by Jeannie Watt
“Yeah. I thought of that, too. Dylan’s only here until Finn comes back, so on the one hand, I don’t think he wants to make tons of changes, but on the other, I don’t think he wants the store to die on his watch.”
“He’s not staying?”
Jolie shook her head. “He’s only here until Finn gets back.” Rather than talk about Dylan, a subject that made her feel oddly unsettled, she wanted to ask more questions about the arena—when the walls would be installed and the canvas cover arrive—but one look at her sister’s strained expression and she didn’t say a word on the subject.
Later that evening, though, as Dani was getting ready to walk to the Staley house with Gabe, Jolie cornered her upstairs in her old bedroom where she was digging through her coat closet.
“Have you seen my gray fleece?”
“I think you already took it over to Gabe’s.” Her sister was in the slow process of moving her belongings to the mansion, where she spent most of her off time.
Dani continued shuffling through the hangers with a slight air of desperation. “I can’t find it over there.”
“Are you okay?”
Dani leaned back out of the closet. “Of course.”
Jolie nodded in a way that clearly stated her disbelief. Dani gave a small snort and went back to her search. “He needs to take this job. It’ll be a boost to his consulting business.”
“Is business bad now?”
“No. But there’s a lot of competition out there and he isn’t exactly in an urban environment. He depends a lot on word of mouth and this could really help.”
“Eighteen months is a long time.”
The hangers quit clacking together and Jolie heard her sister sigh. “It isn’t like he’ll be gone the entire time. Military wives put up with long separations.”
“Yes, they do.”
Dani poked her head out again. “I’m just a little taken aback. It never dawned on me that we might have a lengthy separation in our future.”
“Why don’t you go with him?” Even though Jolie hated the thought of running the ranch alone on top of everything else. But she could do it. For her sister.
“I might,” she said. “But...what’ll I do? Sit in an apartment and knit?”
Jolie raised an eyebrow. “Really, Dan? Worst-case scenario? That’s not like you.”
Dani came out of the closet, a fleece in each hand, neither of them remotely gray, and sat on the bed. “I know.” Her shoulders sank. “I didn’t expect this. The job offer or my reaction.”
Jolie sat beside her and put an arm around her. “Yeah. Just when it looks like smooth sailing, a bump always appears.”
“I need to man up.”
“No one wants to spend time away from someone they love.”
“I’m tougher than this. But...” She made a helpless gesture. “I have never felt so freaked out by a separation before. What is wrong with me?”
“You guys will figure this out.”
“I guess. If you see my gray fleece, let me know.” She gave Jolie a sharp look. “It’s not in your closet?”
“I never wear gray if I can help it.”
After Dani and Gabe said their goodbyes and headed off across the pasture to his place, Jolie poured herself a glass of wine.
Love, it appeared, could be a major inconvenience—not only to the happy couple, but also the ranch-tending sister.
* * *
JOLIE SPENT THE next day trying to shove Dani’s dilemma out of her head—no easy task since the sisters had always had each other’s back during times of trouble. She called artisans in the area she’d located through internet searches, asking if they had any stock they wouldn’t mind displaying on commission. The majority seemed interested—until discovering that the person calling wanted to display their wares in a semi-rural ranch store.
She booked one potter and thanked the rest, asking if they knew of other people who might be interested. She’d planned to keep her list of contributing artisans small to begin with, never dreaming that she might have to really scrape to find anyone interested in displaying at the store.
She leaned back in her chair, refusing to allow herself to feel defeated. She could do this. She would do this—not only for the store, but because Dylan so obviously thought it was a bad idea.
There had to be local people who produced artisan items. Perhaps even an artist.
Jolie knew only one local artist who just happened to be a royal pain in the butt; but there had to be more. This artist, however, had the potential to actually send clients to Culver Ranch and Feed.
Jolie blew a breath that puffed out her cheeks, fought with herself for another minute and then called Marti Kendall to ask if she would like to display her watercolors.
And as she dialed, she wondered which Marti she’d be talking to. People who were merely acquainted with the horse trainer were invariably charmed. Those who’d grown up with her were more familiar with the feeling that you never knew whether Marti would be your friend that day or your foe. It all depended on what was in it for Marti. But they’d had several years of high school art together and Marti was one hell of a watercolor artist. More importantly, having her artwork in the store might bring in business from her horse ranch clients.
“In Culver Ranch and Feed?” Marti said on a note of disdain after Jolie explained that she was starting a commissioned boutique.
Jolie gritted her teeth and explained, “We’re trying something new. I thought that your watercolors would bring people in and that would help the other artists.” Nothing wrong with a stroke of the ego—especially when Marti’s was so stroke-able—and no need to explain that at the moment there was only one other artisan.
“True,” she said. “I could bring in a few of my smaller pieces.”
“I’d love to feature them.” Jolie held her breath.
“I’d need a decent display area. I don’t want them stuck up over some dusty shelves with fly spray on them.”
