Trouble in Paradise

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Maybe if he hadn’t been all those things, Joanne would be alive today. Maybe they would still be married. Maybe they would have the children he’d wanted. And maybe his childhood sweetheart would be famous, her paintings hanging in galleries from New York City to Los Angeles.

  Only God knew what might have been if she hadn’t died while running away…from him.

  “I’m sorry, Jo. I should’ve understood. I should’ve tried harder.”

  Shayla Vincent also had a dream to pursue. And although she hadn’t said it in so many words, he suspected nobody close to her understood that dream or how important it was. He hoped they wouldn’t try to take it away from her.

  For some crazy, inexplicable reason, he was determined to help make sure they didn’t.

  Clasping a caddy full of cleaning products, rags and brushes, Shayla opened the door to the first bedroom on the second floor. But what she discovered was an artist’s studio instead of a bedroom.

  His wife’s studio.

  There was a faint odor of oil paint and turpentine in the closed room. A disturbing odor. It made Shayla feel like an intruder.

  Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t an intruder. She was supposed to be there.

  She set the caddy on a small folding table, then crossed the room. She turned the latches and lifted each of the three windows, letting in a rush of fresh air. Afterward she turned to survey her surroundings.

  A thick layer of dust covered all surfaces, but the room wasn’t as cluttered as the rest of the house. There was a bookcase containing how-to-paint books, books on the history of art and others whose contents couldn’t be easily discerned by their titles alone. Art magazines were neatly stored in plastic magazine racks in one corner. Blank canvases were stacked against the far wall. An empty easel stood in the center of the room, turned toward the windows, she supposed for the best light. An organizer cart on casters had been placed near the easel. She suspected the five drawers of the cart were filled with paintbrushes, tubes of oil paint and other supplies. She wondered how long it had been since any of them were used.

  Turning around, she spied a grouping of three portraits on the same wall as the door: portraits of Ian O’Connell.

  She walked toward them, feeling the quickening of her heart as she did so. The largest of the three paintings showed the cowboy on horseback. Pine-covered mountains served as a backdrop, and Hereford cattle grazed nearby. Dressed in his usual Western attire, he sat on the horse with ease, a half smile lifting one corner of his mouth. His eyes were shaded by the brim of his hat, and yet she felt as if he were staring—and smiling—right at her.

  She shifted her gaze to the second painting. This one showed Ian sitting in the tall grass, his head bare, hat on the ground beside him. He was surrounded by several border collies, although their markings were different from either Bonny or Coira. He was laughing as one of the dogs licked his chin, his head thrown back, his face bathed in sunshine. She could almost hear his laughter, it seemed so real.

  The third painting was much darker than the other two, in both mood and colors. The setting was nightfall, the color scheme predominately shades of blue, gray and black. Ian stood at a corral fence, one boot resting on the lower rail, his arms crossed on the top one. He stared into the distance; his expression was one of longing and great loss.

  She felt an unreasonable urge to weep for him.

  “She was good, wasn’t she?”

  Shayla whirled toward the doorway.

  Ian stood there, hat in hand. “Better than I wanted her to be.”

  It seemed an odd thing to say.

  “She would’ve gone far, probably been famous.” He stepped into the room.

  “How long has she been…gone?”

  “Ten years.”

  “Ten?”

  “Long time, isn’t it? I know I should’ve gotten rid of all this. It’s just going to waste. But I…” He shrugged, then came to stand beside her, his gaze now on the portraits. “She did those two—” he motioned toward the one with him on horseback and the one with the dogs “—that first year after she took arts lessons in Boise.” He pointed to the darker one. “This one was the last she painted before she died.”

  “How…” She closed her mouth before the rest of the question came out.

  But he understood. “How did she die? Car accident. She was driving south of here on the highway, on her way to stay at an artists’ colony. A logging truck overturned right in front of her. The logs broke loose and rolled over the top of her car, crushing it. She was killed instantly.” He paused a moment, then said, “She wasn’t quite twenty-six.”

  “How tragic.”

  “Joanne never got the chance to do what she wanted before she died.” He looked at her. “Don’t let anything or anyone stop you, Shayla. No one but God knows how long we’ll live. Life can be cut short in an instant. You may not get another chance to write that book of yours if you put it off.”

  “That’s why I came here.”

  He slapped his Stetson onto his head. “I’m taking the truck into town to order the supplies we’ll need to repair your roof. I ought to be back in an hour or so.” He strode out of the studio.

  For a moment, Shayla stared after him. Then she turned toward the paintings again, her gaze drawn to that third, darker portrait.

  She had a feeling the canvas told a lot more about him than she understood as yet.

  The usual group of men were hanging around the hardware store that afternoon. Ian nodded to them before walking to the counter.

  “How’s it going, Ed?” he said to the owner.

  Ed Clark was an obese man in his early sixties with three chins and a head as bald as a bowling ball. Years ago, liquored up on a cold Saturday night, he’d put gasoline into his stove to help the wood catch fire. He was lucky all he’d lost in the resulting explosion were his eyebrows. He hadn’t tasted a drop of whisky since—nor had his eyebrows grown back, which accounted for the surprised expression he always seemed to wear.

