by Tina Leonard
Definitely a fool’s world. He wished Valentine’s sweet face and trusting eyes didn’t haunt him.
The only cure for thoughts a man couldn’t control was to busy himself with something that needed to be fixed. In this case, Crockett decided, what most needed fixing was himself.
There had to be room for two artists in the family. So the day after Bandera’s wedding, the day after Mason had sent Hawk and Jellyfish back out to look for Maverick, the day after most of his married brothers had left the ranch, he sat in front of a canvas in a quiet attic hideaway at the main ranch house, staring with determination at the empty white board in front of him. A tube of ochre tempted him to begin something warm and vibrant. But he couldn’t make his fingers pick up the tube.
His soul wanted to create, but his mind wanted to think about Valentine. His creativity was hiding from the chaos.
“Whatcha doing, Uncle Crockett?” a young voice asked as Kenny crawled through the attic hole to stare at him. “Dad wants your help fixing our windmill. It has a squeak in its turn.”
“Dad” was Crockett’s brother Calhoun, the significant drain on Crockett’s creativity.
“Hey, Kenny,” Crockett said, not surprised when Kenny’s big sister Minnie crawled up behind her brother. “And, Miss Minnie.”
“Hi, Uncle Crockett.” She stood beside his chair and squinted at the blank canvas. “Gonna get started soon? Or are you pondering?”
“Pondering.”
He loved Calhoun’s kids, but right now, he wished they hadn’t brought their inquisitiveness into his sanctuary. It was the only place he’d thought of where his nosy brothers might not figure out what he was up to. He needed to create in peace. If he was lucky, it would all come back to him—and then he could keep his wandering mind off Valentine.
Minnie looked at him sympathetically. “Dad’s been painting some portraits of Widow Fancy. She wanted some for her grandkids.”
Crockett nodded. “That’s nice.”
“Maybe you could draw our windmill. Or our horse,” Kenny added. “Gypsy would love to be painted.”
“She is an old show pony,” Crockett agreed. “But you can get Calhoun to do that for you.”
“Nah,” Minnie said. “Mama says you’re the real artist in the family.”
Crockett perked up. “Really? Olivia says that about me?”
“Yeah.” Minnie nodded. “She says you’re all moody and soulful, and surely that equates to great talent just waiting to be sprung.” Minnie sighed dramatically. “Of course, Dad says it’s not your talent that needs to be sprung, it’s your drawers.”
“Yeah,” Kenny said. “We can’t understand what’s wrong with your drawers. Are they stuck? I sure hope it’s not your sock drawer,” he said. “You won’t like wearing boots without socks. One time I did that, and I had blisters—”
“Kenny,” Crockett interrupted kindly. “Minnie, would the two of you run and tell your father that I will be happy to help him fix the windmill?”
They nodded solemnly.
“I’ll be down there sometime this afternoon. But I need the two of you to do me a favor,” he said, making his tone conspiratorial.
“Okay,” Minnie whispered.
“Please don’t tell Calhoun or anybody else that I was up here or that I was painting.”
“Thinking about painting,” Kenny reminded him. “You haven’t painted anything yet.”
Crockett sighed at his childish honesty. “True. Off you go, both of you, and remember, this is our secret. Only the two of you know where to find me.”
“Okay.” Minnie’s eyes shone. “We’re great at keeping secrets!”
He thought about the jibe that Calhoun probably hadn’t meant for his kids to overhear and repeat. “I know you are,” he said. “Thanks.”
They hugged him, then carefully descended the ladder.
“Hey, kids,” Crockett heard someone say. He froze as he recognized Valentine’s voice. “What are you two doing up there?”
His heart seemed to stop beating as he waited for Minnie and Kenny to reply. He did not want Valentine to visit the one place where he could hide out and try to paint her out of his memory.
“We were looking for something,” Minnie said. “It’s kind of dusty up there, though, and there’s not anything interesting.”
He grimaced. More honesty.
“Attics are fun to look through,” Valentine said. “My sister and I used to have an attic. Here, let me help you close it.”
Crockett heard the stairs fold, then boom! The attic door closed, securely locking him away with his floundering creativity.
