by Casey Dawes
“They’re probably not open now. You might try Sunshine Station on the highway. I think they went there every weekend for breakfast. It’s Saturday, you know.”
“Guess so.”
“Oh, Logan, let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”
“Okay. I will. Thanks.”
He smiled after he hung up.
Sunshine Station was a combination gas station, convenience store, casino, and restaurant housed in a weathered building. If Sarah wasn’t there, maybe they’d know where to find her.
When he asked a waitress, she pointed to an older woman sitting by herself.
He hesitated for a second before taking a deep breath and crossing to the table.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m Logan.”
“Of course you are,” she replied. “Willy has shown me your pictures. Sit down. Get a cup of coffee. I’m finishing up my breakfast before heading out to Missoula.”
He sat, and she stared at him for a few seconds before her face folded in on itself. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”
All Logan could do was nod.
“I’m sorry. I know you two were close.” He touched her hand briefly. No doubt her grief would be delayed for privacy, and he didn’t want to intrude.
She nodded.
“Do you have any idea where his will and instructions are?” he asked after a few moments of silence.
“Probably the kitchen. That’s where he spent most of his time, so that’s where he kept everything of importance.” She gave a wan smile. “He did tell me one thing though. He wants a box of chocolates with him in the casket.” She shook her head. “Strange sense of humor, Willy had.”
Logan chuckled, relieving a little more of the strain in his chest.
“How about the funeral home he wanted to use?”
“Anaconda. It’s the closest one.”
He tried to remember where that was.
“About thirty miles southeast,” she supplied, apparently aware of his lack of understanding of area geography. “Past Georgetown Lake.” She picked up her coffee and stared into it. “You’ll let me know when the services are.”
“Sure will.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to add.
After briefly touching her shoulder, he left her to her grief.
• • •
After a week of wind and chill, midday temperatures promised to be in the sixties—unusual, but not unheard of in Montana’s fluctuating spring. Outside Julie’s window, the buds sprouted on the branches.
If she didn’t get out of this apartment, she was going to throw something—something soft and unbreakable but something. Her heart longed to break out of the mountains and head east toward Butte, but daylight had only started the stretch to its summer length. She wouldn’t have enough time to get to her destination, paint, and return home.
She’d have to settle for the Bitterroot.
Not that the scenery down the valley contained by the rounded Sapphire Mountains to the east and the jagged granite of the Bitterroots to the west was any less dramatic.
It wasn’t home, and it never would be.
But she’d insisted on the day off, so it may as well be done.
Grabbing a sketchpad, a box of pencils, and a camera, she warmed up her aged VW Beetle and headed south.
Well, warmed up as the convertible would ever be. It was a totally impractical car for Montana, but it fit her quirkiness and her budget. If she could figure out a way to get beyond minimum wage, she’d worry about a new one.
Taking the East Highway, she headed down to the wildlife refuge. There was an old barn she’d been aching to paint for years, easily visible from the dirt road that snaked through the marsh expanse. With sketches and photos, she’d be able to create her finished painting indoors. The light from the long front windows of her apartment worked well at certain times of the day coincident with the absence of her two roommates.
A studio of her own was going to be another purchase that would have to wait until she made her first million.
Not likely for an artist. Why couldn’t she be inflicted with a desire that was financially rewarding? Her father was a banker, and her parents had raised them with solid, middle-class, work-ethic values. Where had she gone wrong?
Even the chocolate shop was starting to turn a solid profit.
Maybe she’d grow up some day.
Fat chance.
Pulling to the side of the dirt-gravel road, she got out, camera in hand. The crisp air delighted her.
The sun cooperated, highlighting the white structure and emphasizing the shadows with its angles. Jagged peaks stood in crisp resolution to the cyan sky.
She stood at the edge of the snow-covered grasslands and snapped quickly, getting as many angles as she could before the light changed again.
That’s it. The perfect perspective.
She put the camera down. Her fingers flew fast over the sketchbook, capturing quick sketches of angles and shadows.
Forty-five minutes later, her exposed fingers became unmanageable, and she retreated to the car, her lungs filled with clean air.
If only she could do this every day.
She studied the sky.
Maybe a quick lunch in Stevensville before a new set of sketches and photos as the sun drifted closer to the horizon.
As she made her way to town, the iridescent red and green of a pheasant caught her eye when he scurried from the road into the dried rushes.
She was turning twenty-six this year, edging closer to thirty. Time to start making her dreams into reality.
Or she’d be forced to walk down the dreaded wedding aisle. Most of her high school friends were already on their second baby.
But how was she going to support herself while she tried to sell her artwork? How did other artists do it?
That was the problem with a degree in art. Oh, she knew how to paint, but she didn’t know the first thing about business, except what she’d learned from Sue Anne.
Julie pulled her car into a diagonal slot in front of the Stevi Cafe—basic food within her budget. She ordered a burger, fries, and iced tea, and settled down with her current read, The Birth of Venus.
