Crone stopped dead in his tracks. Not because of her breathless plea, but because the painting seemed to call to him in a siren song impossible to resist. He turned slowly. His eyes immediately moved back to the canvas. The longer he looked, the more he could feel the phantom press of cold concrete against his back and hear the echo of boots in dark corridors. His fingers twitched, remembering the fevered grip on the brushes as he’d poured his nightmares onto the canvas.
“How much?” The words came out with the grating sound of gravel sliding down a mountainside.
“H-how much what?” She looked truly confused.
“How much do you want for the painting?” His voice dropped an octave, taking on a dangerous edge.
“You want to buy your own painting?”
“Isn’t that why it’s hanging here? You do sell the art you show, right?”
“Y-yes,” she said hesitantly. “But never to the artist who painted it.”
“That’s irrelevant. You paid for it or it’s commissioned to you to sell at a specific price. How much?”
“It’s very expensive.” She shifted nervously, her earlier excitement replaced with unease. “That’s why it’s been here for almost a year. The owner was adamant not to sell it for a penny less than… than thirty million dollars.”
Crone wasn’t surprised. His landscapes had once commanded astronomical sums… and were the reason he could go off grid and live off the land. But this... this wasn’t art. This was his soul laid bare and his darkness given form. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Who the fuck would pay that much money without feeling what he did while painting it? “The owner being?”
“I’m afraid that information is confidential.”
“I bet, especially since it’s stolen.” Ice crept into his voice as his eyes narrowed. The painting had never left the workshop loft of his winery in Santa Monica, or at least, it shouldn’t have. Since the farm was still his and a working winery, it was supposed to be there. He could remember the day he’d covered it and turned his back on it, unable to face the demons he had trapped within its frame.
“I… what do you mean?”
“I never sold that painting. It’s supposed to be in my workshop where I left it years ago.” His smile was arctic and completely devoid of warmth. “Have it wrapped up. I’ll cover your holding fee but I’m not paying for a stolen piece of art.” He held her gaze stoically. “You’re welcome to direct the ‘owner’ to contact me for compensation… whoever it is.”
“But I… how do I know you didn’t…” Her voice trailed off as his expression darkened.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes, but I also know you disappeared seven years ago. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
With deliberate slowness, Crone retrieved his wallet and extracted a business card. The irony of still carrying them wasn’t lost on him. “This has my contact details. I have a suspicion who the person claiming to be the ‘owner’ of my painting is. They can get hold of me on that number.” He walked to the door. “This painting has never been for sale. It never will be.” He pushed open the door. “I’m bringing my truck to the back. Have it wrapped and ready.”
The finality in his tone left no room for argument. As he stepped outside, he could still feel the painting calling to him… a piece of his soul trying to find its way home.
Chapter Three
The Double L Ranch... A twenty-minute drive from Porter’s Corner
Crone
The crunch of gravel under his truck’s tires echoed the familiar rhythm of coming home as Crone guided the vehicle down the winding driveway. The late afternoon sun painted the rolling meadows in swathes of golden light, while a red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead. “There’s nothing like the sound of nature,” he murmured as he opened the window to listen to its shrill squeal carrying across the valley. In front of him the large ranch house with its wrap-around porch emerged like an inviting mirage.
“I never get tired of the beauty of this part of Montana.” Crone’s gaze drifted over the mountains in the distance. Like every time he visited his best friend, Jason Jaeger, peace enveloped him. A peace that his secluded beach house in Costa Rica could never quite match. The vastness of the landscape before him mirrored the emptiness he had cultivated within himself. That black hole, a void he carefully maintained to keep the memories at bay.
“Perhaps it’s time I reconsidered my life’s choices.”
The words hung in the air as he parked the truck. Costa Rica had served its purpose. It was a shelter when he needed to piece himself back together after the psychiatrist’s probing questions became too much to bear. But isolation, initially a balm, had slowly morphed into a prison of his own making. He’d withdrawn so completely that some days he barely recognized himself in the mirror. The man staring back at him had become more ghost than human. His interactions with the world had dwindled to brief exchanges with locals at the market and occasional satellite calls with his son, since his mother, Denise Beckman, who was an investigative reporter, carted him all over the world with her. But Carter deserved more—not a father who had locked away his heart behind walls of silence and distance. He needed a man who was prepared to fight for his rights as a parent.
The heavy soles of his boots echoed against the ground as he stepped out of the truck. He looked up as a pair of meadowlarks trilled from a nearby fence post. Their sweet song was a stark contrast to the darkness of his thoughts. The older he got, the deeper the sense of separation became. Lately, he yearned to be the man who laughed easily and who could sleep through the night without waking in cold sweats. God knew, one who didn’t flinch at sudden movements or search every room for exits.
He was slowly turning into a full-on hermit, and the realization struck him with unexpected force. It was time to rejoin civilization. Perhaps, if fate was kind, he might even find someone who could love him. A woman who could look past the scars, both emotional and physical, and see the man struggling to emerge from the shadows of his past.
As he headed toward the front door, each step somehow felt lighter than the last. Before he could reach the steps, the door flew open, and two small whirlwinds burst forth, followed by their parents—the massive frame of their father and thepetite figure of their mother. Or rather their very rounded, very pregnant mother.
Jagger and Moira. His throat tightened at the sight of them, two of the precious few he still called friends—friends who’d refused to allow him to completely wallow away. His gaze met Jagger’s, and the familiar surge of gratitude and brotherhood washed over him. This man had defied direct orders to abandon the search for Colonel Crone Lange and had returned to service solely to lead the team that pulled him from that hellhole after two years of torment. Crone knew with bone-deep certainty that without Jagger’s stubborn determination, he wouldn’t be standing here today. The truth of it was written in the scars that mapped his body. If they had arrived two weeks later, there would have been nothing left to save.