“I’m in the process of building a display area.” Or she would be. Soon. All she needed to do was to figure out what was on hand to build it with.
“Will I be able to see the display area first?”
Jolie forced herself to smile to keep her voice light. “Sure. I should be done by Friday of next week.” Which would give her twelve days to come up with something worthy of Marti’s work.
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
Jolie hung up and pinched the bridge of her nose. Having Marti would be a good thing. Especially if they could talk her into buying her feed there, since her father owned one of the premier horse ranches in the area.
A thump at the window drew her attention and she turned to see the big orange cat sitting on the sill, studying her with his wide yellow eyes. After Finn left, the cat had started appearing at the window regularly and Jolie realized that there was no one there to feed the big feline except her. The cat put his paws up on the window once he realized he had her attention and batted at the glass, looking very much like a mime trying to get out of a glass box.
“Coming.” She grabbed her jacket and made her way to the warehouse where she kept the food in a plastic container. The cat strutted in after her, keeping his distance then breaking into a trot when he heard the lid come off the food container.
“Oh, yes,” Jolie said as she dished out the kibble. “You are a cool customer, aren’t you?” The cat brushed past her. He didn’t tolerate being touched, but when she fed him, he always managed to throw his body against her leg at least once in a fly-by show of gratitude.
Jolie replaced the container on the shelf, then stood there taking in the stillness of the warehouse. Whenever she had to venture out there during the day, Dylan had his radio playing, a local station with a mix of old rock-and-roll and country standbys. He never plu
gged in headphones, almost as if he wanted to be on the alert.
Well, he had been a cop. It was probably a survival thing.
Jolie strolled over to the forklift, giving the cat his space so that he could eat without worrying that she might try to touch him or something. How many times had Dylan dissembled the thing since he’d been back? At least twice. But the last time he’d used it she’d noticed that the nasty miss in the engine had been fixed.
After checking for grease, she eased up into the driver’s seat and put her hands on the wheel. Finn had taught her to operate the thing, in case he was unavailable, but she’d only had to load a couple of times. Truth be told, she wasn’t that anxious to drive the forklift on a regular basis. She was good with a tractor, had done her time on the swather and baler during her teens, but she had the oddest feeling that she and forklifts were not meant to be. Maybe something about the ability to skewer anything in her path.
The sound of a truck pulling in from the rear entrance brought her head up. Dylan.
Please don’t ask how many artisans I’ve booked.
She got off the forklift and started for the door, but Dylan walked in before she got there. The cat took one look at the intruder and shot across the warehouse, disappearing behind some grain bags. Dylan looked down at the half-eaten bowl of cat kibble, then back up at Jolie.
“Marcel was eating while you were in here?”
Jolie frowned back at him. “Obviously.”
“Huh.”
“Huh what?”
“Marcel doesn’t like people.”
“He does if you feed him. A few days after Finn left, he came to tell me that his bowl hadn’t been filled for a day or two. After I fed him, he decided I was okay.” The phone rang, sounding over a loudspeaker. Dylan picked up the warehouse extension.
“Culver Ranch and Feed. Marti...of course I remember. What can I do for you?”
He listened for a moment then held the phone out to Jolie, watching her curiously as she said, “Hi, Marti.”
“I can bring in eight pieces, but after giving the matter a bit of thought, I think I’d like an 80-20 split instead of 70-30.”
Jolie shifted her gaze to the far side of the warehouse. She very much wanted to say, “No, that’s not fair to the other artists.” Except there was only one other artist, so instead she said, “How about 75-25?”
A long silence followed and Jolie wondered if she was going to have to do without watercolors. Then Marti said, “For the first month. After that, we can renegotiate.”
“Sounds fair. I’ll have the agreement ready when you stop by.”
“A week from this Friday.”
“That’s right,” Jolie said brightly.
“See you then.”
Dylan hadn’t moved during the conversation and when Jolie hung up the phone, she found herself standing a little closer to him than she’d expected. She didn’t step back. Stepping back simply wasn’t her way.
“Marti Kendall is one of your artists?”
“She does beautiful watercolors of horses.” Jolie got the distinct feeling that Dylan was also very aware they were standing too close and he wasn’t going to be the one to back off.
“Do you have anyone else interested besides Marti?”
“One potter.”
“Only one other artist?”
“I’ve been kind of busy doing my job,” Jolie said dryly.
“How many people did you ask?”
“Look,” she said, forcing herself to focus on coming up with an answer rather than the man standing too close to her because they were both too stubborn to back off. He smelled...good. “I just started this process and there was nothing in our agreement about reporting my progress to you.”
“Let’s make an addendum.”
“I called nine people.”
“And got one.”
“It’s a feed store, Dylan.”
“That is exactly why this probably isn’t going to work.”
“Do you always give up this easily?” she blurted.
Dylan looked surprised. “I never give up easily.”
