The Bride Wore Denim

by Lizbeth Selvig

  Bjorn unzipped the door and they all heard a muffled groan.

  “Skylar?” Bjorn said. “It’s Dad. Are you okay? Sky? Honey?”

  His tall frame disappeared slowly into the tent, but a moment later he backed out, his face ashen. “Amelia?” he called. “She’s burning up with a fever, and I can’t get her to talk.”

  Mia, along with her saddle bags, disappeared into the tent. Harper heard her talking, coaxing gently. Five minutes later she reemerged.

  “She’s got a fever of a hundred and four and she’s pretty out of it. I’m guessing it’s flu, but it could be something she ate, or a bite, or any number of things. We need to get her out of the tent so I can look her over more thoroughly. She’s dehydrated, too, so we need water.”

  A few moments later, Skylar lay on her sleeping bag outside the tent, her head rolling side to side, her lips dry and pale. She opened her eyes a few times while Mia examined her, pulling up sleeves and pushing up her pant legs to look for injuries or bite marks. Bjorn stroked his daughter’s hair. Nate took her hand, apparently no longer caring whether anyone knew of his feelings. Harper stood beside Cole, one arm snaked tightly around his waist, one holding Asta like a football. She bombarded heaven with prayers.

  “I’m pretty sure she brought a flu bug up here and got progressively sicker.” Mia tucked a blanket up to Skylar’s chin. “She needs a trip to the ER to have her bloodwork and electrolytes checked and determine whether this is bacterial or viral.”

  “We can’t get a helicopter up here,” Cole said. “Can we take her off the mountain on horseback and have one meet her there?”

  Mia brushed the teen’s pale, dry forehead. “She feels pretty awful I’m sure, so she won’t like it. But, yes, if someone can support her, she’ll make it.”

  “She’ll ride in front of me,” Bjorn said firmly. “We’ll get you home, honey.”

  Skylar’s eyes opened into little slits. “Daddy?” she whispered.

  “Yup, I’m here. We all are. We were worried about you.”

  Skylar grimaced and closed her eyes. They flew open again and rested on Nate. “You’re here, too?”

  “I had to help find you.”

  “I made it to the top,” she murmured. “Told you I would.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I’M SICK OF hospitals.”

  Harper leaned her head on Cole’s shoulder and sighed. The couches in the waiting area at St. John’s Medical Center in Jackson were comfortable enough, but that didn’t make the waiting pleasant. He drew her close.

  “Yeah, honey, I am, too.”

  “Shouldn’t be too much longer, but I’ll see what I can find out.” Mia stood, patting Melanie’s shoulder and holding a hand out to Aiden, who wasn’t sleeping. “C’mon, little mini Norwegian. Let’s go ask about your sister.”

  “Sissy will be all right.” He took her offered hand.

  “Yes, she will be.”

  Harper caught Mia’s quick smile. Cole squeezed her shoulders.

  “Glad to see you two have put down the verbal bazookas,” he teased.

  “Yeah. I am, too.” She smiled and laid her arm across his stomach, caressing his side as she wrapped him in a hug.

  A moment later Mia returned, Aiden skipping beside her and a lab-coated male doctor trailing behind them. Bjorn and Melanie stood, faces twisted with anxiety.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Thorson, I’m Dr. Wagner, and I’ve been taking care of your daughter. She’s going to be fine.”

  Melanie wilted against her husband. Bjorn’s shoulders heaved with relief. Even though Mia had been fully reassuring, this was the official word.

  “She indeed has the flu,” Dr. Wagner continued, “and she got pretty sick. I’d like to keep her a day or two so we can give her some fluids and make sure no pneumonia develops. She’ll be able to go home the day after tomorrow, maybe even tomorrow afternoon barring any complications, but she won’t be feeling very well for several days.”

  “We’ll do whatever we need to for her.” Melanie raised her head, wiping her eyes. “Can we see her?”

  “We’re moving her to a room now, and you can meet her there. Just a couple people at a time, she doesn’t have much energy. And you might want to keep the little one away. She’s contagious for the next few days.

