CHAPTER EIGHT
Brett swung his ax high, then brought it down hard on the chopping block. The wooden log split into two, falling onto the snow-covered ground. For the last three hours, he’d been on the ranch with Thomas, catching up on the jobs he hadn’t done two days ago.
He still regretted what had happened on Monday night. Kissing Hannah was the last thing he should have done. She’d already told him she didn’t have time for anything other than work but had he listened? No. So at two o’clock yesterday morning, he’d decided the best thing he could do was stay out of her way. Once she’d finished cataloging Pat and Ida’s art collection, she’d go home, bury herself in work, and forget about him.
But keeping away from her had been harder than he thought. Now that Christmas was only a few days away, Mrs. Bennett insisted on everyone having breakfast and dinner together. He’d caught himself staring at Hannah, remembering how right she’d felt pressed against his body. She’d smelled like honey-baked apples and tasted sweeter than Mrs. Bennett’s chocolate fudge brownies.
He split another three logs before stacking the wood in the wheelbarrow. Pat had been right. He had a lot in common with Hannah, but those same things would drive them apart. Neither of them had come from stable homes. They’d relied on strangers to give them something resembling a normal life. Nothing short of a miracle would ever make them ready for a relationship, especially with each other.
“Hey, boss.”
He looked up to see Thomas leaning out of the barn’s second-floor window.
“A truck’s coming up the driveway. Was someone coming to see Mr. McConachie?”
“If they were, Pat’s forgotten. He left for Bozeman an hour ago. Where’s Dave?”
“He hasn’t come back from checking the fences. Do you want me to call him?”
“No, don’t do that. I’ll see who’s here first.” Thanks to Dave’s father, they’d all been careful when answering the phone and making sure no unexpected visitors came to the ranch. It turned out that Dave’s dad was in debt for a lot more than three hundred dollars. And he owed the most money to a well-known group of criminals. Any of them could come out here to find Dave.
Brett pulled his hat low and walked toward Pat’s home. Whoever was driving, wasn’t wasting any time. Snow arched liked a waterfall behind the truck’s tires. Driving like a lunatic wasn’t an intelligent thing to do at the best of times, let alone in the middle of winter.
By the time he’d made it across to the house, the truck had stopped and a pair of jean-clad legs climbed out of the cab.
He’d recognize the blond-haired woman anywhere. “Claire? I thought you were in San Diego.”
“I came home early. Is Hannah here?”
“She’s probably inside.”
Claire took an envelope off the dashboard. “Can I see her?”
“Sure. I’ll show you where she’s been working.”
“I can’t believe how cold it is compared to San Diego. I was terrified our plane wouldn’t land safely.”
Brett opened the front door. “You didn’t have to worry. The pilots have flown in worse weather than this.” He stood in the hallway, listening for the sound of fingers tapping against a keyboard. The kitchen and the living room were silent. “She could be in the dining room.”
“I thought she might have finished the catalog by now.”
“So did I.” Hannah wasn’t in the dining room, either. “We’ll go upstairs. She’ll either be in her studio or in the attic.”
“How many paintings do the McConachies own?”
“Enough to fill a gallery.” Brett stopped on the landing. Hannah wasn’t sitting at her desk, so he walked to the attic staircase.
Claire hadn’t moved.
“Are you okay?”
She pointed to a small painting. “Is this what I think it is?”
“I guess it depends on what you think it is.”
“If I’m reading the signature correctly, it’s a painting by Winslow Homer.”
Brett nodded, but Claire didn’t notice. She wore the same expression that Hannah did each time she looked at some of the paintings. It was half-way between awe and shock, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
