had she lost track of such a high-profile event? Widower and single dad Luke Hunter was marrying Delaney Marks, a young woman who Sunshine had become acquainted with over the past summer. Obviously she’d been way too busy and much too preoccupied if she’d forgotten. So what was new?
“Maybe you’d better come back in a few days.” Tori sounded relieved that her mission might be aborted.
“But by then the holiday weekend will be over, the last of the summer customers come and gone.” There might soon be leaf-peepers searching for a burst of aspen gold—and hunters, of course—but the prime season to market the talents of local artists would be over until late next spring. “I have a responsibility to represent the best interests of our artists’ community. And that constant din next door isn’t one of them.”
Torn, she again looked to where Grady had finished his conversation and pocketed his cell phone. She found big, self-confident men intimidating, but she’d have no choice but to deal with him if she ventured forth now.
Intruding on a family gathering, though, might not be the best strategy. Nor would stating the case for the Artists’ Co-op to the man on the porch rather than to his civic-minded mother. But before she could get back in the car, Grady’s gaze swept the parking lot and he spotted her, his eyes locking on hers.
Her heart jerked as his expression appeared to sharpen. Question. Challenge.
The decision was made.
“Ramp up the prayers, Tori.” She shut the car door, cutting off her friend’s words of protest. Here we go, Lord.
* * *
What was she doing here?
Grady Hunter’s eyes narrowed as the petite young woman, her black hair glinting in the late-morning sunlight, wove her way between cars in the parking lot. Clad in jeans and a black T-shirt, the fringe of her camel-colored jacket swaying with each step, Sunshine Carston looked like one determined woman.
Just what he didn’t need right now. Not, for that matter, what any of the Hunter clan needed while setting aside anxious thoughts regarding his mother’s recent cancer diagnosis in order to celebrate today. Couldn’t whatever Sunshine had on her mind wait until after the Labor Day weekend? Or at least until after the guests dispersed from his big brother’s postwedding brunch, which was now in full swing?
Having ditched his tux jacket inside, he loosened his tie, regretting having stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and to make a quick phone call. He didn’t know who Ms. Carston intended to see, but regardless he would halt her at the door. Admittedly, he had a reputation for being overly protective of his family. But thirty-four years of life’s lessons had given him reason to be, and today would be no different.
“Good morning.” An almost shy smile accompanied her greeting as she paused at the base of the porch steps, but her dark brown eyes reflected the resolve he’d initially identified from a distance.
Up close she was prettier than he’d originally thought from seeing her around town and—only recently—in church. Although his area of expertise was wildlife photography, he nonetheless found himself mentally framing her for a perfect shot. Not a stiffly formal studio portrait, though. She was far too vibrant for that.
Her glossy, shoulder-length hair, slightly longer in front than in back, accented her straight nose and high cheekbones, and a smooth, warm skin tone hinted of possible Native American ancestry. She appeared to be in her late twenties—much too young to challenge his mother or Irvin Baydlin for a seat on the town council. From what he’d heard from multiple sources—including his mom—she kept the current council members on their toes. Which, of course, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
But he wouldn’t be voting for her.
“Good morning,” he acknowledged with a friendly nod. Hunters were known for their hospitality, and he’d uphold that to his dying day or risk repercussions from Grandma Jo. He stepped off the porch and extended his hand. “Grady Hunter. How may I help you?”
Doe-like eyes met his in momentary hesitation, and then she gripped his hand in a firm shake. “Sunshine Carston. Manager of the Hunter Ridge Artists’ Cooperative.”
Her voice was softer, gentler, than he’d assumed from her reputation. That, combined with the delicate hand she’d placed in his, contradicted the image he’d previously formed of the single mom as “one tough cookie.”
She motioned to the overflowing parking lot of the property his great-great-grandparents had settled in the early 1900s. “I apologize for the intrusion. I forgot this is Delaney Marks’s wedding day.”
That was right, his brother’s new bride was, coincidentally, an aspiring artist herself and, in exchange for jewelry-making lessons from another local artist, on occasion worked at the Artists’ Co-op.
“I won’t take but a few minutes of your time,” she said, not waiting to see if he’d voice any objections to conducting business on his brother’s wedding day. “The adjoining property north of the Artists’ Co-op is being renovated by a contractor hired by Hunter Enterprises.”
“That’s correct.”
“I realize Hunter’s Hideaway caters to a different customer base,” she continued, and he found himself drawn to the softly lilting voice, the expressive eyes. “But, as a fellow business owner who is impacted by visitors to this region, you know how important the months from Memorial Day weekend through Labor Day are to local businesses.”
“They are indeed.” Fortunately, although Hunter’s Hideaway no longer offered guided hunts on their own property or in the neighboring national forests, they’d diversified through the years to not only provide camping and cabins for hunters, but also for competitive trail riders and runners seeking to condition at a higher altitude. For seekers of a quiet place to get away from it all, as well.
Those more recent additions, in fact, gave him hope that he might soon see his long-held dream come to fruition—wildlife-photography workshops and related guided tours of the forested wilderness surrounding them. But he had to convince his family that it was worthwhile. Not an easy thing to do.
Sunshine’s dark eyes pinned him. “Then, you can understand how sales might be negatively impacted at a fine-arts gallery when the adjoining property is undergoing a massive overhaul on the last holiday weekend of the season.”
So that was the problem. It couldn’t be that bad, though, could it? It wasn’t as if they were dynamiting. “No harm intended, I assure you.”
“The contractor overseeing the project says he’s under a tight deadline.” She folded her arms as she looked up at him. “We’ve had disgruntled customers walk out of the gallery when the pounding, vibration and whine of power tools wouldn’t let up.”
Weighing his options, he briefly stared at formidable clouds building in the distance for what would likely bring an afternoon monsoon rain. “What do you say I give the contractor a call and postpone things for a few days? I imagine he and his crew wouldn’t mind having the rest of the weekend off.”
Brows arched as if in disbelief. Or was that disappointment flickering through her eyes? Had she expected—relished even—a fight?
“You’d do that?”
“Neighbors have to look out for neighbors.”