  “You back so soon, O’Connell? That gal’s oven didn’t go out again, did it?”

  “No. She says it’s working fine. It’s roofing supplies I’m after this time.”

  “Sure thing. Gonna be fixing your roof this summer, huh?”

  There was no point in trying to keep one’s business to oneself in a town this size. Ian learned that long ago. It was easier to answer folks’ questions from the get-go. Caused a man less grief in the long run.

  “Not mine. I’m making repairs to Miss Vincent’s roof. On the old Erickson cabin. We’re working an exchange. She’s giving my house a good scouring, and I’m going to make a few repairs to hers.”

  “Cedar shake, isn’t it? Her roof?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leaking when it rains?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”

  For the next hour, the two men talked roofing supplies and techniques. Ed might be a man too large to move quickly and too heavy to climb a tall ladder, but he had a sharp mind and he knew about construction, lumber and hardware. He was a virtual font of information.

  By the time the order was written up and they’d exchanged a bit of town gossip, Ian noticed the store growing dark. He turned toward the storefront windows, only to discover roiling black clouds had arrived while he was inside.

  “I’d better get a move on. Don’t like the looks of that sky.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll have all these items you ordered by Monday.”

  “Thanks.” He said his farewells to the other men in the hardware store, then hurried to his pickup.

  He was driving out of town when the first bolt of lightning flashed toward the ground, followed by a deafening crash of thunder. It was too early in the season for any real danger of forest or grass fires, but all the same, he preferred to be at home and watchful when a storm like this blew into the valley. Better safe than sorry.

  He pressed down on the gas pedal.

  W
hen what sounded like an explosion right above her head shook the big house to its foundations, Shayla let out a shriek, then rushed to the nearby window to look outside.

  She’d never seen such an ugly, angry sky before. Clouds as black as night swept over the mountain peaks, churning like a storm-tossed sea. A fork of lightning lit up the valley, connecting sky to earth. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as a loud crack assaulted her ears.

  “Honey Girl!” she cried, remembering the puppy in the kennel.

  She raced from the guest room, down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. The sheltie cowered in a corner, whimpering in fear.

  “It’s okay, girl,” she said as she opened the gate. “It’s okay.” She picked up the quivering puppy. “Oh, you poor thing. You poor little thing.”

  Another flash of lightning. Another crack of thunder. Shayla squealed again, then hightailed it back into the house, feeling as frightened as the young dog in her arms.

  She hated thunderstorms.

  She took shelter in an overstuffed chair in the great room, as far from the window as she could get. She cuddled Honey Girl close to her chest, pressed her face against the puppy’s soft coat and closed her eyes, dreading the next crash that would shake the house.

  And it did.

  Again and again and again.

  To Shayla, it seemed like the coming of Armageddon. The end of the world could be no more terrifying than this. Not to her anyway.

  The wind began to howl, stirring up dust and pebbles from the barnyard, pelting the sides of the house.

  Rat-a-tat-tat.

  Rat-a-tat-tat.

  It sounded like a machine gun. Even knowing what it was didn’t help. It was still a frightening sound, especially with her eyes squeezed shut.

  That’s how Ian found her.

  “Hey, what’s this?” he asked gently. “Afraid of a bit of lightning?”

  She felt his arms go around her, and she allowed it. He was big and strong and safe, and she could hide her face against his broad chest instead of against the small, quivering puppy. His large, callused hand stroked her hair with surprising gentleness. He murmured comforting words while the storm raged overhead, and little by little, her terror lessened.

  Except for the soft patter of raindrops upon the porch roof and the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel, all became quiet. The storm moved across the valley and beyond the eastern mountains. And yet Ian continued to hold her, his arms warm around her, his heartbeat melding with her own.

  She felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. Or maybe it was the flush of pleasure. Regardless, she straightened, then stood. She didn’t want to look at him, but she knew she must.

  “I…I’m sorry.”

  He stood, too. “No reason to be sorry.” His gaze was compassionate, understanding.

  “You must think me a terrible baby.” She brushed the tearstains from her cheeks.

  “We’ve all got our private fears.”

  She had the insane desire to return to the warmth of his embrace. Instead she took a step backward. “I’ve always been terrified by lightning and thunder. I don’t know why.”

  “How about a cup of something hot to soothe the nerves?” He held out his hand, as if to take her arm.

  She nodded in acquiescence. “I’ll put Honey in the kennel.” Then she led the way to the kitchen, thinking it better if she didn’t allow him to touch her again.

  Ian had liked holding Shayla. Liked it more than caution said he should have. She’d seemed fragile and feminine in the circle of his arms, and he’d felt a strong desire to protect her and drive away her fears.

  As he placed the teakettle on the burner, he recalled how her hair smelled of wildflowers. When was the last time he noticed the scent of a woman’s hair? A long, long while. That it should happen with his temporary neighbor was of some concern.

  He heard footsteps and turned to see Shayla entering the kitchen.

