"Who?"
"Corporal Derrick Harrelson, nicknamed Socrates because he's always spouting philosophy."
"Did you have a nickname?"
"We all did."
"So, what was yours?"
"Promise not to laugh?"
"No, but tell me anyway."
"Scout."
She frowned. "Because you're part Indian?"
"No." His cheeks darkened. "After the mess I got into over the stolen car, I went a little overboard for a while, determined that would be the last time I ever disappointed the Colonel. So every time some of the guys tried to stir up trouble off base I served as the voice of reason. Or, in their words, the wet blanket. Finally one of the guys told me to quit being such a damn Eagle Scout, and it stuck."
"Eagle Scout? You?" She snorted with laughter.
"Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction. I did eventually loosen up a bit, but by then it was too late."
"So tell me about Socrates." She dipped a chip in the salsa.
"We served in the same battalion and got pretty tight. Now that I'm out, he's making noises about not reupping. His current hitch is almost over, so I thought maybe the boot camp was something we could do together. I need to think it through, though. Be sure before I ask Mom to put up with a camp full of people year-round."
"It sounds exciting." She found his enthusiasm contagious. "If you decide to do it, let me know. I'd be happy to help design your promotional material."
"What?"
"I took a few graphic art classes at UT. I'm really good at layout and design. I'd be happy to help."
"Ah…" He raised a brow but said nothing else.
She felt the instant shift in mood, like a wall had dropped between them, and realized she'd taken their truce one step too far. "I mean…"-she back pedaled quickly-"if you want any help."
He polished off the last of his burger. "I'll think about it."
She tried not to show her disappointment, but her lunch had lost some of its flavor. Pushing the plate away, she struggled for a way to get things back on a friendly footing. When the check arrived, she reached for it. "Why don't I get lunch as a thank-you for showing me around?"
"Absolutely not." Joe's hand came down over hers. Heat raced up her arm at the contact. He had large, powerful hands, and his fingers easily circled her wrist. "Here's the deal. I'm getting lunch, but there's a condition. Before we go back to the camp, you will show your portfolio to one gallery."
"I'd prefer to treat you to lunch." She tried to tug the check out from under his hand.
His grip tightened painlessly, just enough to make her aware of the strength he possessed. He leaned close, his gaze intent and his voice smooth as tempered steel. "This is not negotiable.''
"Joe…" She laughed nervously, her whole body tingling at his nearness. "Come on. Be reasonable. I'll show my work when I'm ready."
"Maybe I don't feel like being reasonable."
"I told you-"
"I know. But I have just the place in mind." He plucked the check out from under their joined hands and reached for his wallet. "It's small, unassuming, and well outside of Old Town. If they reject you, no biggie. At least you will have gotten your feet wet."
"That's all I have to do?" She nearly protested the loss of contact. "Get my feet wet?"
"That's it."
"What if they like my work? I don't want to sign an exclusive if the place is a dump."
"It's not a dump. It's perfectly respectable." He handed some money and the check to the server. "It's just not as highbrow as the galleries on Canyon Road. Besides, you don't have to say yes to the first offer you get, but having one gallery interested will give you more clout with the others."
"True." She took a deep breath. "Okay. You're on."
Chapter 8
The only way to conquer fear is to face it.
– How to Have a Perfect Life
Outside of Old Town, Santa Fe resembled any other growing town across America. The strip centers offered the same hardware stores, discount chains, mega bookstores, and fast-food restaurants. Except that here all the buildings maintained the "Santa Fe look" to meet building codes, and the urban sprawl ranged between pine-covered mountains and sage-dotted desert.
Maddy frowned as Joe turned off one of the main roads into a light industrial area. Even here, the metal buildings had adobe facades. Her frown deepened when he pulled into the parking lot of what looked like a warehouse. "Is this it?"
"Yep," he confirmed, parking in the shade of a tree in the far corner of the crowded lot.
Maddy twisted in her seat to study the place. "I thought you said it was small."
"The gallery only takes up a small portion in the front."
"What's in the back?"
"Hmm… frame shop and storage?"
Something in his voice made her study him. He wore a highly suspect look of innocence. "This is a reputable gallery, right?"
"Absolutely."
She looked back at the building. The sign above the covered porch read IMAGES OF THE WEST. That tickled some memory, but she dismissed it. With a name that generic, of course it seemed familiar.
"You ready to go in?" Joe asked.
She pulled the portfolio into her lap but made no move to open the door. "Give me a minute to think of what I'll say."
"What's to think about? We'll go in, I'll introduce you to the owner, then you'll take it from there."
"You're right. I don't know why I'm so nervous." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I've been on the other end of this enough times to know what to do. Artists came into the gallery where I worked all the time. Even though we rejected most of them, we were never mean about it."
"Exactly." He reached for the door handle. "Now, let's go in."
"In a minute."
"Maddy…" He sighed impatiently.
"Don't get all exasperated. I know it won't kill me to have them reject my work, but…"
"I know. This is important to you. I understand. Now, let's go."
"It's hugely important." She laid her hand on his bare arm before he could open the door, then pulled it back when he turned. "I don't want to mess up my chances by jumping the gun. My port-folio is okay, but if I wait just a bit, it will be even stronger."
