in a pale blue button-up shirt. The blue was a perfect highlight to his eyes, making his blond curls appear lighter. A white T-shirt peeked through the open collar. He held his hat in his hand, the brim covered in specks of sawdust, his other extended with her tea. Emily’s face heated as memories of what she’d dreamed his standard cowboy attire hid replayed in her mind.
God, she needed to snap out of it. What he did or didn’t look like in or out of clothes didn’t matter. Emily wouldn’t be seeing it no matter what idea had taken root in Adam Conley’s mind. She’d thought the abrupt end to their night would have sent him running for the Black Hills.
Forcing a smile to her lips, she accepted the kind gesture. One completely at odds with how she expected them to be going forward. “Thank you. I do like tea. But…”
“But?”
Slumping onto the stool beside her easel, Emily took a sip, eyeing Adam over the plastic lid. “Adam, I thought it might be obvious last night. I don’t—can’t—do relationships.”
“Seems to me there’s a big difference between don’t and can’t. Which is it?”
He stepped closer, his scent, something she noticed last night, invading the air between them. A mixture of sawdust and ranch combined with that special something you only got from working outdoors in a place like Wyoming. It was elemental, woodsy, almost overpowering, but in a way you wanted to be overpowered.
Maybe that was part of what was bothering her. This was the man who had looked at her their first meeting and seen past the shell she showed Fly Creek. Then, last night, he’d seemed to understand her so well. As if he’d known her before. As if they had some connection that until she’d reached out to him, hadn’t existed. And that made giving him an answer impossible.
Adam chuckled and leaned against the counter. “Emily, me bringing you tea doesn’t constitute a relationship.” He batted his hat against his thigh. “I had a nice time last night and would like to get to know you better.” He deployed the dimples. “I believe the term we’re looking for might be friendship. You know, between one change seeker and another.”
She sputtered, tea spraying forward, narrowly missing his boots. “You want to be friends?”
Adam clenched his jaw and nodded.
“And you think after last night that’s possible?”
“I think lots of things are possible. But, yes, I think after last night”—he nudged her—“it’s imperative.”
She shook her head and placed the tea on the counter, ignoring her body’s hoots and hollers over the simple contact. God, this was snowballing.
“Friends?” Man, that sounded foreign. She didn’t have friends. At least not for the past three years. She used to relish the whole thought of barbeques and parties and bonfires complete with a huge circle of people she cherished. Those people still existed, but she didn’t. At least not the Emily they used to know. Could she remember how to be a friend or something that might resemble it? A true friend would be emotionally invested, and even the thought of liking someone enough to care had her wrapping her arms around her stomach to quell the wave of fear and hurt that rolled through her.
“Are you okay?”
Two strong hands gripped her shoulders, and Emily looked up into eyes full of concern and curiosity. God, this wasn’t right. That connection again. He knew. He recognized something in her. It felt good to have someone care. She knew her family did, but their concern flowed from pity. Adam’s was something different, wasn’t it? He couldn’t have pity. He didn’t know.
And that was where so much of her turmoil stemmed from. In less than a week, a man had broken through and stroked a part of her she thought dead. How could she move forward and yet how could she not?
Either way, the decision couldn’t be made with him so close.
> She stood abruptly, Adam’s hands falling to his side. “I’m fine, and, sure, we’re friends. Sounds great. I guess I’ll see you around.” She pushed by him, her shoulder sweeping across his chest. Her fingers curled involuntarily as she battled the urge to turn to him and unbutton his shirt and discover if her fantasy lived up to the reality.
A deep chuckle reached her. “You most certainly will see me around, Emily White.”
A moment later a gust of air ruffled her dress as the front door opened and closed, the cowbell signaling his departure. Her head dropped as she let the panic roll through her. Digging her nails into the scarred counter, she took three cleansing breaths and released all the fearful energy and centered herself. For three years, she’d handled everything in her life with minimum fuss and no specific attachment. It was supposed to be one night then back into her shell. But something told her Adam and his misplaced notion of friendship wasn’t going to be easily handled.
