by Cassie Miles
“I give up,” she said.
“I had another idea for why Michelle might have left you this painting. It’s kind of obvious.”
Then why hadn’t it occurred to her? “Okay, what?”
“It could be a literal message.” He crossed the room and went to the painting. Reaching up, he lifted the two-by-four-foot picture off the hook on the wall. “A couple of years ago, I had a stallion that I loved. When he died, Michelle gave me a painting of him. On the back of the canvas, she wrote his name and signed it.”
He flipped the painting around, and she saw the words, painted in a soft blue. She read aloud, “Family is the greatest treasure. All my love, Michelle.”
Gabby’s eyes misted over. She might not have found a hundred-thousand-dollar cache of Tarot paintings, but this discovery was priceless.
Chapter Eleven
“I don’t see why we have to go so far,” Gabby complained as she trudged behind Zach. “Why can’t you teach me to shoot closer to the house?”
“Safety,” he said.
“I’d be careful.”
“What makes you think I’m talking about your safety? I’m thinking of the innocent bystanders.”
She put her head down and kept walking. The vacant land behind the Roost went from a flat area with tumbledown fence posts and no barbed wire to an incline leading into pine trees and rugged boulders. She was pleased that hiking uphill didn’t strain her leg muscles. Living in Brooklyn, she hardly ever used her car. The only reason she owned the little hatchback was because she took it in trade for an elaborate bridal gown from a girlfriend who worked at a body shop. In New York, everybody walked everywhere, and Gabby was in good shape. But she was winded, probably due to that high altitude thing.
Pausing to catch her breath, she turned and looked back at the Roost. From this perspective, she saw how the original part of the house attached to the studio. The old structure showed signs of wear where it had been patched, shored up and rebuilt. Much of the paint had worn away, leaving weathered wood, and the roof sagged. It was remarkable that the place was still standing, given that it had been constructed in the 1870s. Michelle must have dedicated a lot of time, effort and money to maintaining the original Roost.
Gabby remembered what Charlotte had said about Michelle sitting in the old house and communicating with the ghosts of their ancestors. The Rousseau family—living or dead—was hugely important to her. As the message on the back of the painting suggested, family was to be treasured. And yet, her great-aunt hadn’t made any particular overtures to Gabby when she was growing up. Their connection was tenuous, not loving. Sure, Gabby was sad when she’d learned of Michelle’s death, but she wasn’t devastated. Not like when Rene died four years ago.
Zach called to her. “Are you coming?”
Instead of climbing higher, she continued to stare at the house. “I remember when Michelle came to Brooklyn for Rene’s funeral.”
“I can’t hear you.”
She turned and looked up the hill toward him. “If family was so important to her, why didn’t Michelle make more of an effort to know me?”
He shrugged. “She talked about you.”
“You said that before.” She started climbing, energized by anger and frustration. “She thought I might have a smidgen of her talent. Well, big whoop. Why didn’t she tell me? Do you see any photos of me around the house? No, you don’t. Supposedly, she treasured me and the rest of the family, but when she came to Brooklyn for her sister’s funeral, she only stayed for one day.”
She powered up the last few paces, joining him in a flat clearing surrounded by forest. “If Michelle cared about me so much, why did she set up these crazy terms in her will?”
“I don’t know.” He drew an automatic gun from a hip holster and ran his hand along the barrel.
“She could have invited me for a visit.” She caught her breath. “She could have talked to me and gotten to know me instead of hiding out in her mountain sanctuary like a modern day Georgia O’Keeffe.”
“That door swings both ways.”
Of course, he was right. “I didn’t know much about her beyond the fact that she was a successful artist.”
“A wealthy artist,” he said.
In the back of her mind, Gabby had been aware of her great-aunt’s wealth, but she’d never approached Michelle for a loan, not even when she could no longer afford to keep her boutique open. “I never expected an inheritance.”
“Some people might say you’ve come out ahead on this deal.”
“It’s not about the money. I would have rather spent time with Michelle, watching her paint and talking about her life. For me, it’s never been about money.” The realization hit her like a splash of cold water. The terms of the will, though unreasonable, didn’t anger her as much as the missed opportunity. Michelle was a complex, mysterious, interesting woman, surrounded by an artist’s mystique. “There’s still plenty to learn about Michelle, about this heritage that I barely know anything about. I’ve made my decision. I’m going to follow the terms of the will and stay at the Roost.”
“But not for the money.”
“I won’t lie. Having enough money so I don’t have to worry about paying the rent would be great, but that’s not the biggest reason.”
“Then, why?”
“Living here worked for Michelle. Maybe it’ll be lucky for me. The Universe is teaching me a lesson. In a weird way, I’m staying because of family.”
“As good a reason as any,” he said as he sauntered across the flat clearing and made a stack of three smaller rocks on top of a flat boulder. “It’s hard to understand families.”
“That sounds like the voice of experience.”
“Maybe,” he said as he made another stack of rocks.