Soon she was wrapped up in the Medici and Renaissance Venice, the early rustic spring fading from her imagination. What would it have been like to live in that time with all its vibrant color and rich architecture?
“Julie?” A familiar voice brought her back to the present.
“Professor Allen.”
“Oh, please.” The young woman laughed. “You’re not in my class. Call me Diane.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“May I sit for a moment? Find out what you’re working on?”
Professor Allen—Diane—had always made her feel her work was important, gently suggesting ways to achieve the technique she was trying to master. How was Julie going to tell her she hadn’t picked up a brush in close to six months? In spite of her drying mouth, she gestured to the chair.
“I’m meeting someone, and I see you’re reading—isn’t that a wonderful book? So I’ll just be a minute,” Diane said. “What are you working on? Have you sold anything? You were such a dedicated and talented student—a joy to teach.” Diane looked at her expectantly.
“Um, I haven’t had a chance to work on anything lately. I’ve been too busy helping my girlfriend open her chocolate shop.”
“Chocolate?” The woman made perfect eyebrow arches.
“I worked in a sweet shop during the summers at home, so I know the basics.”
“Well, that’s all very noble and everything, but you shouldn’t give up your art. In fact, I’ve got a great opportunity for you. I’m opening a small gallery for local artists, particularly those who don’t exhibit other places. It’s hard to get started in the art world—I know that from experience. That’s what I’m trying to do—give others a leg up. What do you say?”
“What type of thing are you looking to show?”
“Your best w
ork. Whether that’s pastels, watercolor, a drawing, even photos. It would be nice if it was regional—more chance of selling—but that’s less important. I’m opening in June. Think you can pull something together by then?”
“Uh ... okay ... sure ... yes.”
“Great!”
She couldn’t squander this opportunity.
• • •
The envelope was in the last place Logan looked, of course, tucked in the bottom of a knife drawer. Maybe Willy thought he’d have to defend his wishes to the death, although the darkened blades looked incapable of doing much harm.
He grabbed one of the sharp knives from the set hanging on the kitchen wall, slit the envelope open, and pulled out the note, leaving the heavy legal document where it was.
Logan,
If you’re reading this, know I had a good life and I’m at peace. You were the brightest spot in my life until Sarah came along a few years ago. She’s been a good companion, and ...
Why did people always leave out the good stuff?
Treat her well.
He heard Willy’s voice in those few words. Whenever he’d talk about his horses, he’d say the same thing: “Treat them well.”
Shit. Horses. Were there any left? Had they starved to death from his neglect?
He pulled on his coat, not quite warm enough for the temperature, and fought his way to the barn, coming close a few times to falling but always finding his balance. A core workout at its finest.
As he approached the barn door, he noticed other tracks in the snow that had fallen since he’d arrived.
Who?
He moved with greater care, on the alert for an intruder. Maybe it was someone finding shelter in the barn during the winter months. It wasn’t unheard of, but why wouldn’t Willy have left that information in the note?
The door swung inward without a problem. He ran his hand against the wall, flipped a switch, and overhanging, industrial lights glared on. No one was in the barn. There was, however, a pretty roan staring at him cautiously.
Treat them well.
The horse was another thing Willy had forgotten to mention.
“It’s okay,” he murmured as he moved closer. “I’m not here to hurt you—just want to find out if you’ve got food and a clean stall.”
The horse nickered and nodded its head.
“That’s it,” he soothed. He wished he had an apple or something equally equine approved as a peace offering for his neglect.
As Logan moved closer, the horse shied and took a step back. He stood at the gate and waited, like his uncle had taught him as a boy.
“Horses like to take things on their own terms,” Willy had said. “They’re kinda like people that way.”
Logan inspected the area around the horse, which looked to be a mare.
About a quarter of a bucket of water and a handful of oats. Stall could use a mucking.
As soon as she accepted him, he’d tend to her. It was going to be a beast given his maimed leg.
The mare stretched her neck and gave his shoulder a slight nudge with her nose.
“Oh, you’re a playful one,” Logan said and rubbed the smooth, thick hair. As soon as it warmed up, the mare would shed, but for now, she was well protected against the chill nights. A blanket was draped over the next stall. “What’s your story?”
He continued to rub the horse, reaching as far as he could to scratch her chin and neck.
The mare stepped forward and sniffed his black leather coat before snorting her disapproval.
“Too close to home.” Logan laughed. “Sorry, gal. Next time I’ll wear Uncle Willy’s Carhartt.”
A quick search told him there was no food left in the storage area—only an empty bag. The spigot and hose were where he remembered them, so he refilled the bucket with clean water.
The mare drank greedily.
Had she been alone since Willy went in the hospital? If so, why had there been any water or food at all?
He did a half-assed job cleaning out the stall, but it was better. He left the barn amid the mare’s nickered protests. He’d have to get some more food for her. Another thing on his growing list.
He reheated a cup of coffee in the microwave and sat at the kitchen table to finish reading the letter, saving the will for last.
The rest of the note let him know that Willy had always considered him a son, if not legally, then in spirit.
