by Avery Flynn
Forty-two days of nothing but painting with minimal stops for sleeping or eating should have been heaven. Instead, the forced solitude felt more like hell. She'd alternated between fits of frantic creativity, attacking the canvas with bright hues of yellow and orange, to days of boiling frustration as the blank square taunted her.
In normal circumstances she would have gone for a run or escaped into a dark movie theater. Great ideas always seemed to come during such downtime. But her days hadn't been normal since Snips lied about her brother's debt and she had to go into pseudo-seclusion. So she prowled her isolated cabin like a chained dog, discontent choking off her inspiration.
Cy called to check in several times, ending every conversation with a warning to stay to herself. Like that would be a problem. Winter was the quiet season at the Rose O'Neill Dry Creek Artist Colony. Twenty artists had lived in the individual studio cabins on the south edge of Dry Creek when she'd arrived. Now, only herself and owner Celestine Arthur remained—oh, and her stubborn imagination's version of Sam Layton. His hazel eyes stared at her from the dozens of abandoned canvases scattered around the room.
“Get out of my head, you bastard.” Josie swiped his profile off the glass with the palm of her hand, the window's cold icing her palm.
“You need to find yourself a boy toy.”
Josie started and spun around.
Celestine slammed the cabin's front door closed behind her. Clumps of snow dropped from her boots as the woman stomped on the rug. “I'd alway meant to tell Bruce the cabins needed small porches but damn, I'd take one look at him shirtless and sweaty, whacking away with that big ol’ hammer of his, and forget what in the hell I'd meant to tell him. Worst carpenter and best nude model I ever had here.”
The older woman's angular, liver-spotted face softened for a moment. The corners of her chapped lips curled ever so slightly upward. Then she blinked. The softness melted away into her normal hard look that made you wonder if she ate nails or prunes for breakfast. In a movie, her crusty exterior would have hidden a heart of gold. But after a month and a half of chipping away at Celestine's hard exterior, Josie had only revealed more crust.
“Sure, come on in.” Josie softened the words with a smile, glad for the company. It wasn't as if she'd been all soft and gushy herself lately. Maybe that's why they got along so well.
“Oh, we've gotten past the knocking stage, didn't you know?” Celestine picked up a half-finished painting from where it leaned against the wall. “I see you've painted Sam Layton again. That mother of his is a real piece of work. I wouldn't go near any of her boys if I was you.”
Mile-deep frown lines creased her forehead as she gave Josie a long head-to-toe perusal.
“There are plenty of strapping men in Dry Creek. You swing that high butt of yours at them at Robidoux's Roadhouse, they'll come swarming and you'll have your pick of any non-Layton in the county.”
Josie kept her mouth shut. It wasn't the first time they'd had this particular conversation. Odds were it wouldn't be the last because she had no intention of following the older woman's advice. The last thing in the world she needed was a man between her legs. Just the memory of the disastrous night with Sam in Vegas made her palms clammy and her cheeks flush with embarrassment and regret. The mere idea of repeating the experience held no appeal.
Celestine poked through Josie's work, something she did every day, mumbling under her breath and leaving small puddles of melted snow on the floor as she walked. She stood silent for several minutes with her head cocked to the left in front of Josie's latest attempt. Vivid reds and yellows swirled together, blending into thick orange flames as a man, who looked suspiciously like the world's hottest history professor, gazed out at the horizon.
“You've got talent,” Celestine grumbled as she turned to face Josie. “Just need to get that man out of your head. Best way to do that is to get a new one in your bed.”
The woman was like a dog with a pork chop with this particular topic. “I have enough going on in my life without any new complications.”
“It's only complicated if you make it. You need to unscrew the pressure valve if you want to actually finish one of these. I'm old and pissed off most of the time, but even I like to get out and have some fun once in a while. You should try it.”
Josie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but your version of fun is putting people on edge wondering what's going to come out of your mouth next.”
This time Celestine's smile deepened to show a dimple in her left cheek. “True, but before the arthritis made my knees ache, I loved to dance. You ever two-stepped?”