  “We’ll be careful,” Melanie said.

  “She’s a strong young lady.” Dr. Wagner shook hands all around. “She’ll do fine. If you hang tight, I’ll have the nurse come and tell you what room she’s in.”

  Harper’s relief and happiness was tempered by creeping exhaustion now that the adrenaline of worry had disappeared. She would have gladly left with Cole and let Skylar’s parents take care of her this first night, but Melanie insisted they stay and at least say hello, along with Nate.

  “You are three of her favorite people,” she said. “Seeing you will make her feel better, I know it.”

  They settled into their lounge seats again. Melanie and Bjorn discussed their daughter quietly, speculating on why she’d run off and what they should do once she was well. For the second time Harper bit her lip to keep from overstepping her bounds. And yet the reason she’d come wouldn’t leave her mind.

  She’d come to take Skylar’s side.

  With fists clenched and her pulse drumming with a sense of injustice, she told herself she had to wait and see what Skylar had to say. Maybe Melanie would ease up on her decision about the painting once she and her daughter talked, and Harper’s own anger would prove unnecessary.

  They all looked up when a trim older woman, closer to Leif’s age than Bjorn’s or Melanie’s, entered the waiting room and scanned the area, settling on their group and marching toward them with heartfelt sympathy on her face. Betty Hodges, the high school art teacher and the recent exhibition coordinator, carried a large, flat rectangle wrapped in brown paper and tied in bright yellow raffia cord. Harper rushed to meet her.

  “Mrs. Hodges!”

  “Oh, nonsense, Harper, I thought we agreed it was Betty. You’re not my student any longer.” She accepted a hug.

  “Betty.”

  The old teacher let her go and approached Bjorn and Melanie. She offered them her free hand. “I heard Skylar had been found safely, and I had to come and tell you how relieved I am. You must have been very frightened.”

  “It was a scary few days,” Bjorn agreed. “It’s nice of you to come. She’s being moved to a room now. They’ll keep her for observation a day or two.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Won’t you sit and wait with us?” Harper asked. “They’ll let us see her in a few minutes.”

  “Oh no, dear, no,” Betty said. “I won’t stress her; she needs her rest. I only thought that since her family would all be here at once, I’d bring this for you to show her. Part of her prize was getting her painting professionally framed and ready for display. The hospital donates that part of the award. It turned out so beautifully that, under the circumstances, I thought Skylar would like to see it before we hang it. Might make her feel better.”

  Harper stared at Melanie. She hadn’t told the judges she wasn’t allowing the picture to be hung? Bjorn took a step away from his wife, a grim set to his mouth.

  “Mrs. Hodges,” Melanie began. “I’m afraid I have some news about Skylar’s painting . . . ”

  Anger simmered dangerously in Harper’s chest, rising before Melanie even finished her first sentence. She wouldn’t really be this heartless would she?

  “Her father and I have decided the painting is much too sophisticated and explicit to be displayed as the first work of a—”

  “Wait!” Harper shot from her chair, pulling away from Cole’s warning touch. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of her own memories, she looked at Melanie the way she’d always wanted to look at her father—in the face, with no apologies. “You can’t do this, Mel. Not to the daughter you love.”

  “Excuse me?” Melanie, confused and frustrated, turned dark eyes on her.

&nb
sp; “Please. Come with me for a minute. Let me talk to you privately. I need to say something.”

  “Say it right here, Harper.”

  “No. This isn’t an ambush. I’m not trying to undermine you, but I want to give you my insight before you make this decision.”

  Bjorn, Mia, Leif, and especially, Betty Hodges stared at her in puzzlement. Cole held up his hand. “It’s okay,” he said. “Melanie, you know she’ll hound you like a beagle after a ground squirrel if you don’t go.”

  Mel closed her eyes briefly and released a pent-up sigh. “Fine. Because you’ve been such an incredible friend. But I don’t even let friends mess with my parenting decisions.”

  Shades of her father.

  “I understand.”

  When they’d moved around a corner past a bank of elevators, Melanie stopped her. “What’s this about, Harper?”

