Page 60 of Wrangling a Wild Texan

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she remembered a study one of her favorite art instructors had talked about where a group of people from different walks of life had been shown ten paintings from famous artists and asked to rate them from their favorite to least favorite. Out of fifty random people, no two had rated the paintings exactly the same. In fact, the ratings were widely spread with some people rating a certain painting high and others rating the same painting low.

The study had proven that art was in the eye of the beholder.

And yet, Sunny had been letting a few art critics and a couple bad showings convince her that she had no talent.

For the first time, she really studied her angry art. She realized that she didn’t hate it. She liked it. She liked it a lot. Itwasa piece of her. A sad piece, but still a piece. She was tired of being ashamed of her pieces. She was tired of hiding her art.

With a burst of energy that startled Jimmy and sent him flying to the top of his cage, she jumped out of bed and pulled on her paint-splattered T-shirt and jeans before grabbing the painting from the easel.

The door of the gallery wasn’t locked. There was no art inside to steal. But there was going to be.

It was time Sunny came out of the attic.

There was an entire gallery full of empty walls to hang the painting, but she chose to set “Wall of Tears” on the easel in the front window. Once the painting was secure, she walked outside to take a look.

It looked good.

It looked damn good.

A joyful bark had her turning from the gallery window. Buck came waddling out the back door of the house to greet her, stopping to lift his leg on a bush on the way. Jesse wasn’t far behind him, wearing a stretched-out T-shirt, saggy sweatpants, and a sleepy look.

He yawned widely as he stood next to her and looked at the painting. “Is that new?”

“Yes. What do you think?”

“Hmm?” He shut one eye and squinted the other. “I think it’s not as good as the Holidays’ barn picture you painted for me and Liberty for our wedding, but much better than that famous painting by that artist who chopped off his own ear. But that’s the funny thing about art. Everyone likes something different.”

She smiled as she looked at the painting. “I’m just starting to figure that out.”

“So you’ve become an abstract impressionist?”

She realized she didn’t know the answer to that question. She also realized that it didn’t matter. “I don’t know. I think I’m just going to paint what I want to—whether it’s abstract or a big red barn.”

Jesse looked at her. “Does this mean you’re not moving to Dallas to do web design?”

She looked at the gallery Corbin had lovingly gifted her, then into Jesse’s brown eyes that were so much like hers. “I think it does.”

He let out a whoop and swung her up in his arms. She was still laughing when he set her back on her feet and gave her a serious look. “Does this have anything to do with Reid Mitchell?”

Just hearing his name made her heart feel like it had been stomped on by a herd of cattle. Normally, she would swallow the pain and pin a smile on her face. But her days of smiling when she didn’t feel like it were over. “No. Whatever I had with Reid is over.”

His eyes turned sad. “I guess that’s why you looked so wrung out yesterday.”

“I’m still feeling pretty wrung out. But I think I’ll be okay.”

“Of course you’ll be okay. You have my and Corbin’s blood running through your veins. Us Cates-Whitlocks are resilient as cockroaches.” He put her in a headlock and rubbed her head with his knuckles until she giggled. “Now let’s go get some muffins. If Liberty wakes up and doesn’t have something to fill her mama belly, she’s one grouchy woman.”

She playfully shoved him away. “Just let me run in and get some shoes and my phone.”

She easily found her flip-flops, but she couldn’t seem to find her phone. Since the last time she’d had it, she’d been sitting on the bed talking to her mama, she searched through the mussed covers before getting down on her hands and knees to see if she’d knocked it off last night.

She found it under the bed . . . along with another one of Mrs. Fields’s letters. It must have slipped off the bed the day she and Liberty had been reading them. When she saw the paper clip, she realized it was the letter that had been clipped to the one she’d given Corbin. Even though Jesse was waiting, she couldn’t help opening the envelope.

This letter was handwritten, not typed, and not nearly as threatening.

Dear Mrs. Fields,

I have arrived safely and, besides a little nausea, the trip was uneventful. The hotel is not as nice as the boardinghouse, but it’s more than adequate . . . with no customers to worry about pleasing. I can’t thank you enough for making all the arrangements and getting me a bus ticket. You have always been kind to me and I wanted to make sure you know I would never do anything to cause trouble for you. This is my child. No one else’s. I have no desire to see Wilder or Ulysses again. Although I do miss you and the girls. Give everyone my love.

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