“I don't even know what that is.”
“Well, then I suggest you get yourself down to Robidoux’s Roadhouse and find out.” Celestine clomped over to the front door, shoved a hand deep inside a pocket and pulled out a set of keys that she deposited on the window ledge. “Take my truck. The tires on your bucket of bolts are for crap and I don't want to have to come tow you out of the ditch at three in the morning.”
With that, she disappeared out the door.
Josie eyeballed the set of keys and shook her head ruefully. Maybe Celestine had a heart after all.
She stepped toward the window, but her body protested with bone-deep aches and a twitching shoulder muscle. She surrendered to the inevitable, pivoted and made her way down the short hall to her bedroom, fully planning to pass out without changing. Her eyes were narrow slits when she flopped down on the bed, landing on top of a hard lump. Josie slid her hand beneath her body, grasped the offending object, then yanked out Rebecca's diary.
Rebecca had become her three o'clock in the morning companion, distracting her from thoughts about her one night with Sam. At first she'd cracked open the leather binding expecting to be bored into slumber. Instead, the diary sucked Josie in. That poor woman. Josie thought she'd had it bad, but at least she wasn't stuck crossing the country in a covered wagon.
Rebecca had started her journey full of hope and excitement. She and her twenty-year-old spinster aunt had snuck out of her parents’ home on a moonless night, determined to travel to Oregon where her true love waited for her. She'd made it as far as Dry Creek when she'd learned her John had died. That had been a three-tissue entry for sure.
Eyeing the leather-bound book through cracked eyelids, Josie rolled onto her back. She'd read most of it during the past week. Only a few pages remained. Curiosity propped her weary eyes open. She'd read the last few passages then go to sleep.
August 30, 1865
I have decided not to carry on with this journey. There is a town nearby and the land here welcomes me. It is a vast open space, but there is a stark beauty that speaks to my loneliness. Aunt Abigail tells me I am too deep in my own grief for such a decision, but I know it is the correct one. I have more than enough gold pieces to buy a small plot of land, the hired man, Mr. Harrison, has agreed to stay on. I do believe he did so only to remain near Abigail, but I dare not ask either of them outright. The emerald earbobs and other jewelry I sewed into my clothes have limited value here, as this is not a place where jewels are seen or celebrated. After the decadent displays of my parents' home, that is a relief. In jest, I told Abigail I would bury them. This scandalized her, of course.
September 29, 1865
We have purchased a plot near a tower of rock they call McPherson's Bluff. Our acreage lies in its shadow. The days are filled with far too much work to play, but I find myself sketching the bluff by the light of the evening fire. Abigail and I are determined to make a go of our little farm. My mother would look askance at the blisters on my hands. She had such hopes that I would follow in her footsteps and marry a man of a certain standing. My dearly departed John did not meet her requirement. Even though all has not happened as I planned when Abigail and I departed from St. Louis, I do not regret my choices. My mother had despaired of ever making a lady of me. I had despaired of what would happen if she succeeded.
October 15, 1865
Mr. Franklin Layton pai
d a call today. He owns a ranch nearby. I could tell from his eyes that he is a kind man. They are a green-brown color with gold flecks. He is not John, but a good man. I told him I would look forward to his next visit.
November 30, 1865
Franklin comes to court nearly every day now. Abigail wonders when he ever tends to his cattle with the amount of time he spends here. I wonder how I manage not to expire while he is gone. I know when he approaches long before I see the dust his horse kicks up as he crosses the prairie. When we walk together I fear my heart will burst from my chest. My dearly departed John will always be a part of me, however I do believe Franklin is my future happiness. He is a man who is a part of this place. Strong and brave. He stands against the winds that never stop blowing and challenges the elements to stop him. My heart weeps each time he leaves to return to his ranch.