“Wonderful,” he grumbled, feeling more moody and soulful than ever. Quickly, he strode to the window, looking down into the yard. He was rewarded by the sight of Valentine walking with Kenny and Minnie across the lawn.
He loved looking at Valentine. Okay, so maybe he was spying, but she was so feminine that he even enjoyed watching her walk away.
Just then, Minnie turned around, her little face tipped up in his direction. Very discreetly, she waved.
He jumped away from the window, his heart beating hard. Too close. He had to stop getting funky over that little package of female dynamite. Back to my creation.
After a long fruitless period of staring at the blank canvas, his cell phone rang, startling him out of his churning thoughts. “Hello?”
“Crockett, it’s Calhoun. Minnie says you’re going to help me with the windmill.”
“Yeah,” Crockett said reluctantly, knowing that Valentine had walked the kids home. She would be at Calhoun’s house. Even if he didn’t want to avoid her, which he did, he was trapped in the attic. The biggest problem of the two was Valentine, hands down. “Not right now,” he said.
“When?” Calhoun asked. “Valentine’s here. Olivia says she’ll whip up some barbecue if you want to head this way. She’s going to teach Valentine how to ride Gypsy after supper.”
That would be worth seeing, but he knew he shouldn’t see it. “Tell Olivia thanks, but I can’t do it, dude.”
“Why?
“I’m busy,” Crockett said. “Look for me tomorrow.” He snapped the phone off and sat in front of his canvas again, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.
Then it came to him. He should start easy, with a warm-up. Nothing difficult. Something that would waken his muse and loosen up his inner artist.
A small challenge would totally keep his mind off Valentine and how she would look while learning to ride the cagey Gypsy. A still life would keep him from sitting here thinking about how all of Valentine seemed to bounce so cutely whenever she…well, bounced.
A pear would be the perfect thing to paint. “A pear in a bowl,” he murmured. “Very still.”
Slowly, his hand unsure, he trailed his first colored stroke against the empty whiteness.
“IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE supernatural,” Crockett heard someone whisper. “Don’t you get it?”
“I think it’s extraterrestrial maybe.” The voice sounded puzzled. “Could be a heart, Van Gogh style. With something cut off. Wasn’t Van Gogh famous for cutting things off?”
“I don’t quite see that,” came the quiet reply. “I think it’s a woman’s buttocks.”
Crockett’s eyes snapped open. Last and Mason were standing over him, staring at his painting. He jumped to his feet. “What the hell?” he demanded, trying to cover his precious secret from their puzzled glances.
“Sorry,” Mason said. “We sent out a search team for you when you didn’t hit the table for supper. It’s not like you to miss a meal.”
“Nope,” Last said, his eyes huge. “What the hell is that thing you painted? And why are you up here, hiding out with the dust bunnies?”
“So you wouldn’t bug me,” Crockett snapped. “And I wish I’d stayed hidden. I’m feeling very intruded upon.”
Last’s eyes widened. “We were worried about you.”
“Entirely unnecessary.” He’d just gotten tired and had de
cided to stretch out and rest his eyes. “How’d you find me up here?”
Mason shrugged. “There’s all kinds of dirt on the floor from the attic door being opened. I don’t guess anybody’s been up here in ages. We really ought to clean it out.” Glancing around, he sighed. “When we have time.”
“So, what did you paint?” Last said. “Mason thinks it’s a Picasso-style heart—”
“Van Gogh,” Mason corrected.
“I’m thinking the red tones are sexual,” Last said. “The curves are feminine and delicate, so it’s probably a woman’s fanny. It almost reminds me of Georgia O’Keeffe. You know how she revealed the sexual nature of women when she painted those petals.” Last scratched his head as he looked at his brother. “But you never think about sex when you’re holding a paintbrush. I probably just didn’t get your vision. Let me have another look.”
“No!” Crockett hopped away with his overcritiqued treasure. Gently, he set it down where it could dry in peace. “Look, do you guys mind getting the hell out?”
“No problem, Picasso,” Mason said. “But since it seems your creativity has fizzled for the moment, you think we could get you to come down for supper?”
