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 plugged 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.