"All right, here's my take." He settled, back against the seat. "You're projecting too far ahead, not concentrating on the task right in front of you. A solid long-term strategy is Mnade up of steps. Today's step is to get past your first jump."
"First jump?" She frowned.
"As in parachuting. The first jump is the scariest. You scream-if not aloud at least inside your head- the whole way down. After that"-he flashed a devilish grin-"the fear becomes part of the thrill."
"You are so warped." She laughed, which helped to loosen the knot in her stomach. "So, was that the scariest thing you did in training? Parachuting?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Are you stalling?"
"Maybe." She grinned unabashedly. "So was it?"
He relented with a sigh. "No. Jumping out of a plane from twelve thousand feet was nothing compared to jumping off the high diving board into the deep end of a swimming pool."
"Why was that scary? You're a good swimmer."
"Not when I'm wearing combat boots, fifty pounds of gear, and I'm carrying a rifle. Add to that the little fact that I was winded from all the P.T. they'd just put us through and blindfolded so I couldn't tell which way was up or down."
"Oh my God!" Her eyes went wide. "Why on earth would they do that to you? And why would you let them?"
"Because I wanted to be a Ranger badly enough to do damn near anything." Resolve sharpened the planes of his face. "To make it past each cut, we had to prove we were tough enough."
"And that's what they made you do to prove you were physically tough enough?"
"Not just physically, but mentally. The instructors came up with a lot of drills to prove we wouldn't panic under pressure and start acting on our own instincts ra
ther than following orders. For me those tests were the hardest because I've never been real big on trusting other people."
"NaH." She feigned shock. "Surely you jest."
" 'Fraid not," he confessed, straight-faced. "In fact, they actually put that in my psychological evaluation file. 'Has difficulty trusting his teammates.' "
She laughed. "That sounds like something a teacher would send home in a note to your parents. 'Little Joey doesn't play well with the other boys.' "
A corner of his mouth kicked up. "No, I only play well with the girls."
She gave him a look. "Go on with your story. I take it you passed all their diabolical tests, since you made it into the Rangers."
"I did." Pride joined the resolve. "I made it because I learned to suppress fear, to follow orders, and to focus on the task at hand."
She glanced back at the building and made a face. "I suppose the moral of the story is that I should trust you and follow your orders."
"You follow orders?" He put his fingertips to his chest. "Please, let's try to keep our objective obtainable here. Besides, there is no moral to the story. There's only the question: How bad do you want it?"
Determination filled her. "Bad."
"Okay, then." His voice turned tough and ready for action. "Let's go do it!"
"Right." She nodded and climbed out of the truck, then fell into step beside him as they crossed the parking lot. "What's the owner's name?"
"Sylvia. She knows the art business inside and out, and she has a formidable reputation."
"Gee, thanks for the effort to keep me calm."
"No, she's nice. That's why I picked this place for your first jump."
"Translation: She'll be gentle when she rips out my heart and stomps on it."
"What I meant was if she offers you advice, take it."
"Got it." They stepped onto a covered porch and Maddy reached for the door.
"Wait." Joe closed his hand over her forearm. "I just realized there is a moral to the story about the diving board."
"Oh?"
"The last thing the instructors said before they sent me charging down the board for the big drop was, 'Oh yeah, extend your arms.' "
She gave him a questioning look.
"I was holding a rifle with both hands right in front of my chest. If I hadn't thrust my arms out in front of me, I would have broken my jaw the instant gravity took over. So the moral of the story is, don't hold anything too close. Keep things at arm's length, or you'll get busted in the chops."
An incredulous laugh escaped her. "You mean, want it badly enough to do anything to get it, but don't care enough to be hurt when it doesn't happen?"
"Something like that."
"That's stupid."
"But it works."
"No it doesn't. You macho men just like to pre-tend it doesn't hurt when you take it on the chin. I, on the other hand, have no problem screaming 'ouch' and bawling my eyes out."
"Whatever works for you." He opened the door for her and a bell jingled from the handle.
Still shaking her head, Maddy passed into a large room that had been partitioned off to create small alcoves with lots of wall space to hang art. The ambience was straightforward, almost businesslike compared to the other places they'd been.
Off to one side, a young woman with long black hair was talking on the phone. The minute she hung up, a smile lit her face. "Joe. We haven't seen you in a while."
"I've been busy getting the camp ready for summer."
"Well, you picked a good day to stop by. We just got in a new shipment from Red Feather and there's one little gem I think you'll fall in love with at first sight."
"No, please." He covered his eyes. "Don't even start. I have no willpower to resist her work, and my walls are covered. Seriously. I don't have an inch of space left."
"Not even for a little painting?"
He started to object again, then lowered his hand. "How little?"
Maddy cocked her head, caught between anxiety and amusement to see this side of Joe. The movement was small, but it brought his attention back to her.
"Oh." He pulled her forward. "Maddy, this is Juanita, a former counselor at Camp Enchantment. Juanita, Maddy, an artist from Texas. We're hoping to see Sylvia. Is she in?"
"She's in the back. I'll buzz her."
