Page 31

I take a moment to look up from where Scout is joyfully painting another masterpiece on an easel, using only his hands to get as much paint as possible on the paper. I’d have insisted on brushes for the sake of keeping things a little neater, but in his rush to get out the door, Luke didn’t explain where he kept the art supplies, and Scout only knew enough to point me to a shed in the backyard that contained mostly gardening and farm tools.

The easel was already set up on the patio, so I used some old newspapers from a pile next to the chicken coop to line the patio so we wouldn’t drip on it, and I found an old, ratty work shirt hanging on a peg in the horse barn and used it as a smock to keep Scout’s clothes clean.

While he carefully uses blue paint to cover half the paper in “night sky color,” I wander around the patio taking in the views from here. In one direction, a small food garden has hand-painted signs indicating where tomatoes and peppers are growing, if I couldn’t tell by the plump vegetables that burst from among the leaves.

Out beyond that, a grazing pasture has several horses, one of them spotted brown and white, which I decide is my favorite. “What’s that horse’s name, the spotted one?” I ask.

Scout looks up and squints in the direction I’m pointing. “That’s Cotton. I named her.”

“Why Cotton?”

“Because her spots look like cotton balls.” He rolls his eyes like the explanation shouldn’t be necessary.

“Do you have a favorite horse?”

“Of course.” I’m spared the eye roll, but only because Scout returns his gaze to his painting. He talks while his small hands smear white into the night sky like clouds. “I have a favorite everything. Cow, pony. Ponies are different from horses, you know.”

“I’ve heard that. They’re smaller, right?”

Scout points a finger at me in the same way his dad did earlier. “That’s not the only difference. Ponies usually have thicker coats, so they need to be brushed more. I’m good at brushing them.”

“Which pony is your favorite?”

“Emerald.” He doesn’t elaborate, seeming focused on the painting. I come around to study it with him.

“What do you think it needs?” I ask, rolling the sleeves of the work shirt up a couple of inches to keep them from dangling into the paint, but it’s useless. I hope this old shirt was meant to be a future rag because I have no idea if this paint can be washed out.

“Animals. And a sunset.” He dips his hands into green paint and gives the animals a pasture beneath the sky. “This one will be for Daddy because he always misses the sunset.”

“Misses it how?” I stare across the vast swath of land behind the house to where the sun sank perfectly over the horizon an hour ago.

Scout paints a round blob on the paper and smears it around. “He has a lot of work ’mergencies. I get a lot of babysitters.” He says it like a fact, not a complaint, but it makes me a little sad.

While he paints, I continue poking around, looking for evidence of what Luke is like, outside of the gruff, stern aura he projects into the world.

I’m dying to snoop around inside the house, not because I’m hoping to find wedding pictures or something. I want to find a bookshelf that shows what kinds of books Luke reads and what he’s into outside of being a rancher and a dad. I want to spy some odd collection of snow globes or plush otter toys that will give me some insight into who he is.

So for now, I settle for what I can see out here, which isn’t much. There are a few potted plants, succulents mostly, in various antique watering cans, ironic since succulents don’t need much water. Does this mean the growly rancher actually has a sense of humor somewhere?

The patio has a large picnic table with benches on either side, fit for a crowd. It’s too soon to pepper Scout with questions about his dad, especially since it was clear to Luke how nervous he was to leave Scout alone with me.

Well, it seems like this kid is doing just fine.

“Callie!” Scout bounces on his toes, and I come over to admire his finished painting.

“Oh, wow. That’s amazing. I love how you painted the animals.” Each one is a blob of different colored paint, but he’s carefully placed eyes and a big smile on each one. The artwork fills me with a kind of joy I didn’t know I was missing.

“What the hell?” There’s no question about the source of that grouchy tone. I turn to find Luke staring at the two of us in disbelief, shaking his head. Scout runs over to him, and I leap up, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him onto my hip. I finish the move by swinging him in a circle, which has him giggling and seemingly distracted from what he was about to do—cover his dad in paint.

Unfortunately, that ninja move doesn’t earn me any congratulations or thanks.

“What the hell happened here?” Luke growls.

“Daddy. Swear jar times two.” As Scout wriggles in my arms, he gets paint all over my clothes, but they’re a mess anyway. I can’t help liking this kid. He’s exactly the kind of messy, enthusiastic little being I picture myself having someday—all energy, all good intentions, big feelings.

Luke grunts out a sigh and shakes his head. “Where’d you get my work shirt?” he asks. “And if Callie lets go, will you please go and wash off?”

“I’ll take care of that,” I say, carrying Scout over to an outdoor sink near the garden. I put him down, and he stomps onto a small step ladder and waits while I turn on the sink. I push the shirt sleeves higher to keep them dry and squirt soap from a dispenser onto Scout’s hands. We lather them up together, making a new blue mess of soap and paint. I manage to coax most of it down beneath the water spout and down the drain, but then realize Scout has paint on his shoes and in his hair.