by Meryl Sawyer
“Do you want to see my paintings?”
He was looking at her strangely, obviously puzzled by her reaction. He brushed his bangs back from his forehead with an impatient thrust of his hand. She had the impression that he was a proud man. By hesitating and not asking to see his work, she’d offended him.
“Of course, I’m dying to see your work. I drifted off there for a second, wondering about Quentin. He’s helped so many people. I just wish someone could help him.”
“You’re right,” Paul said. “He turned my life around.”
Claire smiled at the quiet sincerity in his voice, excitement building. Could Quentin have sent her the artist she’d been praying to find? “Let’s look at your work.”
“They’re out in my truck,” he said. “I’ll get them.”
She watched through the gallery window as he hurried out to a dusty blue pickup that was nothing more than rusted metal held together with Bondo. The front fender was attached to the grill with baling wire. He returned to the shop with two rolled-up canvases under his arm.
“Two? That’s it?”
“I’m just getting started.” He unrolled one canvas and spread it out over the glass case where she kept jewelry, then quickly rolled the second out beside it.
Claire looked at her silver-spangled boots, telling herself not to expect too much. Alcohol might have pickled Quentin’s brain by now. Two canvases did not make a body of work necessary to launch an artist. Six to ten was bare minimum. She eased her eyes open and peeked at the first one.
It was a cowboy on a horse, his hat pushed back slightly to reveal his face. This was a very familiar gesture. Cowboys considered it rude to hide their eyes when speaking to a lady. This man was handing a bunch of purple wildflowers to a woman on a palomino. His expression was so charged with longing that it made Claire inhale sharply.
It was an emotional painting, but cloaked in mystery. The woman’s face was turned away just enough to conceal her features. And it was impossible to tell if the man was returning after a long absence and offering the flowers as a token of his love, or if he was leaving the love of his life forever.
The other oil painting was equally as moving. It was a man and a woman walking into a meadow in the high country. A brilliant blue sky domed overhead and aspens dressed for the fall in shimmering gold covered the hills, but it was their expressions that riveted the viewer. Were they affirming the love known only to soul mates, or was some unseen force driving apart two people who could love only each other?
Stay calm, Claire told herself. This isn’t a body of work. It wasn’t even close. Yet here was the uniqueness, the raw talent it took to be a world-class artist.
Paul was now staring down at his boots, and she knew he was nervously awaiting her judgment.
“Your work is fabulous, truly fabulous. I need to ask you a few questions before deciding if I can represent your work,” she said, and his smile vanished. “Where have you shown your work?”
“Nowhere.”
“Have you allowed anyone to reproduce them as prints?” she asked, then held her breath.
“No. These are all I have.”
Thank you, Quentin, and bless you wherever you are. “I’ll represent your work,” Claire said, realizing this was the opportunity of a lifetime. In the form of a bearded man.
Eleven
Paul Winfrey hadn’t been gone for more than ten minutes when Vanessa Trent bounced into The Rising Sun. If possible, the blond bombshell was more beautiful than ever. The morning after Duncan’s murder, the actress had been stunned by news of his death, but judging by the smile on Vanessa’s face today, she’d gotten over it.
“Wow! Your gallery looks different. You must have changed it for the Art Festival,” Vanessa said.
“Yes. Tomorrow night’s our big night. I hope you’re planning to come.” Claire would have to stay up all night to rearrange the gallery—again—to properly display Paul’s paintings, but she didn’t care. This was the artist she’d been waiting all her life to discover.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Vanessa assured her. “I’m a little nervous, though. Do you think there’ll be trouble?”
“Trouble? What are you talking about?” Claire asked, knowing Vanessa tended to be overly dramatic.
“Gang trouble like in LA. A gang of chokes got Bam Stegner.”
It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Then a prickle of unease waltzed down Claire’s spine. “A gang of chokes? “You must mean chukes.”
Vanessa rolled the baby blues and jiggled her breasts, a gesture that had made her a prime-time queen. “That’s it. Chukes.”