His every move seemed precise and calculated, from his gait to the way he pushed his hat back on his forehead. He wasn’t the kind of man who second-guessed himself or wandered aimlessly. As she watched him, she wondered—for the ten-millionth time—why he’d come into her bedroom last night. There must have been a reason. He’d said he wanted to talk about Fox, but that discussion could have waited until morning. And why had Zach mentioned their kiss?
Since she’d decided to stick it out at the Roost, she needed to define her relationship with him. Diving into a wild, passionate fling with her next-door neighbor seemed like a very bad idea. If they made love and things went wrong, she couldn’t avoid seeing him.
But could she settle for just being friends? Every time she looked at his gorgeous face and sexy body, she started drooling like one of Pavlov’s dogs desperate for a treat. That response definitely had to stop. She’d be wiser to think of Zach as a new friend, to learn something about his life and his past. “Seems like all we’ve done is talk about me and my crazy family. Tell me about you. What are your parents like?”
“I left home when I was seventeen and never went back.”
She waited for him to continue, but he said nothing more. She asked, “Where did you grow up?”
“Wyoming.”
“Did you live in a city or on a ranch?”
“Ranch.”
“Come on, Zach. You’ve got to give me more than one-word answers. How am I going to get to know you?”
“I’ll talk after our shooting lesson.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yeah, sure. If you cooperate, I’ll tell you something—one thing—about my past.”
“You’re on, cowboy.”
He came toward her, holding the gun at his side. “Here’s your first safety lesson. Never point a gun, whether or not it’s loaded, at anything you don’t want to shoot.”
“What if I don’t want to shoot anything?”
“This is for your protection, Gabby. Pay attention.”
Though she would have preferred not playing with dangerous weapons, she feigned cooperation by nodding. “Why didn’t you bring Charlotte’s rifle?”
“Learning how to use a rifle is harder than a handgun.
And it’s not necessary for you to master long-range marksmanship. You’re not going hunting.”
“So true,” she mumbled. “Tell me again why I need to know how to handle a gun?”
“When you’re face-to-face with a bad guy and there’s no way to escape and no one to help you, a gun might come in handy.” He stood beside her, picked up her right hand and placed the weapon in it. “Hold the grip. Get the feel of it.”
The dark metal felt cold and was heavier than she’d expected. “What kind of gun is this?”
“A Glock 21, it’s a .45 caliber automatic,” he said. “Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”
While he explained about various mechanisms, she balanced the weight in her hand. She had to admit that holding something so lethal was kind of exciting. She wanted to be as cool as an action heroine in a movie, but she couldn’t envision herself in that role.
She lowered the weapon. “This isn’t for me. I’m not a shooter. Guns are made for killing.”
“That’s why I’m teaching you.” His voice was low and patient. “Handling a weapon is a great responsibility. You need to know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t think I could ever shoot another human being.”
“Sometimes, it’s enough to pull the trigger. The noise will scare them off.”
“Show me.” She held the weapon toward him.
He took the gun from her, held it in a two-handed grip, pivoted and fired.
The blast was so loud that she covered her ears, but she didn’t take her eyes off him. He looked natural and poised. A quick glance showed her that he’d hit his target. The first stack of rocks had tumbled. He fired again and the second target was gone.
“I want you to notice my stance,” he said.
“Uh-huh.” You bet, she noticed. He looked like a real-life action hero who could take down twenty bad guys without breaking a sweat.
“I’m square to the target. My knees are loose and relaxed. My arms are straight, but I don’t have my elbows locked because there’s some recoil when I fire. You try it.”
As she mimicked the way he was standing, he gave calm instructions about softening her knees and loosening her shoulders. “This doesn’t feel like target practice,” she said.
“Concentrate on what you’re doing, Gabby. Don’t forget to breathe.”
“Like Yoga.”
“Whatever works for you.” He placed the Glock in her right hand and lifted her arm so she was holding it straight out in front of her. “Your left hand comes up here to steady your grip. You don’t want to be shaky.”
A tremble rippled through her, but that shaking had little to do with the gun in her hand. His touch aroused her. Even though he was acting like a dispassionate instructor, he was still Zach, still sexy. “What next?”
“Look down the barrel and line up the sights. Use your right eye. If you want, you can close the left.”
It took an effort to focus, but she understood what he meant. “Should I aim at anything?”
“What do you see?”
“A tree,” she said. “I’ll shoot that.”
“Okay, get ready. Don’t pull the trigger, just give it a squeeze. When you slip your index finger into the trigger space, be careful. The safety is off.”
She did as he said. “Now?”
“Keep your eye on the sight, elbows relaxed, squeeze.”
The blast rattled her eardrums. The recoil jolted her backward against his chest. A rush of adrenaline went through her. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“Do it again.” Holding her shoulders, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “This time, don’t stumble.”
The noise was still startling, but she was ready for the recoil this time when she squeezed the trigger. Firing the weapon felt easier. “Better?”
“You’re doing great,” he said. “Keep shooting until the bullets are gone.”
“How many is that?”
“It holds thirteen rounds, and we’ve fired four times. Nine more shots.”
“Should I aim at anything?”
“Sure, but don’t worry about accuracy. Your goal is to get comfortable with your weapon.”