“Why not?” Crockett said, following them down the stairs. “I have nothing better to do than be harassed by my brothers.”
“Excellent.” Mason headed into the kitchen, then sat at the table and tucked a napkin into his lap. “Helga cooked a wonderful meal.”
He beamed, delighted that Mimi didn’t borrow the housekeeper so much now that Mimi lived in town. With a smaller place and with her daughter being older, things were going more smoothly for Mimi.
Except for her cockamamy idea of running for sheriff, with Mason as deputy, an idea that Crockett knew Mason opposed. It was no job for a woman, Mason had said, especially a woman like Mimi.
The brothers had rolled their eyes, ignoring Mason. Mimi would do whatever the heck Mimi wanted—and Mason would no doubt find himself neck-deep in Mimi-schemies.
“It’s delicious, Helga,” Crockett said to the housekeeper. Actually, now that he was eating, he was glad his brothers had rescued him from his upstairs jail. He had gotten hungry. And now that he’d survived their mockery and realized they hadn’t made as much fun of his first attempt at painting as he’d feared, he was feeling almost good about his dysfunctional family.
And then the door opened and Valentine walked in with Olivia, Calhoun and the kids.
“Ah, just in time for dinner,” Calhoun said, grinning as he helped his kids and Olivia onto the plank seats.
Crockett stared, all his contentment shriveling. “I thought you were eating at your house.”
“Yeah, but Helga called and said she’d made extra, and why didn’t we come on up? So here we are,” Calhoun said.
Yes, here they were, Crockett thought, before remembering his manners. He stood and pushed the plank seat back a bit so Valentine could more comfortably seat herself. Beside him, of course, because the table was then balanced with an equal number of people on each side. Helga quickly handed out extra plates, but Crockett’s creativity and hunger left all at once, replaced by a different kind of need.
He suddenly realized the delicate floral scent he smelled was coming from Valentine. He quickly drank some water. She looked at him, her smile somehow unsure, and he put the glass down.
Across the table, Last watched them curiously. Minnie and Kenny ate happily, and Annette sat in her father’s lap, grinning as she dug her fingers into Last’s mashed potatoes.
Tension spread through Crockett. He turned his attention back to the food he couldn’t eat.
“In case you’re wondering what’s in that box on the counter,” Valentine said when the silence at the table grew long, “it’s a cake for Mason.”
“Really? That was nice of you, Valentine,” Mason replied sincerely. “We love your cakes.”
Valentine beamed, clearly pleased with the compliment. “It’s a birthday cake someone ordered for you, a secret admirer,” Valentine said. “I didn’t know it was your birthday.”
Crockett turned his attention back to Valentine, relieved that he had a reason to look at her.
“It’s not my birthday,” Mason said, frowning. “It’s not any of our birthdays.”
The smile slid from Valentine’s face, and Crockett felt sorry for her.
“Oh,” she said softly.
“Who sent it?” Last asked.
“She paid cash,” Valentine said. “She just said she was a secret admirer. I thought you knew her.” A becoming blush spread across her delicate cheeks. “I’ll take the cake back.”
“No way,” Mason said. “I never give up cake.” He took the box from Helga.
“Mason, no,” Valentine said. “Believe me, you do not want this cake.”
“Mmm, chocolate,” Mason said, cutting off a big piece. “Plates for everyone, please, Helga.”
Then Mason stopped, looking confused. Crockett could feel Valentine shifting nervously on the bench, as if she wanted to get up and flee.
Mason lifted a thong from the center of the cake. “What’s this?”
Last started laughing. Olivia hid a smile. Minnie and Kenny were agog, and Annette pushed mashed potatoes into her hair happily while the adults’ attention was elsewhere.
“The lady said she’d just been to Victoria’s Secret and wanted to send you something you liked almost as much as chocolate,” Valentine said.
She sounded on the verge of tears, so Crockett put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze. To his surprise, she hid her face against his chest. It was only for a second, but it was enough to send an arrow of joy quivering straight into his heart.