  “Why did you let Skylar enter if you weren’t going to let her hang the picture?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “She wanted us to be surprised by her painting at the show, and she didn’t show it to us beforehand. She was right. We were more than surprised. But I didn’t want to make a scene at the competition, and I didn’t think for a moment she was going to win.”

  “You wanted to know why she ran off. I can tell you exactly why. Telling her the picture can’t be hung was only a peripheral reason. Do you know what a damaging thing you said to you daughter?”

  “I really don’t think this is any of your business.”

  “Oh, I know it’s not. But I’m sticking my nose in anyway, because you are as good as a member of the family, and you need to hear this.”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  Harper ignored her. “For one thing, you told Skylar you don’t think she’s talented. For another, you told her you have no faith in her. And, finally, you told her that even though the thing she loves is definitely something she’s good at, it isn’t important.”

  “I never said any of those things.”

  “You did. Loudly and clearly.”

  “Fine, you said what you needed to say. Thank you.”

  “It’s a kiss, Mel. A sweet, schoolgirl kiss. Are you telling me you don’t believe teenage girls think kisses are romantic? It doesn’t have anything to do with sex, but that’s beside the point. I don’t care if you keep the painting from being hung. That’s the part that’s none of my business. But you’d better make it up to Skylar by telling her she’s the most talented, beloved girl in the world. Because if you don’t, you’ll lose her and she’ll lose you—the way I lost my father.” She held back the tears that threatened to turn her emotional argument into a blubbery joke.

  “That’s a little over the top, don’t you think?” Melanie crossed her arms, her anger mitigated by a hesitant uncertainty in the depths of her glare.

  “Melanie, it’s far from over the top. This is what my father did to me my entire life—dismissed my feelings about my art. I not only ran away, I never wanted to come back. It’s taken me years to get past it. Don’t do that to Skylar.”

  For long, strained seconds Melanie only stared at her. Her eyes hardened again and without a word she walked away. Harper slumped against a wall and covered her mouth with her hands.

  “Hey, there.”

  She looked into the sea of intense blue that made up the color of Cole’s eyes. He lifted her chin and kissed her softly. When he stepped back, she caught Betty’s quiet smile from behind him.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said to them both. “I only tried to tell her—”

  “It’s all right,” Cole said. “Whatever you said to her at least made her stop and think.”

  “She took the painting and promised to give it to Skylar,” Betty added. “And she didn’t say another word about not letting it be hung. Cole explained to me about Mrs. Thorson’s decision.”

  “So she changed her mind?”

  “She didn’t say that.” Cole shrugged. “She said she would be getting back to the committee soon.”

  “All right.” Harper wiped at her eyes and nose. “If there’s a chance she’ll tell Skylar how proud of her she is, then it’s worth losing a friend.”

  “You could never lose a friend.” Cole kissed her forehead.

  “If that’s what you told her to do, she’d be foolish to be angry with you.” Betty nodded sagely. “Art brings out the passion in everybody, Harper. You know that better than most. What great artist hasn’t suffered for her work?”

  Harper choked. “That’s too cliché for words, dear Mrs. Hodges.”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “I suppose it is. But even though art is a very individual pursuit, there are some universal truths—suffering is one. Not all suffering is tragic. But whether you’re a painter, a writer, an architect, a musician, or a mentor, there’s some pain involved in creation. Everyone goes through pain. We’re lucky to have an outlet.”

  “I’m not an artist and I understood that.” Cole grinned. “There’s even pain—the very best kind, mind you—when you fall in love with an artist.”

  “Mr. Wainwright. How come I never had you in my classes?”

  “Because everything I draw looks like a cow face.”

  “Maybe I could have changed that.”

  “Well I’m sorry now I never had you for a teacher. You’re a wise lady.”

  “I bestow an honorary A-plus on you.” Betty winked. “And this is the sad part of this entire episode. This could be the last of these competitions we see here and my last year of teaching art at Southwest. I had visions of enticing Skylar’s parents into letting her attend public high school when she’s done with middle school. Many homeschool parents make that switch. But, with the severe budget cuts we’re facing, art and music are on the chopping block.”