“Then why do you expect me to?”
He opened his mouth and abruptly closed it again. The cat peeked out from behind a row of shovels and Dylan jerked his head toward the door. “Maybe we should get out of here so Marcel can finish eating.”
“Sure.” It was the perfect excuse to put some physical distance between them and she was glad that he’d been the one to suggest it. She also had the strong feeling that she would not have liked whatever he’d been about to say.
They’d just stepped outside when the phone rang. Jolie forced a smile. “Ah. Probably an artisan calling back.” She gave him a smug nod then headed back into the warehouse to the extension phone.
* * *
DYLAN WATCHED JOLIE GO, fairly certain it was not an artist on the phone. Why would an artist display their stuff in a feed store? It made no sense. He had to admit, though, that Jolie wasn’t rolling over in the face of adversity—not yet anyway—but he had a feeling it was because she knew he expected her to fail. He did, but he didn’t need to harp on the matter.
So, in the interest of maintaining a peaceful work environment—and also because he seemed to be noticing a few too many things about his bookkeeper, like the way she wore her jeans—Dylan would keep their relationship briskly businesslike.
For the remaining days of the week, he did not mention the gift boutique and Jolie kept quiet on the matter, too, which made him believe that the project was indeed falling by the wayside.
At least she had given it a shot. And he had to admit that he kind of felt bad when he walked through the store and heard her talking earnestly on the phone to someone who was probably in the process of telling her no dice. He didn’t say anything. Why rub salt into the wound?
That night after dinner, Dylan went for a slow jog around the neighborhood. His bone had mended—it was the injured muscles and ligaments that still had a way to go. But he was healing. He was running farther, faster, and he no longer limped when his leg got tired.
He’d thought about calling Pat Michaels, his ex-partner, to see how things were going at the precinct, but hadn’t been able to bring himself to make the call. After the accident, he and Pat had naturally seen less of one another but he also had the strangest feeling that his partner was distancing himself from him and he didn’t know why. He hadn’t been culpable in the accident and he was unaware of being on the wrong side of any precinct politics, so he’d finally decided that something outside of the job was eating at Pat. It happened. It also made him hesitant to call.
Hell, his life in Montana was so far removed from his life in Lanesburg, maybe it was better to focus on the here and now instead of worrying about things he was no longer part of—at least for the time being. He’d bring himself up to speed once he got his medical clearance and sat for the detective exam. When he was back where he belonged.
* * *
DYLAN HAD KEPT HIMSELF busy in his office and the warehouse for several days after Marti’s call. Not once did he mention Jolie’s project, nor did she, even after booking two more artisans—a leatherworker and a woman who made picture frames. She was making progress, but she wanted to fill the front of the store with interesting items, make a statement, catch the eye as people came in and then keep them coming back when gift-giving occasions arose. No one was going to drive a few extra miles for a tiny selection of handcrafted goods. She needed more artisans.
When she walked into the bar that night, Jim raised a lazy hand to greet her and she could see that it had been a slow afternoon, which wasn’t unusual for a Thursday. He poured them both seltzer water, as he usually did when they had downtime, and after putting her purse away, she perched on her stool near the edge of the bar.
“It’ll be a sleeper,” he agreed. He leaned his elbows on the bar opposite her. “So how’s your big project coming?”
“I’m halfway there. I need just four more artists to have a respectable showing.”
“I talked to Mac.”
Jolie had her glass halfway to her lips then put it back down. She’d asked Jim about his brother’s ironwork, but Jim hadn’t been hopeful about Mac agreeing to participate. “And?”
“He said I can pull some of his stuff out of the garage and let you display it. I got you two wine racks and two towel bar sets.”
“Oh, my gosh.” Jolie practically jumped off the stool. Mac’s wrought-iron work was gorgeous.
“And he’s working with a guy whose brother just got out of prison at Deer Lodge. He hitches horsehair and has some belts he’d like to commission.”
“Jim, you are a bona fide doll.”
He went a little red. “I know.”
Jolie’s run of good luck continued for the next few days. On Saturday she heard back from a leatherworker who had spur straps and wallets to display and on Monday a silversmith finally returned her message and agreed to drop off twenty pieces of jewelry. She was so tempted to walk into Dylan’s office and slap her list of artists on the desk in front of him, but she refrained. Partly because she was above that and partly because he’d been avoiding her, which made her believe he’d felt the same sense of tension building between them that she did.
During her lunch hour, Jolie walked the area near the front of the store where she wanted to build her display and debated about how best to squeeze in an attractive backdrop, attractive being the key word. The walls were painted flat white and the floor was half-century-old cracked tile. She didn’t have a lot of time and her budget was very close to zero dollars. She would have to make do with what she could scrounge around the place.
She went back behind the counter, flipped open the notebook she used to jot down special orders and, after a moment, started sketching, trying to come up with a way to cover the walls, build shelving, disguise the floor—