“Oh, well,” Mason said. “I can’t imagine who sent it, but since you baked it, I won’t let a thong stop me from eating a delicious Baked Valentine. If you think about it, this brings a whole new meaning to the name of your store, Valentine.”
Crockett knew Mason was trying to make Valentine feel better by making her laugh, but she was too embarrassed. “It’s okay,” Crockett told her. “We get stuff like that all the time.”
The second he said it, he wished he hadn’t. Valentine pulled away from him. She took Annette from Last and started to wipe the potatoes off the baby’s fingers and from her hair.
“Nice going, Leonardo da Vinci,” Mason said to Crockett, slapping a piece of cake in front of him. “Now Valentine thinks we’re a bunch of panty-collecting apes.”
Helga used a pair of tongs to snag the offending missive off the table and toss it in the trash. “Bad girls.”
Silence fell.
“Don’t be upset, Valentine,” Olivia finally said. “The cake is wonderful. And so pretty, too.”
“Thank you,” Valentine said softly. “I’m sorry to have to call it a night in the middle of dinner, but Annette’s managed to get potatoes mashed into her diapers. I’m going to take her on home.”
They all stood, trying to get her to stay. Helga offered to rinse the baby at the sink, and Last said a bit of potatoes wasn’t going to hurt Annette. But Valentine thanked Helga for dinner and said good-night, not really looking at any of them.
The front door closed, and Crockett looked at Mason. “Sorry. I was trying to make her feel better.”
“I don’t think it worked.” Mason sat down, licking the frosting from his fingers. “I have to say, she bakes so much better than the folks who used to own the store. This is good.”
It was more than Crockett could stand, thinking about Valentine walking to her little house on the far side of the ranch, alone and upset. If Last wasn’t going to get up to walk her home, then Crockett would.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, hurrying out the door.
Valentine heard boots coming after her, and her heart jumped when she recognized Crockett’s voice. Oh, she didn’t want to talk to him now. Once he’d admitted that he and his brothers frequently received favors like panties from women, she had known she had to leave. Th
e thought that one day she might take an order like that for Crockett made her whole inner being turn cold with some emotion she’d never felt before, an emotion she didn’t understand and wanted to get away from, quickly.
“Wait up,” Crockett said, swooping Annette from her arms. “The night’s still young, even for this tater-stealing spud.”
“Spud needs a bath and a bedtime story.”
“I don’t like the nickname Spud. Tater sounds a lot more feminine,” Crockett protested, his teasing voice trying to wheedle a smile from Valentine. “Give your uncle a kiss, Tater.”
Valentine appreciated his effort, but she couldn’t smile. He didn’t know how ragged her heart felt.
“Don’t be embarrassed about all that back there,” Crockett said. “It was the best thing that could happen to Mason. He’s getting way too stodgy. Didn’t you see how happy he was?”
“I’m sure he thinks it’s weird that I baked it for him. But I honestly thought she knew him and that maybe there was some shared history between them.”
“Nah,” Crockett said easily. “Mason’s never shared much history with anyone, except Mimi, and I’m not sure their history has anything to do with panties. Mimi would be more likely to leave Mason’s drawers in a tree somewhere for all the world to see.”
Valentine slowly smiled. “She wouldn’t.”
“She would. There is no limit to the fun we call Mimi.”
She gave Crockett a sidelong glance. “Do you have any history?”
“The kind where someone orders me a specially baked cake with lingerie filling? No. Not unless you want to order me one.” He gave her a devilish wink that made her heart race restlessly. “Bras, panties, it doesn’t matter. I’m not as picky as Mason.”
“I don’t know what temperature I’d have to put the oven on to bake a bra into a cake.”
“Hot, hot, hot,” Crockett said, kissing Tater on her head as he held her.
Valentine felt a blush steal over her cheeks. “Give me the spud,” she said. “We are late for a rub-a-dub in the tub.” She took Annette from Crockett, amazed by the warmth of his body as her arms brushed his. Hot, hot, hot was right. Cautiously, she glanced over Annette’s head, peeping at the big cowboy. “Good night, Uncle Crockett,” she said, waving Annette’s little fist.