Another cowbell chime and Emily’s head snapped up. “What now?”
The woman standing just inside the door looked ready to bolt. “I’m sorry. You are open aren’t you?” She looked back over her shoulder at the hand-painted Open/Closed sign.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. Not that I’m normally that rude to anyone.” Emily sighed, rubbing her arms. “But it was a long night.” God, she was babbling. She couldn’t ever remember babbling. Damn Adam Conley and his hands. Pulling her armor and no-nonsense demeanor around her, she smiled. “How can I help you?”
“Peyton.”
“I don’t—”
“My name’s Peyton. Peyton Brooks.”
She smiled, and Emily could pretty much say with certainty that the beautiful woman in front of her could get away with murder if she smiled like that. Her blond hair was pulled away from her heart-shaped face, showcasing cheekbones that went on for miles and allowing her wide green eyes to shine. Something about her seemed familiar, and although Emily was sure she’d never been in her gallery before, she also felt like she’d met a gaze very similar during her time here. Maybe she had a sister.
“It’s nice to meet you, Peyton.”
Peyton crossed over and extended a hand. “I’m really glad to finally meet you. Glad that you finally stepped out into town.”
God, more confusion. Emily didn’t have any room left for riddles this morning. “Stepped into town? I’m not new, I’ve been here for—”
“Three years.”
Emily nodded slowly.
“I know, but you’ve been hidden.” She swept her arm around. “Well, hidden in plain sight, I suppose. We—well, the rest of us—were just waiting for a sign. A way to move forward. We figured after last night, you might be ready to welcome us. Officially.”
Emily reached behind her, one hand finding the counter and steadying herself. Good lord, one night in a bar was turning out to be a billboard in the main square announcing her need to socialize.
“Anyway,” Peyton continued. “I wanted to speak with you about a class. I was wondering if you might be willing to work with a Girl Scout troop and help them earn a badge.”
Business. Thank God. She could handle business. Although… “I’m sorry. I don’t teach classes.” She waved her hand around. “It’s just a supply store and gallery.”
Peyton glanced about and smiled. “But you do paint, right? I mean, most of these are yours, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you did the new painting in the lodge right?”
Emily could only nod.
“So how hard could it be to work with a group of girls? We’re a small troop, and I’m trying to find ways to help the girls earn out each year. I was in Cheyenne and saw one of those Paint and Sip places and thought maybe you could do something like that.” She pointed toward the far wall. “You’re clearly talented enough. Heck, that would be a great benefit to the town and for your business. Special paint nights. I could market them at the ranch. Send guests over.”
Her face beamed with excitement, and for a minute Emily caught the fever. Luckily it petered out just as quick. “Pull up the reins there, Ms. Brooks.”
“Peyton.”
“Peyton.” Emily sighed. “I’m not looking to add to my business. I’m very comfortable with what I’ve created.”
Peyton tilted her head ready to argue, but Emily was done with crazy upheavals. “I will, however, be happy to help your troop. I used to be an art teacher, and I’m certain I can figure out something.”
Peyton practically vibrated, and Emily inwardly swore at her slip up. She never gave away anything about her past. It invited more conversation. A connection of some sort. Where the heck was her shell when she needed it?
Focus.
In spite of the slip up, Emily hadn’t lied. The idea excited her more than it terrified, and she would love to get her hands on little budding Picassos.
She walked to the front desk and sorted through her papers, moving aside several sketches and brushes until she found her date book. “When were you thinking?”
“It would have to be a weekend or maybe a Friday night?”
“I could make time Friday or Saturday, at six after I close.”
Peyton beamed. “Can I call back later today? I’ll shoot an email out to the parents and see which might work better.”
“Of course.” Emily dug out a business card and handed it over. “Either number will work. I look forward to meeting your girls. Any particular subject or object you’d like them to paint? Are there specifics to earning the badge?”
Peyton tapped her lips and walked toward the paintings displayed on the far wall. “Maybe something nature related, like Aspen trees or a moose.” She stopped and turned. “It needs to be easy. They don’t really have art in school anymore. Most won’t have any experience.”