December 23, 1865
So it is done. I have buried my past, forgotten the large house in St. Louis and tomorrow will become Mrs. Franklin Layton. The weather cleared today as if Providence smiled upon us. Though the air was quite cold, I walked along McPherson's Bluff, its limestone walls familiar to me now. Here is where I said goodbye to all I was and greeted my new beginning. This shall be my final entry in this diary.
Josie traced her finger across Rebecca's ornate script with its curves and curls. She could picture a small farmhouse out in the flat plain. Okay, her vision looked a lot like Little House on the Prairie, but she doubted she was that far off base. What a life Rebecca had lived. The treasure Saul had spoken of had to be the emerald earrings and other jewelry she'd sewn into her garments. They must be worth a small fortune.
Her head sank farther down into the fluffy pillows. In the dark behind her eyelids, a face came to light; an all-too-familiar face with hazel eyes that reminded her of a tiger on the prowl. And he was after her. Heat pooled in her belly as the man in her imagination stalked closer, naked from the waist up. Her nipples stiffened. His long fingers found the button of his jeans and flicked it open. In her mind, Josie urged him on, practically begging him to lower the denim from his lean hips. He hooked his thumb in his waistband and—
Damn it, Celestine was right. She needed to get the hell out of this cabin and force Sam out of her head.
Twenty minutes later, she pounded the fat pillow for the hundredth time, trying to mold the feathers and her lustful thoughts into submission. But she couldn't vanquish visions of Sam's burnt-sienna locks between her thighs as his tongue twisted a figure eight around her clit.
Might as well just go with what her body wanted.
Sliding her fingers under the waistband of her panties, her mind replaced her fingers with Sam's. Slowly, she traced the path he'd taken, remembering the feel of his firm tongue on her most tender of spots. With all the foreplay her imagination had put her through, it didn't take long before vibrations started in her core and spread to her thighs. Almost before she was ready, her body tensed and her climax lifted her shoulders off the bed and arched her spine.
The thundering on her door evaporated her post-orgasm bliss. The clock read 1:13. Her heart rate sped up for a much less sexually satisfying reason. No good ever came from visitors at this hour. She yanked up her pants then sprinted to the door, unlocked it and whipped it open.
“'Bout damn time. It's colder than a witch's tit out here.” Celestine marched in and shoved a cordless phone toward Josie. “You got a call.”
Her heart hiccupped in her chest. The black plastic rectangle transformed from a communication device into the harbinger of doom.
“What are you waiting for, me to hold it up to your ear? He said it was important.”
God, what if Snips had found Cy? Or their parents? Panic grabbed ahold of her throat and squeezed tight. Stop being such a fucking chicken and take the stupid phone.
Clamping down on the last bit of calm she had, Josie grabbed the phone and held its icy receiver to her ear. “Cy?”
“You wish, you little bitch.” Snips’ voice lashed her as cruelly as a whip. “That Saul sure is a chatty old guy, nearly talked my ear off tonight. How's Dry Creek, Nebraska?”
Her stomach sank but his words buoyed her spirits. If he was talking to her, that meant he hadn't found Cy. “It was better five minutes ago.”
“That smart mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”
“So I've been told.” Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself to sell the lie. “Look, I'll get you the money.”
“Can the bullshit, I heard all about your brother's secret visit to the diner. Not all of the waitresses there are as snooty as you.”
Josie bit her bottom lip in surprise and every ounce of badass attitude deserted her. She stared at the knot in the oak doorframe and waited, breathless, for the other shoe to drop.
“We both know he doesn't owe me a dime. But now you do.”
The raw arrogance in Snips’ voice brought her spirit back to life. “What the hell for?”
“Getting in the way, bitch.”
“You're out of your mind.”
“Saul told me all about Rebecca's Bounty. I want that treasure. All of it. You want to live. Fuck up, and I'll hand over you and Cy half dead to Callandriello so the big man can finish the job himself. It’ll be worth finding your asshole brother just for that. But first, I'd make a quick stop in Lake Havasu to pay a call on your parents. OH yes, your parents’ next door neighbors were quite chatty with the right motivation. Normally, that would be Linc's job, but I think I'd really enjoy delivering the message to your mom and dad.”
