Montana Christmas Magic Page 7

  “My mother.” He laughed. “Only after I went to my first tennis competition did she believe I was going to do it. Up until that point, even though she was pushing for me to play, she assumed I’d give it up eventually and go into my father’s business. After all, I’d said I wanted to do a lot of things, but if I wasn’t good enough at them, I abandoned them.”

  “Sounds like a little bit of perfectionism.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way.” He leaned back in his chair. “If I wasn’t perfect, what was the point?”

  “Why tennis?”

  “I don’t know.” His eyes flicked to the other diners in the restaurant, and he released her hand.

  What didn’t he want to tell her?

  She frowned, picked the chopsticks back up, and clicked them together.

  “No other options?”

  “I couldn’t see myself sitting behind a desk all day, trying to be smarter than a computer system, like my father did. Of course, as things worked out, it would have been a better choice.” He picked up a sushi roll and studied it. “Of course, tennis wasn’t originally what I really wanted to do, either.”

  “What was that?” She stopped tapping the wooden sticks.

  He slowly swallowed his roll.

  “Carpentry,” he said when he finished. “People in New York City need fine woodwork just like everyone else, especially if you include Long Island in your area.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  He finished off the last of his sushi before he answered. “Because I wasn’t good at it,” he said. “Woodworking was tied to Willy—out here—and once I hit junior high, I saw my uncle less and less, so I didn’t get to improve any. After my mother and he had a huge fight my junior year—I don’t know what about—I never saw him again.”

  “That’s sad. Especially considering he died only a day after you arrived.”

  “Yep. But he made it enticing to stay.”

  Perhaps Montana would work its magic, and he’d stay. Maybe once he saw she was serious about moving on from Tony, she could help convince him.

  “Would you take up woodworking again if you could?”

  “It seems I’m going to be forced to.” He chuckled. “Remember that old man from Willy’s service who had some ideas of how I could help out?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, in addition to sturdying up a porch, he’s got a long list of town chores to keep me occupied in addition to the work I want to do on the ranch.”

  “Will you be able to handle it?”

  “I’ll do as much each day as I can.”

  “One day at a time.”

  “Works well,” he said and picked up his last piece of sushi.

  They were quiet as he finished up with the check. She stared out the window at the passersby. This was always an awkward moment for her, letting someone else, particularly a man, pay for her meal. So many women in her mother’s small-town generation never paid for anything while they were with their husbands. The idea made her uneasy, as if she were giving up control to an unknown entity.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  How about we stop at the Big Dipper?” she asked. “My treat.”

  “You’d eat a sweet other than chocolate?” he said in mock horror.

  “They have chocolate ice cream, silly.”

  “Of course.”

  The sun warmed her face as they strolled southward on Higgins. It was hard not to take his hand.

  “What are you going to do with the ranch once your six months are up?” she asked as they passed by the First Montana Bank corner.

  “Probably sell it. I’d rather not sell it to out-of-staters, though. Ironic, because I am one.” He frowned.

  “Not really. You spent summers here with Willy. That counts.”

  “Most Montanans I know aren’t that generous.”

  “Because you’re not from California,” she said with a smile.

  “Californians are the enemy?”

  “They are when they want to make Montana into another version of their state.”

  “Well, we can’t make that happen, can we? Okay, no Californians need apply. Satisfied?”

  “Yep.” Her step was lighter than it had been in a while after their friendly banter. She needed to convince him that selling was a bad idea. Maybe he’d be a landlord for her artist’s retreat.

  They crossed the bridge, stopping for a moment to gaze at the rapidly running Clark Fork River and the roaring bear sculpture in front of the 1800s Boone and Crockett club.

  “Must have been quite the place in the nineteenth century,” he said.

  “It still is.”

  “So is most of Montana,” he said. “Take Phillipsburg. It’s unique in its own way,” he added. “They’ve done a lot to spruce the place up over the last few years. Feels like the town is vibrant and livable.”

  “People were certainly friendly at the reception. Willy seemed to have had a strong presence in the town.”

  “Yeah, from what I can tell, everyone liked him. I’m not sure they’ll say the same about me, especially if I don’t finish everything that Ira—that’s the old man’s name—has planned for me.”

  “You’ll do okay. They’ll help you in return, you know that. That’s how we are—how we have to be.”

  The state that had gone over the one million population mark only a few years ago. The state was big enough that people were still spread out, and there was a lot of empty space.

  “You’ve got a point. Sure is a lot of ‘here’ here.”

  They ordered cones at the Big Dipper, huckleberry for him, Mexican chocolate for her.

  “Told you they had chocolate ice cream,” she teased.

  “I thought huckleberry was mandatory in Montana.”

  “Only for out-of-staters.” She grinned.

  “Good thing I can’t get enough of it.”

  “Don’t see that in the future.” His tone sobered. “Hard to have a tennis career of any kind from a place as remote as this.”

  “We’ve got airplanes.”

  “You have Winnebagos with wings.”

  She laughed.

