The words cut him like a knife. Because they were true.
He’d known they were drifting apart, known she didn’t want the ranch or children, known she might not even want him. He’d known all of that for a long time. He just hadn’t wanted to face it
His wife was unhappy. For that matter, so was he. They fought more often than they kissed, and sometimes the words they flung at each other were downright cruel.
But he’d meant his wedding vows. There’d never been a divorce in the O’Connell family, and he didn’t want to be the first. Marriages were supposed to be worked at, to be made to last, no matter what. You hung on, and eventually things got better again.
Joanne and he had been happy once. They’d fallen in love in high school and married right after graduation. Her family had been in the valley almost as long as the O’Connells. She knew this place and she knew him. Nobody knew him better.
At least that’s what he’d believed all these years.
Until now.
“Just let me go, Nat. If you ever loved me, let me go.”
Shayla splashed her face with cold water, then used the washcloth to freshen the rest of her. She found a small bottle of musk-scented cologne in the medicine cabinet and sprayed some on her wrists. She was thankful that she’d had the foresight to bring a clean top and a pair of shorts to change into when it got warmer. She quickly donned them before attempting to put her bird’s-nest hairdo in order. When she’d done the best she could with what she had, she turned off the light and left the bathroom.
She paused a moment in the hallway, her gaze alighting on an oil painting at the head of the stairs. She knew without looking for the signature that it must have been painted by Nat’s late wife. Shayla didn’t have to be an art critic to recognize the similarities between this smaller landscape and the much larger one in the great room. Or to recognize the woman’s extraordinary talent.
“How long since she died?” she whispered as she reached out to touch the picture frame. “How long has he been alone in this house?”
Years, he’d said. But how many years? Enough to put the pain to rest? Or was he still in love with his wife’s memory?
She glanced toward the open doorway to his bedroom. She wondered if she would find a photograph of the late Mrs. Nat O’Connell in there. Perhaps on his nightstand or on the fireplace mantel.
Well, she’d know soon enough. She would tackle the clutter in these upstairs rooms before the end of the week.
And what possible difference could it make to her, one way or the other?
Taking a deep breath, she turned from the bedroom and walked down the stairs, determined to put a stop to her wayward thoughts. Her determination lasted a good thirty seconds and then was obliterated by the sound of Nat’s hearty laughter coming from the kitchen. Ty laughed, too, but it was only Nat’s that made her pulse race.
She stopped dead still, willing herself to breathe slowly. It would be nothing short of insane if she allowed these reactions to continue. She had to control both her thoughts and her feelings. After all, she’d never been successful in the romance department. Now was not the time to try to change that poor track record.
She swallowed hard, then moved forward, stopping again when she reached the kitchen doorway. Nat and Ty sat at a large table, a platter of sandwiches and a large pitcher of iced tea in its center. Nat’s chair was turned with its back to the wall. His long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He held a tall glass in one hand, ice cubes clinking against the sides. His black hair bore the stamp of his cowboy hat. Her fingers itched to smooth it.
Ty noticed her and rose from his chair. “Ma’am,” he said with a broad smile. He pulled out the chair next to him. “Sit yourself down.”
“Thanks.” She allowed herself a quick glance toward Nat. “Sorry it took me so long.”
“Wasn’t all that long,” Ty answered. “And the wait was worth it if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. You look prettier’n a blue jay in a ponderosa pine.”
She hoped she wasn’t blushing. She didn’t want either of them to guess how seldom she received compliments. Besides, Ty was simply being polite.
“The boss and I were talkin’ about the potluck over at the Grange Hall next Saturday night. I was hopin’ you might go with me.”
She couldn’t help herself. She looked toward Nat. Had he thought to ask her? Had Ty beat him to it?
“You ought to go, Shayla.” Nat held out the platter of sandwiches. “You’d meet plenty of your neighbors. Even more than you did on Sunday. Folks always have a good time at the Grange. Good food. Great music. Chad Friday plays a mean fiddle, and Pastor Barnett on the drums is something nobody should miss.”
His words told her he didn’t mind that Ty had asked her to the potluck. The knowledge caused sharp disappointment to pierce through her.
“What d’ya say?” Ty persisted. “Will you go with me, Shayla?”