“You really belong out here,” the old man had said, “not locked in that competitive hot water where you spend your time. Just because you’re good at something and it’s easy for you doesn’t mean it’s right for you.”
It’s because it’s the only thing I’m good at.
A tear ran down his cheek. The note sounded exactly like the old man—opinionated and strong-willed. The final paragraph in the note made him shake his head.
The perfect woman for you is here, in Montana, not on the road somewhere. As you follow my instructions and the terms of my will, you’ll meet many. While any one of them will do, there’s one who would be the best for you to marry. No, I’m not going to tell you who it is. You’ll have to figure that out for yourself. You’re a bright boy. You’ll manage.
Your loving Uncle Willy.
Trust his uncle to manipulate him from beyond the grave.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen. After Deborah’s death, it was going to be a long time before he got close to another woman.
He opened the instructions for the funeral and burial. While it all seemed routine, one request made him smile. Sarah had been right. His uncle wanted a box of Sweets Montana chocolates put in his coffin. If they didn’t have chocolate in heaven, a situation he couldn’t imagine, he wanted to have one last shot at his favorite food.
A chance to see Julie again. His heartbeat picked up.
It was just stress. Too much going on. The horse. Funeral. Probating the will and getting rid of the ranch. The will left him some possessions, a good-sized chunk of money, and the ranch. Another sum, as well as permission to use the ranchland for riding, for Sarah.
Then there were the conditions.
He read through them four times before he put the paper on the table. He understood having to stay at the ranch for six months. Uncle Willy wanted to make sure he knew what he was doing when he sold it.
But he didn’t care. The Wildlife Federation whatever could have the damn place. He needed to get his life back together—his real life.
The other condition made no sense at all. Take a Montana girl to a Griz football game?
He’d be gone by then.
His uncle really had been intent on forcing him to fall in love with someone who was from the state.
Ridiculous.
He checked the lawyer’s name on the will—someone here in town. As Sarah had indicated, the funeral director was in Anaconda.
Montana logistics. No short distances.
Logan pulled out his phone and went to work.
The funeral director was efficient. He knew Willy and knew what he wanted. Once the hospital released the body, he would take care of everything, including transport. He let Logan know Willy had lots of friends, so he’d requested a viewing be set up and notifications sent to local papers.
They agreed to hold the service and burial in five days.
“Willy has a plot picked out in Phillipsburg, and we’ll take care of the transport there and subsequent burial. Do you want to say a few things there as well?”
What would he say? He hadn’t seen Willy in a decade. Maybe it was something Sarah would do.
He’d figure it out.
“Sure.”
As soon as the arrangements were finalized, Logan called the hospital. They told him he’d need to come in, sign some documents, and retrieve his uncle’s things.
He promised the lady on the phone he’d be in the next day.
Douglas Crowley, Esquire, was one of two lawyers in Phillipsburg. Logan looked up the phone number to make an appointment. The soon
er he got the ridiculous clauses struck down, the better.
Then he’d get on the next flight out, away from old memories, his uncle’s manipulations, and Montana women.
Chapter 3
Julie sorted through tubes of paints and brushes and tossed anything that was no longer functional. While she couldn’t afford to replace everything, if she was going to create a painting worthy of her instructor, she’d need the best she could gather together. Diane’s request was a godsend. If this was good enough, where could she go from here?
Spring flirted with the day. As she drove through the university district, sunlight slipped through the budding trees and dappled the rounded hood of her VW. Weight magically lifted from her shoulders. It was a glorious day!
Not for everyone.
Had Logan found Sarah? He had a hard road ahead, making arrangements for the funeral and handling his uncle’s will. When her grandmother had died, it had taken a long time for her father to do everything required. It would be extra hard since Logan was still recovering from his accident.
Could she help him in some way?
She parked at the small lot by the university bookstore, one of the few places in town to get art supplies. Forty-five minutes later, she’d collected most of what she needed, including several practice canvases. A sandwich and soda from the Good Food Store completed her supplies, and she headed back down to the Bitterroot Valley. While there were still patches of snow in the shadows and the jagged peaks were well covered, the sun was warm enough that she could find a relatively dry place to set up to do some plein-air painting.
Her first strokes on the canvas were hesitant. She pushed forward. The only way to find out if she could still paint was to actually do it. The first colors were hopeless; the greens, yellows, and browns that seemed so natural on the fields and mountains before her turned to a muddy brown on the canvas.
She was so anxious to finish; she wasn’t taking the right preparation to get started. She didn’t have to do a perfect replica of the white barn, but to paint a suggestion of colors and shapes to use in the final piece. With the sketches she’d made and the photos she’d taken, she would be able to create the picture.
Moving away from the unsightly blot, she focused on the building, the centerpiece of the painting, counterbalanced by the tall peaks of the border. Blending and lifting color from the surface finally achieved the results she wanted—different shades of white with a rough texture. She made notes of what she’d produced and moved on to the next piece, the granite grays followed by the browns and greens of field and trees.