  “Every time I get on a plane to Montana,” he continued, “it’s like I’ve walked into a local coffee joint, but the patrons only dress in boots, jeans, and Stetsons.”

  “It’s the state uniform.”

  They had reached the front of the chocolate shop, when Logan stopped.

  “I think I’ll skip chatting with Sue Anne. Too many things to do.” He touched her arm lightly. “Think about coming out to the ranch to do some painting. It’s really pretty, and there are a lot of different angles of the mountains and plains. And Phillipsburg has lots of color.”

  “It might be nice to paint something other than the Bitterroot. I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.”

  If circumstances had been different, she would have sworn he was going to kiss her.

  Instead he popped the last bit of the cone in his mouth.

  Too bad.

  “Thank you again. I enjoyed myself,” he said. “Think about coming out.”

  There was still a chance for that kiss.

  With a wave of his hand, he turned and headed down the sidewalk.

  Chapter 7

  “I need to take next Tuesday off to paint,” Julie said to Sue Anne.

  Her boss frowned for a second.

  Julie almost backed down but pressed her lips shut.

  “Sure. I can arrange to be here all day,” she finally said.

  The energy between them shifted.

  Change was always bittersweet.

  They worked together quietly but efficiently on a set of candy bear claws and graduation chocolate they were assembling to prep for the upcoming university event. The influx of parents and siblings in May of the year before had made Sue Anne realize the positive impact on her bottom line.

  She had ramped up her preparations this year, and graduation was only a
few weeks away. No wonder she was uptight at Julie’s increased absence.

  Unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped. If Julie didn’t keep her momentum going, she’d slip back into old habits.

  “We should hire someone else to help out,” she suggested.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. It’s going to take a little while to train someone to do this the way I want it done. Why don’t you write up a job description, and I’ll place an ad on Craigslist?”

  “Okay.” She didn’t mind the extra work—there’d be plenty of time to get it done while the shop was slow, and it would relieve her of some guilt.

  The rest of the week passed in its normal rhythm: making chocolate, waiting on customers, and keeping the shop clean and straightened. When she wasn’t working, Julie kept herself busy, working on her painting when her roommates weren’t home.

  She texted Logan to let him know she’d be out the following week, and his response, when it came, was enthusiastic but short.

  She was making more of this than there was.

  Tuesday morning broke a week’s streak of gray skies.

  She loaded a fresh canvas, easel, and paints into the car, and headed east. An hour later, she followed her memory of the route to the ranch. It looked just as it had the day of Willy’s funeral, although there was fresh pine in places where Logan had obviously been working.

  She took a moment to look beyond the buildings.

  Rolling grassland stretched east to the mountains, only smudges in the distance. Closer by, friendly shaped mountains glistened in the morning sun. The Sapphires formed the barrier between Phillipsburg and the Bitterroot Valley.

  As she stood there, an odd-looking dog came up to her, tail wagging furiously.

  She allowed him to sniff her hand before attempting to pet him. A lick on the back indicated he was receptive to her attention.

  Logan emerged from one of the outbuildings. Spotting the animal, he shook his head as he walked over to the car.

  “I didn’t know you have a dog,” she said.

  “I don’t.”

  She looked down at the friendly animal and back up at him. “It would appear you’re wrong about that.”

  “He adopted me. I keep encouraging him to move along, but he doesn’t take the hint.”

  “Are you feeding him?”

  “Yes. Can’t let him starve.”

  “Well ...” She shrugged. “I guess you’re stuck with him. It’s okay. Every ranch should have a dog.”

  “Good, maybe the new owners will take him along with the rest of the furnishings.” He smiled at her. “I didn’t mean that to be as harsh as it sounded. I’m just having trouble coming up with the right combination of wood joints to make the repair I need.”

  “No problem.” She smiled. “My dad gets like that. He likes to repair other people’s furniture. Usually I can talk with him while he works, but if he’s having problems ...” She shook her head.

  “Is that what he does for a living?”

  “Nope. He’s a loan officer at the local bank. He does it as a side business.”

  “Does he get much for it?”

  “He doesn’t charge anything. Instead he asks for a donation to the charity arm of our church for outreach to the hungry and elderly.”

  Logan frowned, but he didn’t say anything.

  What was that all about?

  “I thought you might like to paint at a spot I found last week when I was out for my nightly walk.” He pointed at a dirt track, not worthy enough to be called a road, which led toward a nearby rise. Then he looked back at her VW, and his forehead crinkled. “That may not be the right vehicle. Why don’t you take the SUV?” He pulled a set of rental keys from his pocket and dangled them in front of her.

  “I couldn’t do that. What if something happens?”

  He gestured at her car. “That’s in pristine condition—not a dent on it—which is tough to do in a college town. You’ll take care of it.”

  Her spine straightened, almost of its own free will.

  Logan helped move her equipment from one vehicle to the other. As she got behind the wheel, he gave her a wave and called to the dog, “C’mon, Hobo.”

  “Wait a minute,” she shouted at Logan’s back. “You have named him.”