  “What?” Disbelief gripped Harper’s chest. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m afraid I am. It’s going on everywhere across the country. You’ve taught art, Harper, you know as well as anyone. When money falls short, school boards see the arts as extraneous. Fun but unnecessary.”

  “It’s not true! What happens to students like Skylar—like I was? Art made school bearable.”

  “They wait until college or they find their own ways.”

  “Is this decision already made?” Cole asked.

  “The preliminary budgets are just coming out, and the programs are slated for cutting. But the decisions aren’t final until the school board discusses the numbers and votes.”

  “There must be something we can do.” Harper twisted her hands together in anxious energy.

  “Get the word out. Try to convince the public how necessary the arts are. But, sadly, even though this community has a contingent of folks big on arts, it’s very small. We aren’t powerful enough, I’m afraid. We’ll try. But . . . ” Betty patted Harper on the arm. “For now it’s miracle enough that Skylar is safe and that she has a huge talent and a few people who’ll encourage her. With luck, her mother and father will be among them. It’s a good day’s work. Tomorrow will fight its own battles.”

  Harper wanted to say more, to find some assurances in the wake of what felt like a looming disaster, but Betty turned and headed for the elevators, a wise lady perhaps, but a small figure in the midst of a storm.

  “I feel like she whacked me with a sledge hammer,” Harper said when Betty was gone. “Of course I know arts programs are in trouble, but not here. Not where things have always been the same.”

  “It’s sad,” Cole agreed.

  “I wish I had five grants like the one from Cecelia. I wish I had her money. Dang it, I’d fund the program myself.”

  “Three kids at a time, Harpo.” Cole pulled her close and rested his chin on her head. “You made a world of difference for three kids a couple of weeks ago. That’s all you can do.”

  “A drop in the bucket.”

  “A drop at a time is how that bucket gets filled.”

  She craned her head back and stared. “You really are a sappy doggone cowboy poe
t, aren’t you?”

  “When I’m not flying around the country trying to convince stubborn artists we belong together.”

  “Artists? There’s more than one.”

  “Sometimes it feels like it. For example, this one here in my arms. She’s about as sexy as they come. I got a girl in Chicago who wears these purty long skirts and feels like a bunch of soft, sweet hotness in my arms. I love that. But you—you belong in denim and boots. Unless, of course, you’re wearing nothing.”

  “Denim or nothing?”

  “Sounds like a poem in the making to me. Wanna come back to my place after we visit Skylar?”

  “Nope.”

  His eyes widened in honest surprise. She raised up and kissed him. “I want to come now. Let’s leave Skylar with her mom and dad for tonight. If you’ll go grab my purse and jacket and tell Mel I love her, I’ll follow you anywhere. I’ll fix things with her tomorrow.”

  “You sure you don’t want to tell her yourself?”

  Harper shook her head. “She needs to process how she feels. I don’t want her to think she has to be nice to me tonight.”

  “I’ll get your things. I’ll tell her you love her.”

  She grabbed the back of his sleeve as he turned, yanked on it, and spun him back to her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a long, deep kiss. Liquid rushed to her core and mush infiltrated her joints. She pushed him away again with succulent sweetness.

  The words sat on her tongue like scared divers afraid to leap from the springboard. She tried. She almost made it: “I . . . love you, too.” But the words wouldn’t form.

  “Hurry back,” she said out loud.

  “YOUR MIND IS racing.”

  Propped on one elbow beside Harper in the bed in his old room, Cole traced a finger languidly beneath her closed left eye, down her cheek, and around to her earlobe. She smiled when he drew an imaginary line down her collarbone and circled her breast. He could see the peak of her nipple pop against the soft, pale green fabric of her sweater.

  “It is racing,” she admitted. “Hard to turn off a day like this. Skylar being so sick. Melanie’s anger. Betty’s news. Now I think after I see Skylar tomorrow, I should fly back to Chicago. I could make Cecelia very happy.”