"Thanks."
While Juanita made an intercom call, Maddy looked around to get a feel for what sort of art they liked. The galleries on Canyon Road had handled originals almost exclusively. This gallery, however, dealt heavily in limited edition prints by big-name artists. That hardly surprised her since prints were the bread and butter of many galleries.
Then she peeked into one of the back alcoves and wrinkled her nose at the mess. More paintings leaned against the walls than hung on them. She started to turn away, but her gaze landed on a large canvas by one of the better-known cowboy artists.
"Wow," she whispered, moving toward it.
"What?" Joe whispered as well, although he sounded more amused than reverent.
Maddy checked to be sure Juanita was out of earshot, then started flipping through the stacks of paintings. "I'll say this, what they lack in ambience, they make up for in quality."
"Oh?" he prompted.
"Definitely." She moved to another stack. The originals were all by established names in the world of Southwestern art, the very same artists whose prints filled the front. Any print gallery or mall poster shop who offered Southwestern art carried these artists' works, but few could get their hands on this many originals. "Your friend Sylvia has some major connections."
"Didn't I just say that?"
"Yes, but…" Maddy turned in a slow circle, taking it all in as jitters assailed her stomach. "I am way out of my league here." She rolled her eyes sideways to look at Joe, wondering if he'd stop her if she tried to bolt.
His eyes narrowed in warning.
An image suddenly popped into her head of her running for the door, Joe making a diving tackle, and them landing sprawled on the floor with his arms wrapped about her legs.
Okay, so escape was not an option. She faced one of the few paintings actually hanging on the wall, gathering her courage and ordering herself not to panic.
"May I help you?"
With a start, Maddy turned. The woman stood nearly six feet in height with a rigorously maintained figure, a long fall of silver hair, and a face that took the word "weathered" and turned it into a fashion statement.
"Hello, Sylvia." Joe extended his hand.
"Joe Fraser." The woman smiled. "Always good to see you. Are you looking for anything special today?"
"Actually, I'd like you to meet an artist friend of mine." He placed a hand on Maddy's back, right between her shoulder blades, and exerted enough pressure that she either had to step forward or fall on her face. "This is Maddy Howard-"
"Madeline Mills," she corrected.
"-from Texas. I wanted you to be the first dealer in Santa Fe to have a shot at taking on her work."
"Oh?" The woman turned to Maddy with genuine interest. "What sort of work do you do?"
"Oils mostly." She lifted the portfolio. "I brought photographs if you have time to take a look."
"Always. Bring them over to the framing table where the light's better." Sylvia glided away.
Maddy started to follow, but realized Joe was glued to her side. She stopped and lowered her voice. "I can handle things from here, okay?''
"You sure?"
"Yes." She made a shooing motion with her hand. "Go browse. Please?"
Joe scowled, but stayed where he was, watching as Maddy joined Sylvia at a large table covered in carpeting. Molding samples filled the wall behind them. Maddy laid her portfolio on the table and opened it to the first page. She pointed and talked, apparently telling a bit about each piece. Nodding her head, Sylvia lifted the reading glasses that hung from a chain about her neck and slipped them on.
Remembering Maddy's order to browse, he pretended to study a pai
nting, but his gaze kept darting toward them. What if Maddy was right and she wasn't ready yet? What if a couple of weeks would have given her a better edge? What if he'd pushed her into blowing this chance?
He reminded himself of all the things he'd said in the truck, things he believed. And yet… what if Sylvia crushed Maddy's ego with one glancing blow?
He saw Sylvia straighten. She smiled. Politely. Damn. A polite smile was not a good sign. Maddy smiled as well. Stiffly.
They shook hands, and Joe wanted to kick himself.
The instinct to protect made him take a step toward them, but he stopped. His presence might make things worse. He and Maddy weren't close anymore, even if they had spent a remarkably pleasant day together.
Besides, Maddy looked admirably calm.
Until she dropped her portfolio on the floor.
It landed with a splat and photos went everywhere.
Joe mobilized, crossing the room in long strides, scooping up photos as he went.
"I am so sorry," Maddy was saying as she scrambled to recover her pictures and her dignity.
"What are these?" Sylvia bent down to retrieve several pieces of colored art paper.
Maddy looked over and realized what the woman held. The oil pastels. "Oh." She straightened, alarmed at having this woman who had rejected her finished pieces see rough work. "Those are just some preliminary sketches for a new series of oils I want to do."
"Now these I like!" Sylvia announced, laying them out on the table. "Sophisticated yet playful. Vibrant colors. Very distinctive."
Distinctive. There was the word the woman had used at least three times while flipping through the photos. Yes, it's all very good. You clearly have talent. But your style isn't distinctive enough. Maddy frowned at the pastels. "You really like these?"
"Definitely." Sylvia held one at arm's length. The image was the aspen trees behind the Craft Shack, done in squiggles and slashes, the shimmer of silver-green leaves against white and black trunks.
"So," Maddy ventured, "when I finish the paintings will you take a look at them?"
"Oh, good heavens, don't do that!" Sylvia gasped as if Maddy had offered to kill someone's pet. "You'll ruin them!"
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