  Logan grinned at her. “Nope. It’s just what he is—a hobo.” He turned and kept going.

  She smiled to herself and headed down the road.

  The spot he meant was apparent the moment she got there. High enough up to capture the neat ranch buildings snuggled against the foothills, yet not so far up as to distort the perspective. It was the perfect time of morning for her—the light still containing daybreak’s iridescence, without being so low it produced deep shadows or overly bright pockets.

  She’d come prepared to do some experimenting with her paints before settling into a subject. After limbering up with a few sketches, she propped the pad on the easel and laid out the paints on the palette.

  Mixing and blending, she tried to match the exact colors she saw in front of her, focusing on differentiating the greens of trees and grasslands, which would turn brown in a few weeks. She wanted to capture them as they were now. With her pencil, she labeled each with the mix and what she intended to use it to create. Many would claim she was developing a rigid process, but working with chocolate recipes had taught her the importance of writing things down. The few times she and Sue Anne had relied on memory, the result had been a brittle disaster.

  Finally, she put the canvas on the easel and sketched the general idea of what she wanted to create. For added measure, she took several photos with her phone.

  She glanced at her watch. Several hours had passed. Time to go to town to grab some lunch. Maybe Logan would come with her.

  When she returned to the ranch, he was balanced on a stepladder, fitting a section of wood under the eaves of the farthest outbuilding. Hobo lay sleeping on a nearby grassy patch but leapt up when she walked closer, and requested more attention.

  Her laugh must have startled Logan, because the ladder shook slightly and he cursed loudly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you okay?”

  “Hammered my thumb,” he said with a wince. “It’s taken me all morning to get this dang piece right, and I almost destroyed it.”

  She tried to stifle the giggle; she really did. But he looked so crazy standing on the ladder, waving his hammer around, a red handkerchief keeping the sweat from his eyes while his hair stood on end.

  The laugh escaped, followed by a second, a third, and a fourth.

  “What is so damn funny?” he spat out.

  Unable to speak, she pointed at him.

  He must have done a mental inventory, because he lowered the hammer, shook his head, and chuckled. With stiff movements, he descended.

  He could have easily fallen, and it would have been her fault.

  “I really am sorry,” she said, sobering immediately. “What are you doing on a ladder anyway in your condition?”

  “I told you I was working on repairs. How the heck do you think I can do that without getting on a ladder? Why does it matter to you anyway?”

  “Because I like you, you idiot.”

  “You have a boyfriend ...”

  “Not anymore.”

  “... and I don’t date ... What?” His ears must have caught up with his mouth.

  “I said, I’m not going out with Tony anymore. We broke up.”

  He stared at her for a moment before the corners of his mouth turned up.

  More warmth than the spring sun should provide filled her. She savored her victory for a second before looking more closely at the building he’d been working on.

  “What are you doing? This looks like a lot more than simple repairs.”

  “Two are just storage. Lots of old equipment. Willy never threw anything away.”

  “Typical rancher. Always saving things for parts.”

  “Yep.” He nodded. “If I’m going to sell, I need
to clean them out. That one is for woodworking tools. This one was empty. It’s my exercise area. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  The good-sized space was bright and airy from windows on three of the sides.

  “Odd to have windows in a shed,” she said.

  “I seem to remember my uncle using them as guest quarters for overflow from the house or when he hired some workers during busy times.” Logan pointed to a second door in the back wall. “There’s a compact bathroom there. There are two or three like this. They must have been cabins for ranch hands at some point before Willy bought the place.”

  Julie opened the door. Toilet, sink, and shower stall in a windowless room. Worked if you weren’t claustrophobic.

  Sun flooded the space in the main cabin. It would be a perfect place for a studio. Maybe if she helped clean one out, Logan would let her use it to complete her paintings. While it was a long drive, her roommates were becoming more of a problem, and she simply couldn’t afford an apartment by herself.

  It would also give her more time to spend with him. Maybe she’d be able to convince him to keep the place, as Willy had so obviously wanted.

  “How’d your painting go?”

  “I got a good start, but my stomach’s rumbling. I thought I’d grab a bite in town. Want to come with?”

  He looked at his dirty and rumpled appearance.

  “They won’t care downtown. It’s not summer tourist season yet.”

  “Let me change my shirt and clean up. I could use a break. All this up and down is tough.”

  She leaned against the SUV while she waited, a million thoughts playing tag in her mind. What if he turned two of the cabins into small studios slash guest rooms? Artists might pay a good fee to come here for a week and work away from their real lives. Even writers might be tempted.

  “Ready?” he asked and opened the door behind the driver’s seat.

  Did he expect her to sit back there?

  Her confusion lifted when Hobo jumped in and sat down.

  She climbed in the passenger side and looked at Logan.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’ve named the dog and allow him to ride in your car. But it’s not your dog.”

  “Nope. I gave up on keeping him out of the car. He seems to want to keep me in his sight. And I told you, Hobo is just what I call him, not his name.”