“No.” Anxiety twisted her muscles into a pretzel. How had he found her parents’ hiding spot? It didn't matter. What mattered was protecting her parents. “I'll do it.”
“You have a week. Linc will be in touch.” He paused. “And don't go telling your brother or anyone else about this. If I even suspect you're looking to double-cross me, I'll be at your parents' front door faster than greyhounds at the dog track. Got it?”
“Yeah,” she whispered, defeated.
“Good.”
The dial tone blared in her ear, but her brain was too overwhelmed to send the correct signal to her body to hand the phone back to Celestine.
“You okay there?” Concern crinkled the middle of the older woman's already wrinkled forehead and she pried the phone from Josie's death grip.
“Fine,” she mumbled as she herded Celestine out the door. “Goodnight.”
As soon as the door shut, Josie swiped a paintbrush and twirled it between her fingers. She paced the small studio floor, dodging half-finished canvases and rags covered in oil paint. She didn't know how to get ahold of Cy. The emergency number he'd given her wasn't a direct line, so she could only leave a message. Their parents couldn't protect themselves from Snips' fury. She had to find the treasure.
Stopping in front of a half-finished painting, she stared at the man who had haunted her subconscious since Vegas. Having the diary alone wouldn't be enough to find the treasure and save her parents. The map was the key—and Sam had the map.
Chapter Six
About a month ago, while driving down Main Street, Sam had caught a flash of white-blonde hair. He'd done such a fast double take he'd nearly broken his neck, but the woman had disappeared. Since then he couldn't shake Josie's ghost.
He scanned the mostly female students in front of him in Cather College's biggest lecture hall. There were dishwater blondes, bleached blondes, wheat blondes and strawberry blondes, but no one with the right shade of platinum.
Heat flushed his cheeks as soon as he realized he was doing it again. Searching for her. He chewed the inside of his cheek, disgusted with his own flight of fancy, and glanced at his notes.
“So the author argues that Amelia Earhart served as a kind of tie between the post-suffrage time period and the modern feminism movement of the 1960s.” Sam swiped down his touchscreen tablet on the lectern, scrolling for the appropriate citation, but the clang of a metal door drew his attention to the back of the
lecture hall.
Josie stood by the door, one hip cocked. Her shock of white-blonde hair bounced around her face in curls that touched the collar of her black leather jacket. Black boots encased her long legs to mid-thigh. His gaze traveled over the rest of her leather-covered curves, past her full red lips to her big gray eyes. She looked as if she'd just walked off a movie set and she was playing badass heroine number one, albeit with dusky shadows under her eyes.
Her steel gaze met his and she shrugged as if in apology for the noise.
“Adventure is worthwhile in itself.” The quote came out unbidden and again he tasted the sweetness of her wrist where the words were tattooed.
She quirked an eyebrow and winked before sliding into an empty seat in the back row.
Everything became silent as the students, who had been clacking away on their laptops, stilled. His lecture escaped him. Something about Amelia Earhart, feminism and Midwestern women.
He should be more ticked off that Josie had turned up out of the blue, disturbing his peace of mind and invading his lecture hall. Her appearance only confirmed that she was just another treasure hunter. Vegas had been a setup. All she wanted was to dig up Rebecca's Bounty. A flicker of annoyance burned in his gut, but he couldn't fan it into a full fury.
Even if it hadn't meant anything to her, that night had opened up a part of Sam that he'd thought he'd lost years ago. Suddenly, the rigidity of his life chafed. He yearned to challenge Dry Creek's perception of him as the quiet Layton. The tragic Layton. Josie may not have gotten what she'd wanted out of him in Vegas, but he sure as hell had gotten a completely unexpected gift—a second chance of sorts. If he could break out of his comfort zone and go for it.
Then she licked her pouty lips with that pink tongue of hers and all rational thought fled. All he could think about was the amber scent of her creamy skin and the way she'd swirled her hips when he'd buried himself deep inside her.
