Take Me Home (4 page)

“You’re right, but unfortunately, the law doesn’t offer animals anywhere near the protection it should.” He ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration before a smile made the corners of his eyes crease. “It’s nice to meet someone who cares so much.”

Something about that smile touched off the tug of attraction she’d felt the day before. He seemed so comfortably uncomplicated, in his plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose the
muscles of a man who routinely handled large, uncooperative animals.

She felt a yearning to run her fingers over the contours of his forearms and brush back the forelock that once again fell over his right eyebrow. Maybe it was just that he was the antithesis of Milo’s smooth sophistication and effete slimness.

She firmly clasped her hands behind her and turned toward the Boggs landscape. “Do you enjoy Len Boggs’s work? This is one of his new paintings.”

“Actually, I’m partial to pictures of horses. I heard you have a Julia Castillo painting here, and I’ve been meaning to come by and take a look at it.”

Surprise flicked at Claire. The man’s speech was pure West Virginian until he spoke the artist’s name, and then his pronunciation turned classically Spanish. Add to that the fact he knew Julia Castillo painted horses. She reminded herself that he had been married to a prominent stage actress; he must have rubbed shoulders with some of the artistic set.

“You’re more than welcome to see it,” she said, “but it isn’t for sale.”

“And here I thought this was an art gallery, not a museum.” Tim’s gaze swept the paintings spotlighted on the white walls of the gallery.

“The painting belongs to me,” Claire said, “but I feel such a beautiful piece of art should be shared. You may not be aware of this, but Ms. Castillo has not produced any new work for well over a year. Therefore, we have none to sell.”

And it was the only painting her ex had left her with in the divorce settlement, so she treasured it beyond its artistic merit.

Claire doubted Dr. Tim could afford a Castillo anyway. Since there was no new supply of paintings, the value of the existing ones had skyrocketed, another reason she kept hers at the gallery.
Davis had recently upgraded the security and fire prevention systems, so she didn’t have to worry about theft or damage.

“The painting is this way,” Claire said, starting toward the back of the gallery, where a windowless room with extra alarms held the most valuable inventory.

As Tim followed her down the hallway, she actually felt the floorboards vibrate as his feet hit the old oak planks. Never before had she been so aware of a man’s presence through nothing more than his footsteps.

She glanced at her companion and caught him doing the same to her.

“So Sharon said you’re from up north.”

“Actually, I grew up about ten miles south of Sanctuary,” she said.

“From your lack of accent, I’d say you’d moved away for some time, then,” Tim said.

“You’d be correct.” Refusing to be drawn into a discussion of her time in New York, she reached the door to the “Castillo room” and punched in the alarm code. “Are you a collector?”

“I like pictures of horses. I have a couple by Larry Wheeler, a very minor George Stubbs, as well as a few of Lionel Edwards’s humorous drawings. I’ve never been a fan of Munnings, but I have one nice pencil sketch by Degas. I’ve always wanted to own a Castillo, though.”

Claire kept her jaw from dropping, but she knew her eyes had gone wide. He had just punctured her unconsciously judgmental balloon with his list of well-known equine artists. He’d done it on purpose too, just as her ex-husband had in their fateful first meeting six years ago. Except Tim wasn’t trying to snow her with his knowledge. With a mental shake, she gathered up her professional persona. “Perhaps I can help you. I have contacts with other collectors.”

She swung the door open and gestured for the vet to precede her into the room, but he didn’t move.

“After you, ma’am.”

It still surprised her when the scruffiest of rednecks would hold a door for her or offer her a seat at the bar. She had been too young to receive such courtesies when she’d bolted from her home in the middle of nowhere right after high school. Yet Dr. Tim’s courtly manners were just exaggerated enough to be touched with irony. He had caught her out in her inadvertent snobbery.

All irony dropped from him when he caught sight of the work of art hung in the place of honor. It was a large canvas with a group of five horses standing together in the middle of a landscape of meadow, mountains, and sky. The vibrant colors were both softened and heightened by the slight haze of a low-slanting, late-day sun.

His eyes narrowed into a look of intense concentration, and she heard the intake of breath as the full impact of Castillo’s genius hit him. He took a few steps toward the painting, as though drawn by a magnetic force, then stood still.

Claire loved to watch people react to art. She could learn so much about them. This man understood what he was looking at. She could see it in his stance, at once respectful and attentive. She could tell by the way his mouth turned up in a smile of pure delight.

Finally, he let out a low whistle of appreciation and turned back to her. “This is one of her best.”

Claire almost purred with gratification. “Thank you. I think so too.”

“You can see the distinct personality of every horse in the herd,” he said, gesturing toward the picture. “You can almost hear them talking to each other. And the light is extraordinary.”

Claire nodded as pleasure at
his
pleasure washed through her.

“May I ask how you came to own it?”

“Pure luck,” she said. “The artist’s uncle Carlos Castillo brought four paintings to the gallery in New York where I was working. No one in the city art world had heard of Julia Castillo then, and Carlos was trying to expand her market. Luckily, I was the first person he showed the paintings to. I bought three of the paintings for the gallery without even consulting my boss. The fourth—this one—I bought for myself.”

She didn’t mention that her boss at the time was Milo and that he had hated the paintings, telling her they were trite and out of step with the gallery’s vision. Of course, she had thought they shared a vision for the gallery.

She didn’t argue with him, though. Bowing to his opinion, she offered three of the paintings to Henry Thalman and kept this one. Henry had sold all three within a week while his clients clamored for more. Milo accused her of all sorts of ugly things it still made her cringe to remember. In hindsight, that had been the beginning of the end for their marriage.

“You made a smart investment,” Tim said.