“It’s Latino slang for bad boys. Around here, a gang just means a group. Did they cause problems at Hogs and Heifers?”
This time Vanessa kept her eyes wide as she whispered. “No. The chukes kidnapped Bam Stegner, beat him up, then tossed him into a ravine out by the pueblo.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yes. He’s at the tribal clinic.” Vanessa shrugged. “The first thing I did when I heard about it was call the sheriff. I’m out in that big hacienda all by myself. I want more protection. Those chukes could try to kidnap me.”
In a heartbeat, jealousy, the green-eyed monster as old as time itself, shot through Claire. Vanessa would use Bam’s troubles to get Zach Coulter’s attention. Not only was she drop-dead gorgeous, but Claire understood the power that Vanessa wielded on a different level. Who could resist making love to a woman that millions of men had seen on television and dreamed about luring into their beds?
Fine. Let the actress have Zach. It would keep him away from her. Somehow the thought did not console Claire. The elation she’d experienced at finding a talented artist evaporated.
“I wouldn’t worry, if I were you,” Claire said, her tone as level as she could make it. “We’ve never had gang problems. I don’t think you’re at risk, and I’m positive they won’t do anything to disrupt the Art Festival.”
“Speaking of art,” Vanessa said, the chuke threat apparently forgotten. “You don’t have any paintings to show, do you?”
“Tomorrow night, I’ll be showing a brand-new artist’s oils.”
“Really?” The actress appeared more flustered than interested. “Well, I want to help you. I have a number of lithographs you can sell.”
“Nevada’s,” Claire guessed.
“Yes. I bought quite a few from Duncan Morrell.”
Claire hesitated, not wanting to offend a potential customer. Having the Vanessa Trent at her gallery during the Art Festival would certainly help business. And the actress raked in a bundle between her TV show and personal appearances. She should be investing in original art like Paul Winfrey’s.
“Lowell Hopkins across the plaza at the River Spirit Gallery is representing Nevada now. You should give him the opportunity to sell those lithographs.”
Vanessa’s lower lip went into a pout that had undoubtedly served her well over the years. “But Claire, you and I are friends. I hardly know Lowell Hopkins.”
She isn’t much of an actress, Claire thought. Obviously, Vanessa had already offered the lithographs to Lowell. He’d owned the River Spirit Gallery for years. He was too shrewd a businessman to risk his reputation by selling questionable lithographs.
Actually, she had been shocked to learn that Lowell had taken on Nevada. In the last few years, the fifty-something man had surprised people several times. It all started when he married a woman half his age. He accompanied Stacy to local bars like the Neon Cactus. Claire had seen them at a table near hers the night Seth had taken her to hear Flash and the Rusty Roots.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Vanessa. Too many of Nevada’s prints are of questionable authenticity.”
“How can you tell without seeing them?”
“Even if I saw them, I couldn’t tell if the certificates were forged or not. Laser scanners are so sophisticated these days that they can duplicate a certificate and an author’s signature. It takes special
equipment to tell the real ones from the fakes. That’s why I’m dealing strictly in original art. Charcoals, watercolors, acrylics and oils, but no prints.”
“You’re saying Duncan cheated me.” Vanessa’s baby blues weren’t primed for a photo opportunity now. They were narrow with barely concealed anger. “He would never have done that. He adored me.”
“I’m sure he did.” Vanessa was the type of woman men flipped over. But how was it that Duncan Morrell managed to fool so many people? Nevada was convinced Duncan would never harm him either. That must have been the secret of his success. Duncan possessed a good-ole-boy charm that made people feel special. Then he took them for all they were worth.
Obviously, Vanessa was among Duncan’s conquests. She’d been distraught at the news of his death. Come to think about it, this was the first genuine emotion Claire had ever seen the actress show. True, Vanessa was a world-class drama queen who played every moment for all it was worth, but Duncan’s death had stunned her.