Emily bit back the feverish retort, anger forcing her fists closed and reducing her breathing to a loud huff. She knew all about cut art classes. It had happened to her personally. Fast on the heels of the fateful day at the river. A crushing blow right on top of a deadly one. One more thing that had sent her running across the country.
“I can teach whatever you choose, stroke by stroke. I promise, no matter what, each one of those girls will leave here with a canvas closely resembling whatever we decide. With their own personal flair, of course.”
Peyton tapped her finger on her lips again and turned back to the canvasses. “I love this,” she said, pointing up to a 3’x 4’ canvas done in purples, greens, and blues.
Emily locked her eyes on the work as she crossed to stand beside Peyton. “Dragonflies are a personal favorite of mine. I used to love watching them dip and skim.”
Peyton turned to her. “Oh, did you live near water before moving here?”
Emily’s vision narrowed, and the river water choked her. She flailed her arms even as the life jacket forced her head above the swells. Barking and splashing had her screaming for Pepper.
“Emily? Emily?” Rough hands shook her shoulders, and Emily blinked furiously as her eyes adjusted on a face full of concern and worry. She was on the floor, Peyton crouched over her.
“Should I call 911 or find Adam Conley? I saw him leave here a few moments ago, and you were with him last night. I could track him down.”
“No, no. I’m fine. I haven’t eaten this morning. I’m probably just a little weak.” Emily placed both hands on the wooden floor and pushed up, Peyton lending her a hand under her elbow. And then her brain caught up. “What do you mean I was with him last night?” A different type of panic threatened to send her right back to the floor. Had someone seen them at Clapton Field?
Peyton smiled. “You were together last night at the Wooden Nickel. I just thought…” A quick scan of Emily’s face had Peyton snapping her mouth shut.
“No.” Emily hoped the harsh tone would squash any thoughts Peyton Brooks had or would be thinking about sharing with the rest of the damn gossipy Fly Creek.
; Brushing her thighs, she avoided Peyton’s gaze and said, “Thank you for helping me up.”
“Are you sure I can’t do anything? That was a nasty fall.”
Emily took a moment and moved her limbs. Nothing screamed pain or injury. Well, except her ego. That was sporting a nice hefty bruise, but she would deal with the ramifications and revelations later. “No, I really feel fine. And I promise gracefully passing out is not part of the teaching experience.”
Peyton forced a smile, but wariness lingered in her expression. She’d certainly provided the young woman with even more juicy tidbits to share with the apparently ever-vigilant town. Walking back to the desk, Emily busied herself with the stack of papers. “So you’ll call to confirm the date, and I’ll figure out what to have them paint.”
Frozen to the spot, Peyton took one more glance at the dragonfly canvas and Emily before she walked toward the door. “Yes, you’ll hear from me soon. And Emily?”
Looking up, Emily tilted her head.
“It was really nice to finally meet you.” She pulled open the door. “I hope it won’t be the last time we chat. And maybe teaching at the ranch could work if you don’t like the idea of painting parties. I know Shelby has asked before. Either would be a great way to meet new people.”
New people? She’d filled her quota of new people for the next three years. Returning a finger wave, Emily watched Peyton head down the sidewalk. The young woman waving and nodding to numerous people, her blond ponytail bouncing with an exuberance of someone who didn’t have a care in the world.
Slumping onto a stool, the weight of disappointment settled into her limbs. For a brief moment she’d taken hesitant steps toward living again, let the excitement overpower the grief. But who was she kidding? Things hadn’t changed. Good lord, one rogue thought about the river and look where it landed her. Flat on her back, gasping for breath in front of a stranger.
Emily gripped the edge of the counter and forced her eyes to the dragonfly painting. The river had held so many memories for Drew and her. Hiking up Chickies Ridge. Fishing from canoes and playing fetch with his dog, Pepper, along the riverbank. Now she could only remember the cold, the churning current desperately dragging her under, her screams and the deafening silence in return.
Her Cowboy's Promise (Fly Creek) Page 4