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Sam broke the kiss. “The better question is why I did that.”
Chest heaving, he slid his thumb across her kiss-swollen bottom lip then turned and strode out of the restaurant.
Chapter Five
Howling gusts molded last night's six-inch snowfall into mini-mountains outside Josie's studio window. She exhaled a deep breath onto the cold glass and drew a quick profile into the resulting fog. A proud, straight nose. A square jar set in a stubborn line. A scar slashed across a high cheekbone. Her subconscious had pushed the same face onto every canvas since she'd arrived in Dry Creek.
Forty-two days of nothing but painting with minimal stops for sleeping or eating should have been heaven. Instead, the forced solitude felt more like hell. She'd alternated between fits of frantic creativity, attacking the canvas with bright hues of yellow and orange, to days of boiling frustration as the blank square taunted her.
In normal circumstances she would have gone for a run or escaped into a dark movie theater. Great ideas always seemed to come during such downtime. But her days hadn't been normal since Snips lied about her brother's debt and she had to go into pseudo-seclusion. So she prowled her isolated cabin like a chained dog, discontent choking off her inspiration.
Cy called to check in several times, ending every conversation with a warning to stay to herself. Like that would be a problem. Winter was the quiet season at the Rose O'Neill Dry Creek Artist Colony. Twenty artists had lived in the individual studio cabins on the south edge of Dry Creek when she'd arrived. Now, only herself and owner Celestine Arthur remained—oh, and her stubborn imagination's version of Sam Layton. His hazel eyes stared at her from the dozens of abandoned canvases scattered around the room.
“Get out of my head, you bastard.” Josie swiped his profile off the glass with the palm of her hand, the window's cold icing her palm.
“You need to find yourself a boy toy.”
Josie started and spun around.
Celestine slammed the cabin's front door closed behind her. Clumps of snow dropped from her boots as the woman stomped on the rug. “I'd alway meant to tell Bruce the cabins needed small porches but damn, I'd take one look at him shirtless and sweaty, whacking away with that big ol’ hammer of his, and forget what in the hell I'd meant to tell him. Worst carpenter and best nude model I ever had here.”
The older woman's angular, liver-spotted face softened for a moment. The corners of her chapped lips curled ever so slightly upward. Then she blinked. The softness melted away into her normal hard look that made you wonder if she ate nails or prunes for breakfast. In a movie, her crusty exterior would have hidden a heart of gold. But after a month and a half of chipping away at Celestine's hard exterior, Josie had only revealed more crust.
“Sure, come on in.” Josie softened the words with a smile, glad for the company. It wasn't as if she'd been all soft and gushy herself lately. Maybe that's why they got along so well.
“Oh, we've gotten past the knocking stage, didn't you know?” Celestine picked up a half-finished painting from where it leaned against the wall. “I see you've painted Sam Layton again. That mother of his is a real piece of work. I wouldn't go near any of her boys if I was you.”
Mile-deep frown lines creased her forehead as she gave Josie a long head-to-toe perusal.
“There are plenty of strapping men in Dry Creek. You swing that high butt of yours at them at Robidoux's Roadhouse, they'll come swarming and you'll have your pick of any non-Layton in the county.”
Josie kept her mouth shut. It wasn't the first time they'd had this particular conversation. Odds were it wouldn't be the last because she had no intention of following the older woman's advice. The last thing in the world she needed was a man between her legs. Just the memory of the disastrous night with Sam in Vegas made her palms clammy and her cheeks flush with embarrassment and regret. The mere idea of repeating the experience held no appeal.
Celestine poked through Josie's work, something she did every day, mumbling under her breath and leaving small puddles of melted snow on the floor as she walked. She stood silent for several minutes with her head cocked to the left in front of Josie's latest attempt. Vivid reds and yellows swirled together, blending into thick orange flames as a man, who looked suspiciously like the world's hottest history professor, gazed out at the horizon.
“You've got talent,” Celestine grumbled as she turned to face Josie. “Just need to get that man out of your head. Best way to do that is to get a new one in your bed.”
The woman was like a dog with a pork chop with this particular topic. “I have enough going on in my life without any new complications.”
“It's only complicated if you make it. You need to unscrew the pressure valve if you want to actually finish one of these. I'm old and pissed off most of the time, but even I like to get out and have some fun once in a while. You should try it.”
Josie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but your version of fun is putting people on edge wondering what's going to come out of your mouth next.”
This time Celestine's smile deepened to show a dimple in her left cheek. “True, but before the arthritis made my knees ache, I loved to dance. You ever two-stepped?”
“I don't even know what that is.”
“Well, then I suggest you get yourself down to Robidoux’s Roadhouse and find out.” Celestine clomped over to the front door, shoved a hand deep inside a pocket and pulled out a set of keys that she deposited on the window ledge. “Take my truck. The tires on your bucket of bolts are for crap and I don't want to have to come tow you out of the ditch at three in the morning.”
With that, she disappeared out the door.
Josie eyeballed the set of keys and shook her head ruefully. Maybe Celestine had a heart after all.
She stepped toward the window, but her body protested with bone-deep aches and a twitching shoulder muscle. She surrendered to the inevitable, pivoted and made her way down the short hall to her bedroom, fully planning to pass out without changing. Her eyes were narrow slits when she flopped down on the bed, landing on top of a hard lump. Josie slid her hand beneath her body, grasped the offending object, then yanked out Rebecca's diary.
Rebecca had become her three o'clock in the morning companion, distracting her from thoughts about her one night with Sam. At first she'd cracked open the leather binding expecting to be bored into slumber. Instead, the diary sucked Josie in. That poor woman. Josie thought she'd had it bad, but at least she wasn't stuck crossing the country in a covered wagon.
Rebecca had started her journey full of hope and excitement. She and her twenty-year-old spinster aunt had snuck out of her parents’ home on a moonless night, determined to travel to Oregon where her true love waited for her. She'd made it as far as Dry Creek when she'd learned her John had died. That had been a three-tissue entry for sure.
