remember those stories you used to make up when we came out here?”
“Sure. Parts of them, at least. Why, you want me to make up a story for you now?”
He smiled and shook his head. “I was just thinking you should try to sell those. You know, write them down. You could do the artwork, too. Have your own series of picture books.”
“Yeah, that would be nice.” She sat on the boulder between them and tucked her feet up beside her.
“Seriously, you should. Why not?”
“Only about a jillion reasons. I have no education in writing or art. The stories were just fanciful things I made up.”
“I liked them.”
“You were nine. Book editors are a little older than that.”
“Their readers aren’t. Look, who cares if you have formal education or not?”
“It must be somewhat important. Everyone else who writes children’s books gets an education. You can’t believe how stiff the competition is in that field, Colt. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“How do you know until you try?”
Becca looked away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The breeze was picking up, rustling through the trees and waving in the tall grass. “I know.”
“You already tried.”
“Yes, I did. A few years ago, when I first started painting again. It got rejected.”
“And that was it?”
“There’s not much you can say after that.”
“How about ‘try again’? Becca, no one would get anywhere if they gave up after the first try.”
“Maybe I don’t want it bad enough to try again.” She moved her shoulders.
Colt was silent a moment, then stepped in front of her. The setting sun shone behind him, a red ball on the horizon at his back. The wind blew his dark curls, and his brown eyes looked intently at her. “But you do want it.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I really do.”
Colt sighed, then squatted in front of her. “Okay, the thing to do, when you’re faced with an obstacle, is list the things you have to overcome, then figure out how you’re going to overcome them, one by one. You said there were a jillion reasons, and the first one is your lack of education.”
“And how am I going to overcome that? Run off to art school now?”
“Not a bad idea. But no.” He stood and sat down on the rock beside her, taking her hand. “I don’t think that’s necessary. How long has it been since you sent that first book in?”
Becca shrugged. “Almost four years ago. Right after Mama died.”
“And since then you started painting again, right? And you’re doing the drawings for Dunleavy’s, too. So you have more experience, and therefore more education. You’ve learned things.”
“I suppose I have learned a few things, but—”
“No ‘buts.’ You’re better now than you were four years ago. So that problem is taken care of. Now, what’s the next?”
Becca shook her head and smiled. “I don’t know. A lot of publishers accept only computer artwork now. I don’t even have the programs on my computer. My old computer probably wouldn’t handle the programs even if I did have them.”
“But that problem could be solved pretty easily, with a little money.”
“Oh, yeah, a new computer and software. I’ll just run down to Circle D and pick those up.”
“What I’m saying is that it’s not impossible.”
“Spoken like someone who is not on a teacher’s salary. Do you have any idea how much computers cost?”
He ignored the question. “Okay, so what’s our next obstacle? That’s only two out of a jillion.”
Becca drew her head back and sighed. “Colt, seriously—”
“I am serious, Becca. What’s the next problem?”
She studied their fingers linked together. How was it, she wondered idly, that he felt so comfortable just picking up her hand, when she couldn’t seem to drag her mind away from the feel of his palm against hers, his fingers twining around her own?
“Come on, what is it?”
Becca raised her chin and looked Colt in the eye. “I really don’t think I can do it. I mean, I know I can write the stories, and I can do the art. I just don’t think I can do a good enough job that anyone would actually pay for them.”
“Oh, well then.” Colt stretched out his legs and smiled. “That’s not a problem. Because I think you can do it. Matter of fact, I think it enough for both of us. So don’t worry about that. You don’t have to believe in yourself. I believe in you.”
Becca stared at Colt, her breath caught in her throat, unable to speak. She had never realized that she had missed hearing those words in her life, never realized what a hole there was in her until Colt filled it, and so easily that it appeared effortless. She found herself blinking back hot tears.
“That—that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she whispered.
He turned to face her, his mouth open to speak. He looked into her eyes and closed his mouth again. His thumb moved over hers softly. “Well, I wasn’t going for that. I was just telling you the truth.”
“I know. That’s what makes it so special. You’d better watch it, Colt. A few more words like that, and I might not believe you’re the bad guy you keep trying to convince me you are.”
She wished the comment back as soon as she’d said it, because his face got that hard look she was coming to recognize and despise.
“That would be your mistake.” He released her hand and stood. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You should know as well as I do what I’m capable of.”
He was trying to push her away. She recognized it, and refused to let him. “I know what you’re capable of. You’re capable of encouraging me like no one ever has.”
“How do you know I didn’t just say that out of guilt?”
“Guilt over what?”
“Over not taking you with me when you asked me. For leaving you here to waste your life.”
Waste her life. The words swirled in the wind around Becca. She told herself that he didn’t really mean it, that he was just trying to push her away because she’d said something nice about him.
And knew it was working, after all. “Is that why you said that? Because you feel guilty?”
He
