by Sabrina York
Hanna stared at the check, a large, fancy document stamped with a familiar logo. It was familiar, but not familiar enough for her to remember where she’d seen it before. The amount scratched out in a bold hand stole her attention. It was not nearly enough to pay off the loan, but it was a healthy amount. A start. Aside from that . . . someone had come in a bought every piece. Someone liked her work. Loved it. Bought it. Her heart soared. Maybe there was hope. Maybe she could make a living at this.
“There’s more.”
“More?”
Amy sucked noisily at her straw before responding. Hanna shifted restlessly. “This guy, Rafe Wilder?”
“Yes?”
“He wants to commission you to paint more.” Amy named a figure that made Hanna reel.
“Are you serious?”
“Apparently his family owns a chain of restaurants. They’re redecorating. You know, freshening up their look. Anyway, they really like your paintings. Here’s his card. He wants to meet you on Wednesday at ten at their flagship restaurant in Dallas. Can you make that?”
Could she. “I’ll be there. With bells on.”
Amy grinned. “I’m so happy for you, Hanna.”
“Thank you, Amy,” she said with a grin. For the first time in months she felt happy. Free.
And nothing deflated her mood.
Until she thought of Logan.
And the fact he hadn’t contacted her.
And probably never would.
***
The next morning, Hanna and her father were having coffee in the kitchen, reveling in the news of Hanna’s sales as Mom rearranged pennies on the table, when Zack’s black truck screeched to a halt in the driveway.
Hanna’s gut clenched. The confrontation she’d been dreading was here.
Her father’s chair scraped against the wood floor as he stood.
Hanna stood as well.
“Honey,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”
“No, Dad.” She shook her head and patted his arm. “We’re all in this together.”
By mutual accord, they walked slowly to the foyer, even though Zack was pounding on the door. Neither of them really wanted to face him. Aside from which, annoying him was far too tempting.
When her father opened the door, he pushed inside, first glaring at her and then rounding on her father. He held a paper up and shook it. “What the fuck is the meaning of his?” he thundered.
“Oh my,” Mom said, wandering into the foyer, her eyes wide.
“Grace,” Dad said. “Why don’t you go work on your knitting?”
“But such language.” Mom shook her head and tsked.
Hanna took her mother’s arm and led her to her favorite chair in the living room and turned on the TV, switching it to the channel with the Muzak she liked. And then she handed Mom her perennial scarf, but her attention was really on the confrontation in the hall.
Specifically, the fact that Zack repeated his question . . . and her father laughed.
Laughed.
Their world was crashing down around their ears. What on earth was there to laugh about? She edged back into the hallway, her concern for her father’s sanity rising. The need to protect him from Zack was rising as well.
“Well? What is this?” Zack waved the paper.
Dad took it and scanned it. “Well, I’m no banker, but it appears to look like a loan . . . paid in full.” Her father grinned.
Hanna’s knees locked. She nearly collapsed. “P-paid in full?”
Dad handed her the document and she stared at it as though it was written in Russian. “How? Why?”
Dad patted her on the shoulder. “Go on now, honey. Go see to your mom. Zack and I need to . . . have a chat.”
Ohh. She didn’t like that glimmer in his eye. She recognized that look from when she was a little girl just about to get a thrashing. She glanced at Zack.
Then again, maybe she did like that glimmer.
“Okay, Daddy.”
Bemused, she headed back into the living room, glancing back as her father escorted Zack onto the porch. When the latter appeared to be unwilling to leave, her father gave him a shove and growled, “Out.”
She crossed to the window and watched the two men as they conversed, her father calm and relaxed, and Zack becoming more and more agitated by the moment. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but whatever her father was sharing did not please Zack in the slightest.
Zack glanced over his shoulder at the house and caught her watching through the window. A cold wind blew through her at his expression. He snarled something to her father and then, to her shock, Henry Stevens, the most gentle man in the world, hauled off and hit Zack square in the jaw. Though he was a much larger man than her father, apparently her dad could still pack a wallop. Zack reeled back.
And then he bristled and his muscles bunched. Hanna knew he was preparing to bowl her father over, the way he’d bowled over his opponents on the football field. And everywhere.
She was about to run out, to break up the tussle—go for the gun, perhaps—when her father said something, something that made Zack freeze. His face went pale.
He glared at the house again and then, incomprehensibly, backed away. He hopped into his truck, threw it in reverse, and roared away in a spray of gravel.
Hanna met her father at the door. She crossed her arms and tapped her toe. “Do you want to tell me what just happened?”
Her father chuckled. “I just explained things to that boy,” he said as he made his way into the living room. He watched Zack’s retreat down the long drive with a satisfied smirk on his face.
“What did you explain?”
“I explained that if he ever set foot on this ranch again I’d shoot off his balls.”
“You didn’t.” Hanna gasped through a laugh.
“Of course I did.” He turned and tugged her into a hug. “After what happened between you . . .”
“Nothing happened.”
He pulled back and studied her face. “I know what happened, baby. I’m not blind. And the fact of the matter is, if he comes back, I will shoot him.”