  Ian would be plumb loco if he allowed his unexpected attraction to this little, artistic-minded city gal to go any further. He needed a woman who was comfortable in Levi’s, boots and cowboy hats, a woman who could talk horses and cattle as easily as she could talk kids and cooking, a woman who knew a half-diamond hitch from a granny knot.

  Shayla Vincent wouldn’t know a granny knot from a hole in the ground. He’d wager his best heifer on it.

  So why didn’t that seem to matter anymore?

  Chapter Six

  “I never should have agreed to go,” Shayla said as she glared at her reflection in the mirror.

  She hadn’t a clue what to wear to a Grange potluck. She didn’t even know what a Grange was, for pity’s sake. Regardless, she shouldn’t have chosen this dress from the clothes in her closet. It made her look short and frumpy.

  Of course, she was short and frumpy. There’d never been a time when those adjectives hadn’t described her.

  A glance at her wristwatch told her it was too late to change into something else. Ty was due any moment. In fact, there was the sound of a vehicle pulling into her drive right now.

  Releasing a sigh of frustration, she grabbed her purse and a sweater and headed for the door, opening it as Ty reached the deck.

  He had traded his faded work denims for a pair of slim-cut black jeans. His snakeskin boots, peeking from beneath his pant legs, were polished to a high sheen. His Western shirt was similar to the ones he’d worn all week, but this one was newer, its colors—white, red and black—still bright. And he was obviously wearing a “dress Stetson,” a hat kept for Sundays and other special occasions.

  Pure cowboy, she thought as she smiled at him.

  “Evenin’, ma’am.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I thought we’d agreed to forgo that ma’am stuff. It makes me feel old.”

  “Right you are. Evenin’, Shayla.”

  She stepped onto the deck, closing the door behind her. Ty came forward, took the sweater from her hand, and draped it over her shoulders.

  “You look prettier’n a heifer in clover.”

  “Do you always talk like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Never mind.” She laughed softly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, then took hold of his proffered arm and allowed him to escort her down the steps and out to his Jeep.

  “I asked Ian to ride with us,” he said as he opened the passenger door, “but he said he’d take his own truck.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Who is he bringing with him?”

  “You mean as a date?” He laughed. “Nobody. He hasn’t had a girlfriend for quite a spell. Not that there aren’t some who’d give their eyeteeth for a chance with him. But Ian’s been feeling a bit wary ever since Sally Pruitt turned out to be a gold digger.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. More than a year. People are still talkin’ about it like it was yesterday. Lucky for Ian, she moved up to Spokane not long after he quit seeing her. Had to make it easier for him, her being gone.” He closed the door, then strode around to the driver’s side, got in and started the engine.

  “Was he in love with her?”

  “Naw. Don’t think so.” He gave her a quick glance as he put the car in gear. “You buckled up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get a move on.”

  They were silent as the Jeep bumped and bounced its way down the dusty road toward the highway.

  Shayla couldn’t help looking out the window toward the big house at Paradise Ranch, wondering if Ian was there or if he’d left for the Grange Hall already.

  Ian had been watching the entrance for fifteen minutes. He’d managed to carry on a reasonably intelligent conversation with Ed Clark and the Barnetts without looking too distracted. At least he thought he’d carried it off.

  He felt a jolt of relief when Shayla finally walked through the door with Ty, glad to see they’d arrived safel
y. Ty’s twenty-year-old Jeep wasn’t the most reliable vehicle in the valley.

  Or maybe it wasn’t relief he felt when he saw them together. Maybe it was something more akin to jealousy.

  “Look, Roger,” Geneve Barnett said to her husband. “There’s Miss Vincent. Thank goodness someone invited her. It was thoughtless of me not to do so on Sunday. We must go welcome her.”

  I should have asked her to come with me, Ian thought as he followed the Barnetts with his gaze. Why didn’t I? Why’d I let Ty beat me to it?

  He turned toward Ed. “Think I’ll get me something cool to drink,” he said, then walked toward the back of the hall, far away from the front door, Shayla and Ty.

  For the next half hour, he succeeded in keeping his mind off the couple by involving himself in a conversation with several friends and neighbors. First they talked about the upcoming school board election. Then the topic turned to the price of beef, and from there it drifted to yesterday’s storm.

  The storm.

  Lightning and thunder.

  Shayla, frightened and teary-eyed, cowering in a chair in the great room.

  Shayla, nestled in his arms, feeling as if she belonged there.

  He wished he could hold her again.

  Shayla was having a wonderful time. Everyone she’d met made her feel welcome and a part of the community. With Ty standing at her side, she answered questions about herself, her hometown, her writing.

  “Portland, huh?” This from Walt North, a grizzled cowboy in his early fifties. “I worked there one year. Long time ago. Rains too much. Damp gets in your bones and never goes away.” He shook his head, the action clearly saying, Can’t imagine why anyone would want to live there.

  “Who’s your favorite writer?” Nat Briscoe, next year’s Rainbow High senior class president, asked before Walt could start talking again.