“Vanessa, if you wish to sell those prints, take them to the Art Institute in Santa Fe. They have a machine that can verify the certificates. They’ll give you a letter saying the lithographs are legitimate.”
“Good idea,” Vanessa said as she turned and hurried out of the gallery.
The actress was in such a rush that she didn’t notice Zach Coulter parking his Bronco in front of the gallery. Claire stifled a groan, remembering she’d had Suzi call him about the bearded man. Now, though, she didn’t want Zach bothering Paul Winfrey.
If he had been the stranger at The Hideaway, he’d certainly given no indication he knew her. Forgetting the whole thing seemed to be the best plan. She certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone else about that night. It was bad enough she’d had to tell Zach Coulter.
Zach sauntered through the door, thumbing his Stetson to the top of his forehead. Just like the cowboy in the picture, she thought, except this man wasn’t bringing flowers. Even so, her pulse thrummed at the sight of him.
“Okay, so where’s the dude with the beard?” Zach asked, with a maddening hint of irreverence.
“He just left, but it was a false alarm,” Claire replied as Lobo and Lucy trotted out of the back room to greet Zach. “I’m certain he’s not the man from The Hideaway.”
She was extremely conscious of Zach’s virile appeal. Each time she saw him the pull was stronger and stronger. Her feelings for him were intensifying, and she didn’t like it.
“What makes you think he’s not the man?” Zach leaned against the jewelry case, a relaxed pose that was somehow sexy. With one hand he patted the dogs who were brushing against his long legs. He was looking at her with what appeared to be a casual gaze, yet his eyes were sharp and assessing. No doubt, he’d mentally stripped her down to her bra and panties—if he’d stopped there.
Claire looked at the toes of her boots, then realized she had spent too much time today staring at her shoes. It was a nervous habit, one she’d tried unsuccessfully to break. She made herself look up and meet Zach’s gaze.
His eyes were as blue as the mountain sky, but the shadows under them said he wasn’t just tired. He was exhausted. She noticed a small cut near his left eye. It hadn’t been there last night. The knuckles on one hand were scraped raw. She was positive both his hands had been fine last night.
“I heard some gang roughed up Bam Stegner,” she said, and was instantly annoyed at the breathless sound of her voice.
“He’s got a few bruises and a broken jaw,” Zach said. “Sounds like a drug deal gone bad. What do you think?”
“I think you did it. Bam made up the chuke bit because he’s embarrassed or scared or both.”
“Moi?” he said with a naughty little boy’s grin. “Take the law into my own hands? Go on, you can’t believe that.”
Her gaze locked with his, and suddenly, the rest of the world seemed very far away. There were the usual noises from the busy plaza and the smell of fry bread in the air, but somehow the sounds were muffled and the aroma was faint. This had happened to her before, she recalled. There was something so compelling about Zach that the rest of the world disappeared when she was around him.
He chose that moment to treat her to one of his engaging, sexy smiles. She battled the urge to smile back, but that didn’t diminish the charged connection between them. If anything the sexual chemistry intensified.
Get a grip, Claire. Get a grip!
She knew if she gave in to the forbidden impulse to surrender to this man that she might very well lose her heart. To women like Vanessa Trent and men like Zach Coulter sex was a game. He used sex to tease Claire and threatened to blackmail her just to get what he wanted. Obviously, to him, sex was fun; it was a challenge, but didn’t involve love or commitment. Claire never had been able to separate the two. Maybe that’s why she had so much trouble handling Zach. She had made love to few men. Those she had, she truly cared about.
Had Zach ever loved anyone, she wondered. She had seen him around town with different women several times in the year that she’d been back. She didn’t know anyone who’d actually gone out with him, but she couldn’t help hearing gossip about him. Everyone seemed to think he was “exactly” like his father, and Jake Coulter had been notorious for his affairs.
The word “exactly” bothered Claire because her father always told her she was exactly like her mother. But she wasn’t. She had her own distinct personality. She sensed that Zach was his own person, too. But she had to admit he had the same virile appeal his father had possessed.
