Trouble in Paradise: A Novel

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Shayla felt an unreasonable urge to weep for him.

  “She was good, wasn’t she?”

  She whirled toward the doorway.

  Nat 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?” Perhaps she’d only imagined the smell of paint and turpentine.

  “Long time, isn’t it? I know I should’ve gotten rid of all this. It’s 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 “—the first year after she took arts lessons in Boise.” He pointed to the third. “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. Nat nodded to them before walking to the counter.

  “How’s it going, Ed?” he asked 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. Nat had learned that long ago. It was easier to answer 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, Nat noticed the store had grown dark. He turned toward the storefront windows, only to discover roiling black clouds had arrived.

  “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.

  When 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.

  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 pup cowered in a corner, whimpering.

  “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 Nat found her.

  “Hey, what’s this?” he asked gently as he drew her to her feet. “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 Nat 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 stepped back from him, out of his embrace. She didn’t want to look at him, but she knew she must.

  “I…I’m sorry.”

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

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

  “We’ve all got our private fears.”

  She had the insane desire to return to the warmth of his arms. 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 Girl in the kennel.” Then she led the way to the kitchen, thinking it better if she didn’t allow him to touch her again.

  Nat 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’d 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 reenter the kitchen.

  Nat would be plumb loco if he allowed his unexpected attraction to this petite, artistic-minded, city gal 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 6

  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 stop 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 Nat 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 Nat’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 Nat, 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?”

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

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get a move on.”

  They were silent as the vehicle 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 Nat was there or if he’d left for the Grange Hall already.

  Nat 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 safely. 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, Nat 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 walked toward the back of the hall, far away from the front door, as well as 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.

  “Oh, I have lots of favorites.” She took a sip of fruit punch from the tall plastic tumbler in her hand. After a moment, she said, “Mary Higgins Clark was the first writer to make me think I’d like to write a novel. And there are a number of wonderful Christian suspense novelists who inspire me.”

  “Did you come visit Lauretta when you were a youngster?” asked Hydrangea Zimmerman, a woman in her late seventies with sun-leathered skin and watery eyes.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, girl, I think I met you back then. Freckle faced, with your nose peeling from a sunburn. Just knee-high to a grasshopper, you were.” She chuckled. “Not much different from what you are now.”

  “That was me.”

  The wizened old woman, a good two inches shorter than Shayla, leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper, added, “Don’t envy them tall folk. They’re always hitting their heads on one thing or another.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Is this your first book you’re working on?” Geneve Barnett inquired.

  “Yes. But I’ve wanted to try my hand at it for many years.”

  And so the evening went. Only one thing kept it from being perfect—it wasn’t Nat standing at her side.

  From the darkened balcony at the north end of the Grange Hall, Nat watched as Shayla mingled, talked, laughed. That lilting laughter that made him smile whenever he heard it. And it wasn’t only a smile it brought him. It also lightened
his heart, made his insides feel airy, weightless as a cloud.

  So that was the way it was going to be, he thought as he stared down from his lofty sanctuary. He wasn’t going to listen to his own good sense. He wasn’t going to heed the voice of wisdom that told him he would be better off pursuing someone else.

  Anybody else.

  No, he was going to obey the urging of his heart instead. Maybe it wouldn’t lead anywhere. Then again, maybe it would. He might as well find out, one way or the other.

  “Sorry, Ty,” he whispered, “but I’m not honoring any claims you might’ve made on our little mystery writer. All’s fair from this point on.”

  Thirty minutes later, Nat hummed softly to himself as he drove home. But it wasn’t until he pulled into the barnyard, cut the engine and turned off the headlights that he recognized the song running through his head. The lyrics included something about taking a chance on love.

  He remained in the cab as he silently repeated those words: Taking a chance on love.

  He’d loved Joanne with everything in him.

  Then he’d let love die.

  And then he’d let Joanne die—or so it had seemed to him at the time.

  Could he love a woman that way again? Could that woman be Shayla? And if he did fall for her, would he live to regret it?

  He didn’t know, but it was time to find out.

  “Thank you, Ty. It was a lovely evening.”

  “For me, too. Maybe we can do it again.”

  “Maybe.”

  She avoided him trying to kiss her by reaching for the door as she said, “Good night.” Then she slipped inside. The instant she flicked on the light, Honey Girl whimpered an excited greeting and scratched at the door of her crate.

  “Ready to go outside, little one?”

  Shayla opened the door to release the puppy. Honey Girl fan circles around her legs.

  “Let’s get you outside.” She patted her thigh. “Come on, Honey.”

  A full moon floated above the mountains in the east, seemingly perched on their craggy peaks, bathing the valley in a blanket of white. The light undulated atop the field grasses, rising and swelling with the whims of the midnight breeze.