Page 85 of Silver-Tongued Devil
She wasn’t in Wild Horse. She was in Portland, people her age were walking by in skinny pants and hipster sneakers and funky haircuts and piercings that made hers look tame, and there was an energy in the air she could nearly touch.
She was here. She was home. And she had a shot. She wheeled her hand truck around and headed right through the door. Elizabeth Fischer, here she came.
The confidence lasted about two minutes. As long as it took for an assistant to ask her, “May I help you?” for Dakota to say, “I’d like to see Ms. Fischer, please,” and for the assistant to eye her dubiously.
How about faking it a little more, darlin’?It was like she heard Blake’s voice, right there in her head. She raised her chin, put her shoulders back, stared the assistant down, and said, “She’s expecting me. Dakota Savage.” Sure, it was a lie, but it might get her two more minutes, and walking out the door wouldn’t.
“One minute, please,” the assistant said, and left her to cool her heels.
It wasn’t one minute. It was more like ten. At first, Dakota stood at the discreetly situated desk and looked around her. In one corner of the room, a fairly amazing silver mobile stretched from floor to ceiling and made her wonder how big a house you’d have to have to display it. On the opposite wall, three enormous wooden kayaks hung lengthwise, side by side, all inlaid wood and geometric designs. Now,thatwas wall art. Not exactly a painting over the couch.
She had a moment of wanting to run. And then she had a different moment.
Twenty-four hours ago, she’d almost drowned. If Blake hadn’t found her, she’d have died at the bottom of the lake. All it would have taken was another few minutes, and she’d have been gone. All her problems would have been over, and Russell would have been planning another funeral.
Except she hadn’t died. She’d lived. And that made every single day, every singleminutefrom here on out a gift. It meant there was nothing left to lose. She was still here living her one and only life, so she’d better start doing it like she meant it. It could end at any time, but it hadn’t ended yet. She was still standing.
The winner’s the one who gets up the most times, and we’ll always get up. We’re always going to be the last two standing. That means we’ll always win.
She could have sworn that the dove tattooed on her back throbbed.Stand up,her brother told her.Stand up now.
Which was why, when Elizabeth Fischer walked down the enormous spiral staircase from the second floor, all black turtleneck, gray trousers, black glasses, and coal-black hair, Dakota wasn’t running. She was standing.
She’d also unpacked her five pieces of glass and set them against the wall, right under the wooden kayaks. Her eagle and her iris. Blake’s shell, and two flower pieces from her stash. Her best.
She didn’t say what she’d said the last time, either. She didn’t say, “I know I don’t have an appointment, but…” She turned around and said, “I’m Dakota Savage. This is my glass.”
“Hmm.” Elizabeth was eyeing it, walking along the row of framed pieces, then crouching down to study it more closely. Looking at the shell, and then the eagle.
Dakota didn’t say anything. This time, it was Blake she heard.Don’t think about what’s wrong with your work, why you really can’t charge that much.
Elizabeth stood up, looked Dakota over from earrings to boots, and asked, “Are you Native American?”
“Why? Does that matter?”
Elizabeth smiled, the barest movement of her thin lips. “Darling, in marketing, everything matters. Every piece has to tell a story. Like it or not, the artist is part of the story.”
“I am Lakota.”
The words hung there. And they had power.
Elizabeth looked at her for another long moment, then at the glass. “It’s good. But it’s stained glass.”
“And those things hanging on the wall are kayaks,” Dakota said. “Which is an Inuit design. They have exactly the kind of patterning in the inlay that you’d see in an Indian basket, too. They’re not paintings, and they’re not sculptures. And yet they sell.”
“How do you know they sell?”
“Because they’re beautifully crafted. Because they’re unique. And because you chose them.”
Another barely-there smile. “You don’t lack confidence, do you?”
You’ll never know.
The seconds stretched out, and Elizabeth said, “Your work is exceptional.” And Dakota heard thebut.
Which was when an older couple, two of the five or six customers who’d been wandering around the gallery on this Monday morning, came forward. The woman said, “Excuse me. Can you answer a question?” and Dakota knew her moment had passed.
That was why, though, she was watching when the front door opened and somebody made his stiff-legged way into the building. Somebody in a white button-down dress shirt of an Egyptian cotton so silky-soft you wanted to stroke it, a black suit coat that had probably cost as much as Dakota’s pickup, dark Levi’s, cowboy boots, and a whole extra person’s worth of magnetism. Somebody a whole lot like Blake Orbison.
