he was sitting by the fire, waiting for her.
Not like he was talking to her. But apparently nothing stopped her from talking. Not even his seeming disinterest in her presence. He’d heard about her business, about the house fire that had brought her to his place and about every moment of Holly’s life up until this point. Her voice in the dark was both frustrating and seductive. Firelight created a cocoon of shadows and light, making it seem as if the two of them were alone in the world. Sam’s days stretched out interminably, but the nights with Joy flew past, ending long before he wanted them to.
And that was an irritation, as well. Sam had been here for five years and in that time he hadn’t wanted company. Hadn’t wanted anyone around. Hell, he put up with Kaye because the woman kept his house running and meals on the table—but she also kept her distance. Usually. Now, here he was, sitting in the dark, waiting, hoping Joy would show up in the great room and shatter the solitude he’d fought so hard for.
But the days were different. During the day, Joy stayed out of his way and made sure her daughter did the same. They were like ghosts in the house. Once in a while, he would catch a little girl’s laughter, quickly silenced. Everything was clean, sheets on his bed changed, meals appeared in the dining room, but Joy herself was not to be seen. How she managed it, he wasn’t sure.
Why it bothered him was even more of a mystery.
Hell, he hadn’t wanted them to stay in the first place. Yet now that he wasn’t being bothered, wasn’t seeing either of them, he found himself always on guard. Expecting one or both of them to jump out from behind a door every time he walked through a room. Which was stupid, but kept him on edge. Something he didn’t like.
Hell, he hadn’t even managed to get started on his next project yet because thoughts of Joy and Holly kept him from concentrating on anything else. Today, he had the place to himself because Joy and Holly had gone into Franklin. He knew that because there’d been a sticky note on the table beside his blueberry muffin and travel mug of coffee that Joy routinely left out in the dining room every morning.
Strange. The first morning they were here, it was him avoiding having breakfast with them. Now, it seemed that Joy was perfectly happy shuffling him off without even seeing him. Why that bothered him, Sam didn’t even ask himself. There was no damn answer anyway.
So now, instead of working, he found himself glancing out the window repeatedly, watching for Joy’s beat-up car to pull into the drive. All right, fine, it wasn’t a broken-down heap, but her car was too old and, he thought, too unreliable for driving in the kind of snow they could get this high up the mountain. Frowning, he noted the fitful flurries of snowflakes drifting from the sky. Hardly a storm, more like the skies were teasing them with just enough snow to make things cold and slick.
So naturally, Sam’s mind went to the road into town and the possible ice patches that dotted it. If Joy hit one of them, lost control of the car...his hands fisted. He should have driven them. But he hadn’t really known they were going anywhere until it was too late. And that was because he wasn’t spending any time with her except for those late-night sessions in the library.
Maybe if he’d opened his mouth the night before, she might have told him about this trip into town and he could have offered to drive them. Or at the very least, she could have driven his truck. Then he wouldn’t be standing here wondering if her damn car had spun out.
Why the hell was he watching? Why did he care if she was safe or not? Why did he even bother to ask himself why? He knew damn well that his own past was feeding the sense of disquiet that clung to him. So despite resenting his own need to do it, he stayed where he was, watching. Waiting.
Which was why he was in place to see Ken Taylor when he arrived. Taylor and his wife, Emma, ran the gallery/gift shop in Franklin that mostly catered to tourists who came up the mountain for snow skiing in winter and boating on the lake in summer. Their shop, Crafty, sold local artisans’ work—everything from paintings to jewelry to candles to the hand-made furniture and decor that Sam made.
Grateful for the distraction, Sam shrugged into his black leather jacket and headed out of the workshop into the cold bite of the wind and swirl of snowflakes. Tugging the collar up around his neck, Sam squinted into the wind and walked over to meet the man as he climbed out of his truck.
“Hey, Sam.” Ken held out one hand and Sam shook it.
“Thanks for coming out to get the table,” Sam said. “Appreciate it.”
“Hey, you keep building them, I’ll drive up the mountain to pick them up.” Ken grinned. About forty, he had pulled his black hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He wore a heavy brown coat over a flannel shirt, blue jeans and black work boots. He opened the gate at the back of his truck, then grinned at Sam. “One of these times, though, you should come into town yourself so you can see the reactions of the people who buy your stuff.” Shaking his head, he mused, “I mean, they all but applaud when we bring in new stock.”
“Good to know,” Sam said. It was odd, he thought, that he’d taken what had once been a hobby—woodworking—and turned it into an outlet for the creativity that had been choked off years ago. He liked knowing that his work was appreciated.
Once upon a time, he’d been lauded in magazines and newspapers. Reporters had badgered him for interviews, and one or two of his paintings actually hung in European palaces. He’d been the darling of the art world, and he’d enjoyed it all. He’d poured his heart and soul into his work and drank in the adulation as his due. Sam had so loved his work, he’d buried himself in it to the detriment of everything else. His life outside the art world had drifted past without him even realizing it.
Sam hadn’t paid attention to what should have been most important, and before he could learn his lesson and make changes, he’d lost it and all he had left was the art. The paintings. The name he’d carved for himself. Left alone, it was only when he had been broken that he realized how empty it all was. How much he’d sacrificed for the glory.
So he wasn’t interested in applause. Not anymore.
“No thanks,” he said, forcing a smile in spite of his dark thoughts. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t want to meet prospective customers, why he didn’t care about hearing praise, so he said, “I figure being the hermit on the mountain probably adds to the mystique. Why ruin that by showing up in town?”
Ken looked at him, as if he were trying to figure him out, but a second later, shook his head. “Up to you, man. But anytime you change your mind, Emma would love to have you as the star of our next Meet the Artist night.”
Sam laughed shortly. “Well, that sounds hideous.”
Ken laughed, too. “I’ll admit that it really is. Emma drives me nuts planning the snacks to get from Nibbles, putting out press releases, and the last time, she even bought some radio ads in Boise...” He trailed off and sighed. “And the artist managed to insult almost everyone in town. Don’t understand these artsy types, but I’m happy enough to sell their stuff.” He stopped, winced. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Sam assured him. “Believe me.” He’d known plenty of the kind of artists Ken was describing. Those who so believed in their own press no one could stand to be around them.
“But, Emma loves doing it, of course, and I have to give it to her, we do big business on those nights.”
Imagining being in the center of a crowd hungering to be close to an artist, to ask him questions, hang on everything he said, talk about the “art”... It