She knew her father. She had no doubt he was determined to make good on his threat. “But what about this?” She held up the paper, the paper ostensibly freeing them from their debt.
“Oh, that?” Her father scrubbed at the stubble on his cheek.
“Where did you get the money to pay off the loan?”
His grin was wide. It sent a thrill of happiness through her to see the lines of worry erased from his face. “I sold my chili recipe. Some big company in Dallas.”
Her jaw dropped. “Daddy. That’s wonderful!”
“Logan took them a sample and, well, they bought it.” He puffed out his chest. “Looks like my recipe is gonna be featured as the ‘Eye-Poppin’ Chili’ in restaurants across the Southwest.”
But Hanna had lost the thread of the conversation.
One word had stolen all her attention.
Logan.
He hadn’t just walked away after all.
He had, in fact, saved them.
Chapter Sixteen
Hanna was nervous as all get out as she arrived at the address scrawled on the back of the card Amy had given her. Though she’d never eaten at one of their many restaurants, she’d heard of Wild West Tex Mex. Mostly through commercials, as there wasn’t a branch in Snake Gully. There wasn’t a branch of anything in Snake Gully. It was a town locked in the past. Locked in the grip of the Puceys.
For the first time in years, possibly in the entirety of her life, she felt gloriously liberated from their influence. Funny how a person could live an entire lifetime within a construct, and never quite realize it wasn’t the only way to be. But driving out of town in her father’s old truck, leaving the town of Snake Gully in her dust, it felt
that way for Hanna.
It was like sloughing off an old skin.
This thing swirling in her gut felt like excitement, but also nervousness.
It was only a meeting. She kept reminding herself of this as she hopped onto Highway 30 and headed east. Her excitement rose as she passed through Fort Worth and zoomed toward Dallas. She’d been to the big city before, usually to visit Sidney, but for the most part—other than a glorious two years in Paris—she’d rarely left the little town she’d been born in.
And this . . . This was a business meeting. With a successful restaurateur who liked her paintings, and wanted more.
All of a sudden, it seemed like anything was possible. Anything at all.
Except finding the place.
She missed her exit and had to circle around, all the while checking her watch and gnashing her teeth. She’d left lots of extra time, based on the directions the Internet had given her. But, apparently, the Internet wasn’t aware of the traffic in Dallas.
Fortunately for her churning ulcer, she was only a few minutes late for the meeting. She pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and stared at the façade. It was huge. And bright and clean, and it had all the hallmarks of a thriving business.
This early in the day, there were few cars in the lot, so Hanna parked and collected her things, including a portfolio featuring the paintings she’d done recently, and headed for the restaurant. Before she forged in, she took a deep breath, patted her hair, and straightened her jacket. She’d gone for a business-casual look, slacks and a jacket. She couldn’t find anything on the Internet about what to wear for this kind of meeting. She could only hope it was right.
Calming her nerves, or at least attempting to, with a palm to her belly, Hanna opened the doors and pushed inside. The interior of the restaurant was just as attractive as the outside. To her left an enormous dining room sprawled, speckled with faux-rough-wood tables and cozy booths. A long, gleaming bar dominated the right side of the restaurant. Smells of roasting tri tip invaded her senses, though the restaurant itself was empty. A Southwest theme was prominent in the color scheme of the decor as well as the occasional Western artifact on the wall. Her gaze stalled on a painting in a position of prominence over the enormous stone fireplace.
It took a second—though it really shouldn’t have—to realize it was hers.
Something sweet swelled inside her, filling her heart and soul with excitement and pride.
This was her art, displayed prominently in a public place. And yes, it fit in perfectly, both in color and theme.
A perky young woman in jeans, a Wild West Tex Mex T-shirt, and cowboy boots bustled up to meet her with a cheery smile. “Are you Ms. Stevens?” she asked.
“Yes.” Hanna met her outstretched hand with her own.
The woman blew out a breath. Her bangs fluffed. “They’re late. I’m sorry. Traffic this morning is a bear.”
Hanna bit back a smile. “I noticed.”
“I’m Cherry. Come on in and have a seat. Rafe asked me to make you comfortable. He should be here soon. Can I get you a sweet tea?”
“I’d love one. Thanks.”
With a noticeable limp, Cherry guided her through the restaurant into a back room, clearly for banquets and parties. She winked. “They like to use this as a conference room. They have company offices here in town, but you know men. They’d much rather hang out where there’s food.” She grabbed a pitcher and poured Hanna a glass of tea.
She sipped it and moaned. It was delicious. And, she discovered, she was parched. “Have you worked here long?” she asked in an attempt to keep Cherry there. If Cherry left her alone, her nerves would certainly flare up again.
Cherry grinned and sat, perhaps reading Hanna’s edgy expression. “Years. This is a great company to work for. No one leaves. The Ws really take good care of us.”
“The . . . Ws?”
She chuckled. “Sorry. That’s what we call them. The Wilder family. Sam started the company but now his sons run it. But honestly, they treat us all like family. Not just employees. When I was in the hospital last spring—nasty car accident—”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” She grimaced. “Anyway, I was laid up for months. Rafe came to see me on a regular basis, and so did Diane, his step-mom. And all the other brothers . . .”