“Yes,” she answered, turning toward the cowboy. “I’d like to go. Thanks for asking.”
Since Nat was a small boy, he’d liked sitting on the wide, wraparound porch on summer evenings, watching as sunset settled over the earth, the sinking sun gilding the grasslands in shades of gold and orange before giving over to the pewter tones of nightfall. This hour of the day, more often than not, brought with it a breeze to sway the tall pines that towered above the house, a hundred feet and more, rolling them in huge arcs, enough to make a man dizzy if he stared upward for too long.
It was a silent part of Nat’s day. His year-round ranch hands, Ty Sheffield and Mick Janssen, had returned to their homes to be with their families. The livestock had been fed and watered, and those animals that required it were in stalls in the barn. Dinner was over, the dishes washed and put away.
Now it was him and his dogs, the sunset, and the evening breeze. Bonny lay beside his wooden rocking chair. Coira sat closer to him, her muzzle resting on his thigh. Belle was down on the lawn with her remaining three pups.
Nat wondered if Shayla would get more sleep tonight or if Honey Girl would continue to cry for her lost mama. He had a feeling she’d take that puppy into her bed before the week was out. Probably tonight. She seemed the sort.
He turned his eyes to the west, toward the Erickson cabin. Or should he call it the Vincent cabin now?
“Nothing ever happens here!" Joanne’s complaint rang in his ears, as strong now as it had been when she first said it. “We might as well be living in a cave. I’m tired of being snowbound in the winter. I want to do something! I want to go somewhere!”
He’d be wise to go on thinking of that place as the Erickson cabin. When the heavy snows came and the temperature plummeted to below zero and the power lines snapped or the phones went dead, Shayla would pack her clothes and computer into that noisy little car of hers and hightail it back to Portland.
“Best place for her, too. Flatlanders ought to stay where they belong.”
Coira slapped a paw onto his thigh, drawing his gaze. The dog watched him with big, sad eyes.
“She won’t last,” he told the collie. “She seems real nice, and I hope she has a good time at the Grange with Ty. But I also hope that boy doesn’t get his tail in a knot over her, because she won’t stay.” He stroked the dog’s head. “You and I both know that. Don’t we, girl?”
And yet, even as he spoke, there was a part of him, deep in a corner of his heart, that wished he’d asked her to the potluck before Ty, because…
Because what if she did last through the winter?
CHAPTER 5
Shayla didn’t see much of Nat over the next three days. Although he greeted her when she arrived each morning, he would then head for the barn, saddle up one of his horses, and ride off, not to be seen again for the remainder of the day.
Ty Sheffield was another story. The young cowboy found a reason at least once each day to return to the ranch house, and when he did, he took a few minutes to visit with Shayla. She discovered she enjoyed his comp
any. Besides being charming and well mannered, he had a fun sense of humor and an easygoing nature. Like her, he was the eldest child of a large family, giving them an immediate connection and understanding. It wasn’t long before she felt as if she knew him as well as she knew one of her own brothers.
She recognized when she was being given the rush, even when it was done cowboy-style, and she was a little flattered by it, especially after learning she was six years his senior. Being pursued wasn’t a common occurrence in her life. She even wished she could return his apparent affection.
But when she went home each afternoon and sat staring at the blinking cursor on her computer screen, it wasn’t Ty she thought about. It was Nat’s image—with his inky black hair and coffee-colored eyes— that drifted through her mind.
On Friday morning at the end of that first week, Shayla and Honey Girl were greeted by the two black-and-white border collies as they drove up to the ranch house. Nat stood on the porch, drinking coffee from a large mug, dressed in his usual boots, jeans, Western shirt, and black Stetson.
“Morning,” he called as she climbed out of her car.
“Good morning.”
“Better close your windows. We’re in for some thundershowers later on.”
She glanced upward. Except for a smattering of pristine white clouds on the horizon, all she saw was blue. “Rain?” She frowned. “Doesn’t look like it to me.”'
“That can change quick enough.”
“You sound awfully sure of yourself.” She set Honey Girl on the ground and watched her scamper after the older dogs.
“Yup.”
She walked toward the house while keeping an eye on the puppy. “Do you have a bad knee that warns you when the weather’s about to change?”
“Something even better than that. I’ve got a satellite dish and The Weather Channel.”