Just thinking about the way Zach had kissed her made her angry with herself. Why, she’d let him undo her bra. Allowed him kiss her breasts. Heat inched up her neck at the memory and a shiver of longing ran through her like a dangerous riptide.
“Earth to Claire. Come in, Claire.” He waved his hand in front of her nose. “I asked you what makes you think this guy with the beard isn’t the man in The Hideaway?”
Claire shrugged, thankful to be discussing the case again. “I can’t say why exactly, but my sixth sense tells me Paul Winfrey is not the man.”
“Where’s he from?”
“I got the impression he’d drifted from one job to another. Then he met an old friend of mine who teaches art,” Claire said, unable to keep her excitement out of her voice. “Paul’s the artist I’ve been hoping to discover. He’s ten times more talented than Nevada. I’ll be featuring his work tomorrow night at the Art Festival.”
“Great,” Zach replied, but the word sounded flat. “Did you check him out with your friend?”
Claire explained about Quentin’s problems, then added, “Despite his drinking, Quentin really knows talent.”
Zach stood up straight, crossed his arms and stared hard at her. “Doesn’t it strike you as suspicious that this bearded man suddenly appears? No past history. No personal references. Nothing.”
“His work speaks for itself.”
“Yeah. Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy were artists.”
“Paul Winfrey is no serial killer. He’s a man who’s just discovered his true talent, and I intend to be the one to bring his genius to the public’s attention.”
“Then you won’t mind if I check out the genius. Where’s he staying?”
Claire hesitated, then said, “Paul’s on a tight budget. He rented a trailer out at the Golden Palms.”
For an instant his gaze sharpened, and she wondered what he now thought about his old home. These days, Zach lived on the opposite side of town. She’d never seen his home, but anything was a step up from that trailer park.
He gave Lobo another pat saying, “I’m outta here. I have a couple of stops to make.”
Claire watched him leave and climb into his Bronco. Undoubtedly one of his calls was Vanessa Trent. Let her have him, she told herself, but there was a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach.
By the time Zach drove along the weed-choked road into the Golden Palms, he was all kinds of pissed. The reverence in Claire’s voice and the light i
n her eyes when she told him about this Paul Winfrey had gotten to him. She was nuts about the guy. He’d bet anything, she thought he was the “perfect lover” from her night in The Hideaway.
What a crock!
He’d lost all sight of reason when it came to this woman. Last night after he’d left the Feebie, he’d found Bam Stegner. It had taken a couple of punches and one solid left hook to persuade Stegner to leave Claire alone.
What a hoot! Stegner had covered his ass with some wild story about being kidnapped by a gang of chukes from Santa Fe. Zach had a few bruised ribs, knuckles that hurt like hell, and a small cut on his cheek, but it was worth it. Claire would be safe from that bastard. Not that she would thank him for it. She had too much pride and latent hostility for that.
Visiting the Golden Palms didn’t improve Zach’s mood. Why in hell would anyone name a dusty gulch with one lousy pine tree the Golden Palms? Must have been a sick joke.
The joke was on him, Zach thought as he brought the Bronco to a stop in front of Rufus Allen’s double-wide trailer. How he hated this place. When he was a kid, he used to pretend he lived on one of the big ranches outside of town. He dreamed he had two horses, a pack of dogs and the meanest torn cat west of the Pecos.
And parents who loved each other.
The reality had been much different. His father had spent most of his time roaming the hills taking photographs, and his mother didn’t care about anything except the bottle.
He walked through Rufus’s cactus garden. It hadn’t changed much since Zach had been a kid. Even the weeds looked the same. He knocked on the screen door. No doubt, Rufus had his fat butt planted in front of the television as usual. The manager lived to watch soap operas.
“Well, lookie here. Zach Coulter, you old dog, you,” said the fat man with the grease-stained T-shirt.
Just hearing Rufus made Zach feel like a kid again. A poor, mixed-up kid, acting tough to hide his insecurities.