“How many are there?”
“Four.” She leaned in. “All of them are adorable and charming and polite. But even beyond that, when I got out of the hospital and needed physical therapy to walk again—”
Hanna gasped.
“They paid for it. Every penny the insurance didn’t cover. And they told me not to worry about my job. They’d hold it till I could come back. And when the doctors told me I couldn’t waitress anymore, they found me a position in the back of the house.” She sighed. “I love those guys. Can’t imagine where I would be without them.”
“They sound wonderful.”
She nodded. “The best. I would do anything for them. Oh, but dang. Here I am babbling on . . .”
“No. I appreciate it. From what I understand, Rafe is interested in hiring me for a project and I like to know what I’m getting in to.” Sidney had shared horror stories about bosses from hell and, never having had a job, or a boss, Hanna was understandably uneasy about the prospect.
Cherry patted her hand. “Well, it’s a good, solid company and, I have to admit, I love your work.” She nodded at the fireplace just visible through the door.
Hanna flushed. “I can’t tell you how nice that is to hear.”
“The other paintings went out to the other stores. I was sad to see them go. My favorite was that purple sunset one.”
“Ah, yes.” Hanna nodded. It was one of her favorites too.
“The Ws want that one for the new store they are opening down south.” She tipped her head to the side. “But Rafe will tell you all about that. I think he’s here.”
Cherry must have had uncanny spidey sense when it came to Rafe, because just then the front door opened and Hanna heard his heavy boots clomping on the hardwood floor.
He paused in the doorway and her jaw dropped.
She’d been expecting some middle-aged businessman—“adorable, charming and polite” as he was—not this. Rafe Wilder was tall and lanky and dressed like a cowboy in jeans and chambray. There was dust on his boots and his Stetson which was tipped to the side. He had the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen, and his face was a fascinating panoply of angles and scruff. He was, in a word, gorgeous.
He dropped the manila folder he held onto the table and took off his hat, slapping it against his thigh. A cloud of dust erupted.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said in a low rumble. “Damn cattle . . .” He raked his fingers through his sandy blond, sun-streaked hair and glanced at her. His features froze. Some strange expression—an odd mix of appreciation and amusement—flickered over them. “You must be Hanna Stevens.” He thrust out a hand. His grip was firm and warm.
“I am.”
He chuckled and muttered something to himself. Something that sounded like, “That explains a lot.” He angled into a chair and dropped his hat on the table, smiling at Cherry as she brought him a glass of iced tea. He downed it in one go, his Adam’s apple working in a long ripple. Cherry took his glass and refilled it. “Thank you for coming in to meet with me,” he said, and Hanna was struck again by the mellifluous tone in his voice. Yes. He was adorable. And judging from Cherry’s expression as she gazed at him as she backed out of the room, she was more than a little in love with him.
Hanna bit back a smile. Easy to see why. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I’m thrilled you like my work.”
He snorted. “I’m thrilled my brother saw it in that gallery. He assured me it was perfect for the stores—we’ve been updating our look—and he was right.” Rafe thrust
a thumb toward the main room. “That one on the mantle is damn purty. We put it up last week and I’ve already had three offers on it.”
Hanna blinked. “Thr-three offers?” As in people wanting to buy it?
Rafe nodded, a glimmer dancing in his eyes. “Brandon was thinking about placing more pieces in each store and offering them for sale. If, well, if that’s all right with you.”
Unable to respond, lips flapping and all, Hanna nodded.
“Good. But the real reason I wanted to meet with you was because of the new restaurants. We’ve just about finished construction and are working on the décor. We were thinking it would be cool if you could paint the walls.”
“P-paint the walls?”
Rafe cursed and glanced at his watch. “Damn. My brother was going to explain all this to you. He’s the one in charge of development. But he’s late. Well, bottom line is this. We sent the purple sunset over there. It’s damn striking, that one. And we wanted a mural that matched it throughout the restaurant. Then the painting would be showcased in the entryway. That one, of course, is not for sale.”
He slid some papers across the table. “Here is the contract. Look it over and if everything looks good, we’ll have a deal.”
Hanna scanned the contract. The terms were pretty clear-cut. She would paint a mural within a two-month period and they would pay her an exorbitant amount of money and put her up at nearby lodgings for the duration of the project. But . . .
“You can have your lawyer look it over, of course. There’s no rush.” He misinterpreted her hesitation.
She chuckled. “This looks fine. It’s just that . . . well, I’ve never painted a mural before. Something that big . . .” Could she handle it? Would it look the same, have the same feel as her much smaller paintings? On the other hand, ideas blossomed in her head. Excitement trickled through her.
He studied her with a frown. “Do you think you’ll need more time? We can work that out.”
Two months? A week or so to sketch it out? Several for painting? One for touch ups? “I think I can do it.” Forcing away her annoying doubts, she fished a pen from her purse and signed before she could let the second thoughts take her.