She stopped at the base of the steps and looked at him. He wore a teasing grin that caused her heart to begin that wretched erratic thumping.
“How’s your oven working?”
“Fine. No more trouble since you put in the new element.”
“Good.”
There wasn’t any doubt about it. He was the most handsome man she’d ever met, and she was much too attracted to him for her own good.
“Come on in. We can talk over a cup of coffee before we both get to work.”
She nodded, not certain what this change in routine meant.
She glanced behind her, then clucked her tongue at Honey Girl who came running toward her in response, tripping over her own paws and somersaulting to a halt a few feet away from her mistress. Shayla laughed as she bent to pick up the puppy.
“Clumsy, aren’t you?” she said softly. And she felt just as clumsy as she followed Nat into the house, her heart tripping over itself.
As soon as they were seated at the kitchen table, large mugs of strong coffee in front of them, Nat said, “I wanted to tell you what a great job you’ve been doing. My mom couldn’t make it look better, and she’s a real stickler for details.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you an equally good secretary?” He tipped his chair back on its hind legs until the high back touched the wall behind him.
“I like to think so. I enjoy it more than cleaning house. That’s for sure.”
He grinned. “Tell me how you got started.”
“Nothing special. I thought it would be a summer job. I answered an ad right after graduation from high school, started at minimum wage since I had no decipherable skills to begin with, and ended up working for the company for the next twelve years. I took night classes in computers and bookkeeping and such. Those classes helped earn me a few promotions.”
“So why’d you leave?”
“The business folded. It was sudden. Nobody saw it coming, except the CEO and a few higher-up executives, and they never let on to the rest of us.” She sipped her coffee, thinking back over the events of this past spring. “My boss gave me a glowing letter of recommendation, and my folks invited me to live at home again while I hunted for a new job.” She met his gaze. “But then I realized this was my chance to do what I’ve wanted to do for years. I believe God opened this door so I could walk through it” Softly she added, “My parents think I’m crazy.”
“It takes a lot of guts to do what you did.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.” He stared into space, a far-off look in his eyes, as if he could see something she couldn’t. “Yes, I do think so.”
She almost reached out to touch him, to comfort him somehow.
“Following a dream takes courage,” he said, his voice sounding as far away as his gaze. “Because it changes everything. Not just for yourself but for those who love you.” He let his chair rock forward, put down the mug, then rose to his feet. “I’d better get busy. We’ll have a short working day with those storms blowing in.”
And with that, he strode from the kitchen, leaving Shayla wondering what it was she’d seen in his eyes and heard in his voice.
Nat had thought a lot about Joanne in the last week. More than he’d thought about her in years. And he couldn’t say he cared much for it. He’d thought that was all behind him, that he’d laid it to rest long ago.
Apparently he’d been wrong.
As Blue picked the way up a shale-covered trail, Nat remembered again those last years of his marriage, remembered the way it had felt, seeing his wife changing before his eyes. She had discovered oil painting by accident, and once she’d begun, nothing else had been as important to her.
Not even him.
She’d turned one of the upstairs bedrooms into her studio—a bedroom that he’d thought would be the nursery. She’d spent hours poring over books about the great masters, about different painting techniques. That first summer, she’d driven down to Boise twice each week to take lessons from some teacher who was supposed to be one of the best instructors in the Northwest. Everybody had said Joanne possessed an extraordinary talent that should be developed.
But Nat had wanted a wife who was involved in the everyday workings of a thriving cattle ranch. He’d wanted children—a house full of them—not more oil paintings on his walls.
At the top of the ridge, he stopped his horse and dismounted. Then he stood there, staring down at the crystal clear mountain lake below.
Joanne had loved him once, but she’d needed something he hadn’t been able to give her. It wasn’t pleasant, admitting the part he’d played in the disintegration of his marriage. Their love had died by inches. It had been painful, watching it deteriorate and crumble before his eyes. Joanne had had a dream to follow, and she’d had the courage to follow it. But he’d tried to stop her. He’d tried to make her want only what he wanted. He’d been immature, stubborn, selfish.
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 to her. He hoped they wouldn’t try to take it away.
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 comer. 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 Nat 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 comer 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 Nat 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.
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. Nat 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.
Trouble in Paradise: A Novel Page 5