Claire had to choke back a wry laugh before she could answer. “Not really. I simply
had
to have this. I knew I would never sell it.”

“Never?” He gave her a slow smile.

She shook her head. “Never. Some things are too precious to let go.”

Tim’s gaze swung around to the painting. She’d seen the same look in the eyes of clients before. He wanted the Castillo for himself. He needed to lose himself in the artist’s vision every day. She braced herself to courteously but firmly turn down whatever offer he was about to make.

“Hmm. Could we discuss it over dinner?” he said.

“Excuse me?” The invitation threw her completely off balance.

“Would you have dinner with me so we can talk about the painting?”

“I...er...I’m not sure. I mean, I hadn’t thought about it.” Claire was shocked when her first impulse was to say yes.

“I expect not, since I hadn’t asked you yet.”

“Thank you, but I can’t accept,” she said, pulling herself together. “I have no intention of selling the painting, so there’s no point in discussing it.”

“We can talk about other things.” He was enjoying the fact that he’d flustered her.

“
What
other things?”

“The weather. The price of corn. The hat Mrs. Callison wore to church on Sunday.” Tim gave her a disarming smile. “Why the person who discovered Julia Castillo works at an art gallery in Sanctuary, West Virginia.”

That clinched Claire’s decision. He would ask questions about her life in New York that she would have to find a polite way to avoid answering. “Most definitely not,” she blurted out, then added with an apologetic smile, “I appreciate your invitation, of course.”

“So you disapproved of Mrs. Callison’s hat? Too many sunflowers?”

“Mrs. Callison’s hat had tiger lilies on it, and I liked it. It made a statement.”

“I had to deliver a foal, so I missed church last Sunday and only heard about the hat—from an unreliable source, evidently. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a churchgoer.”

“I sing in the choir.”

His eyebrows rose. Finally, she’d been able to surprise
him
.

In fact, she wasn’t a churchgoer, but Holly had been a stalwart in the choir for years. When she couldn’t muster the strength to sing, she asked Claire to be her stand-in. How could Claire say no?

“A woman of many talents. Are you free Friday night?”

“A man of great persistence,” she echoed.

“I learned young that when you want something, you keep after it. It works nine times out of ten.”

“What is it you want—the painting or the date?”

“It seems to be a nice package deal, so both.”

His eyes glinted with both humor and a challenge. Claire hadn’t had this much fun flirting since...well, since she’d married Milo. Temptation slithered through her brain. Frank was always home on Friday nights, so Holly wouldn’t want her there. She’d be all alone in the converted barn she rented.

“All right, I’m free Friday night, but there will be no false expectations. I’m not going to sell the Castillo to you.”

“I’ll pick you up at six thirty. You’re renting Ms. Hauser’s place, aren’t you?”

“One thing about small towns—no one needs GPS.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Where are we going?”

Since only four restaurants in Sanctuary didn’t serve fast food, she would be familiar with whichever one he named.

“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know if you give me your number.” He pulled out a silver cell phone and typed in the digits she gave him. “No need to show me out.”

She nodded. She wanted to spend a few moments alone with the Castillo anyway. She’d been looking at the man more than at the painting. “Thanks for stopping by to keep me posted about Willow. I’ll see if I can locate another Castillo for sale before Friday.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. As he reached the door, he looked over his shoulder and said, “One other thing I learned young—never say never.”

She waited for the sound and vibration of his footsteps to recede before attempting to engage with the painting. Shoving away thoughts of anything other than Julia Castillo’s brushstrokes, Claire fought her way into the tranquil world of the artist’s vision.

Just as she could almost hear the swish of horsehair and the buzz of lazy bees in the sunshine, the phone shrilled. Claire jumped and let out a startled “Oh!” before crossing the room to pick up the handset from the wall. The caller identification said it was Holly, and Claire’s throat went tight. Her sister never called her on the business phone, only on her cell.

“Holly, are you okay? Are the kids all right?”

“No...I mean, yes, I’m fine, or I’m not hurt or anything. The kids are fine. I just...I just heard...I mean, Frank just...”

“Is Frank okay?” Holly’s voice was so choked with tears that Claire could barely understand her.

“Yes...I mean, no, I hate him, but he’s fine.”

“What?”

“Frank just told me he wants a divorce.”

O
UTSIDE THE GALLERY
, Tim climbed into his pickup truck. His vanity had gotten the better of him during his conversation with Claire. He could tell she thought he was a simple country horse doctor. Which shouldn’t have bothered him, since he worked hard to project something close to that image. But it had, so he’d name-dropped his catalog of artists and invited her out to dinner just to show he was as sophisticated as she was. He shook his head at himself as he put the pickup truck in gear and eased the big vehicle out into what passed for traffic on Washington Street.

Last night, he’d dreamt about Anais for the first time in a month, and he was sure it was because of his encounter with Claire Parker. As he lay awake at two a.m., staring at the shifting shadows on his bedroom ceiling, he decided the only way to put Anais’s specter back to rest was to face Claire again. He would prove to himself she was nothing like his dead wife.

So when he saw an empty parking space right in front of the art gallery, he’d followed up on his middle-of-the-night decision and pulled in.

His resolution had wavered as he stood waiting in the empty gallery. In fact, when he heard Claire’s footsteps behind him, he had taken a deep breath and braced himself before turning.

But this time it had not been Anais standing in front of him.

Today he’d seen a woman with glossy dark hair that fell sleekly to her elbows and a serene oval face lit by deep-brown eyes. Her outfit was straight from the streets of East Side Manhattan, with heavy gold jewelry, an off-white silk blouse, black skirt, and bright-pink shoes with very high heels. All the city fashion didn’t conceal the figure he had noticed yesterday, a figure with a lushness his wife would have considered professionally unacceptable.