By the time she’d gone through nine more shots, she felt like a pro. Though she still objected to guns on principle, she accepted the need for knowing how to use one. While living at the Roost, 911 wasn’t a real effective option.
He took the gun from her. “Do you want me to show you how to load it?”
“It’s something I need to know.”
She watched and listened as he illustrated how to remove the used clip and insert another. When she did it herself, she felt more in control of her weapon. Her Glock? Her boutique-loving friends in Brooklyn would never believe this.
“You’re ready for more,” he said. “Let’s work on accuracy.”
He set up more stacks of rocks, and she blasted away. Though she aligned the sights, she wasn’t hitting anything. Zach murmured encouragement, adjusted her stance and moved her closer to the rocks. Finally, with her tenth shot, she hit the target and let out a cheer. Without thinking of the consequences, she hugged him with her free arm.
As soon as she pressed against him, a surge of sensual awareness raced through her body. Her chin nestled in the crook of his neck. In spite of the gun, which she kept pointed at the ground, this felt so very right.
“Gabby, do you still have your finger on the trigger?”
“I do.”
“Take it off slowly so you don’t accidentally shoot me in the foot.”
An embrace while holding a Glock was tricky. Carelessness was how people got hurt...in more ways than one. When she was around Zach, she had to be wise.
After releasing the trigger, she stepped back. “Sorry.”
“Finish off the clip,” he said.
Though her last three shots weren’t precise, she managed another hit. “One out of three isn’t bad.”
“You’re feeling confident. That’s good. Now you can reload, and we’ll get back to the Roost.”
Remembering his instructions, she ejected the used clip and replaced it. “I’m glad you made me do this. Learning how to shoot is part of living here, and I’m going to have to make adjustments.”
“Maybe tomorrow, I can teach you how to ride.”
The idea of climbing up on a huge animal still freaked her out. “Aren’t we supposed to pick up my car tomorrow?”
“And I promised to stop by the arena where they’re holding the rodeo.”
A rodeo meant more horses and other livestock. Not her favorite thing, but she was determined to get comfortable with this new lifestyle. “Can I come with you to the rodeo?”
“Yep.”
Though still experiencing residual tingles from their embrace, this conversation seemed more like two friends. She remembered their deal. “You promised to tell me something about your past.”
“Fair enough.” He took the Glock from her and slipped it into the holster clipped to his belt. “Since you’re going to be my neighbor, there are a couple of things you should know about me.”
“I’m ready.”
When she looked up at him, he held her gaze. Unflinching, he said, “I’m a drug addict and alcoholic.”
She gritted her teeth, not wanting to appear shocked or surprised. Disapproval was the furthest thing from her mind. A few years ago, a good friend had made a similar declaration to Gabby. She knew a few things about addiction. “When did it start?”
“From the time I was a kid, I’d always done my fair share of drinking. I never really saw it as a problem, not even when I was having a shot or a couple of beers every day.”
His expression was as still as a mask. He did nothing to betray his emotions, but she knew that talking about something so personal was hard for him, and she was glad that he trusted her enough to talk to her.
He continued, “About ten years ago, I got injured real bad in a rodeo accident, busted my ankle and my arm and cr
acked three ribs. It hurt to move and to breathe, hurt like hell. Even worse, I knew my career was over.”
“Why?”
“I was a World Champion cowboy, and I knew I’d never get back to that level. To make a long, miserable story short, I got addicted to painkillers with a booze chaser and ended up in the hospital. When I bottomed out, I started going to a twelve-step program, which I still attend every year on my anniversary. I’ve been sober for nine years.”
“Congratulations.” She didn’t know what to say next and had to be careful not to destroy the fragile bond that had grown between them. He had opened up and made himself vulnerable. In this moment, she was more attracted to him than their physical chemistry dictated. They had become more than friends, more than a wild fling. She was falling in love with him.
She took his hand. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Twelve
As he walked beside her down the hill, Zach felt almost light-headed. Talking about his addictions wasn’t something he did, but he’d told Gabby. And she hadn’t jumped all over his story, pushing for more details and offering sympathy. Instead, she’d quietly absorbed his words and offered no judgment. It amazed him that a woman who talked a mile a minute was capable of such perfect stillness.
When they reached the path that circled the original house, she looked at the window that was still broken. “I should get that fixed. Michelle would want the place to be kept up.”
“There’s a handyman she used to call,” he said. “Charlotte probably has his phone number.”
“Not Ed Striker, I hope. He’s scary. Do you remember what he said? That he wanted to get rid of us?”
He hadn’t forgotten Striker but had concentrated so much on Fox that he hadn’t paid as much attention to Osborne as a suspect. “I’m glad you reminded me.”
They came around to the front of the new house just as a shiny black SUV parked beside Zach’s truck. Kevin Fox hopped out of the driver’s seat and waved. What the hell did he want?
The passenger door swung open, and another man stepped out. He was as tall as Zach with dark brown hair and eyes. His gaze lit on Gabby. As soon as he smiled, Zach saw the family resemblance.
