Page 11 of Claim Me, Colt

When she pulls back, she's smiling again. "Where should I set up?"

I grin back at her. "Wherever you want."

She chooses the back porch, arranging the easel so it faces the forest. I bring her coffee and then leave her alone, instinctively understanding that this is something she needs to do without an audience.

I spend the morning splitting wood, but I can't help glancing over at her every few minutes. She's completely absorbed in her work, brush moving with confident strokes across the canvas.Her whole body language has changed—shoulders relaxed, face peaceful in a way I haven't seen before.

She looks like herself. Finally.

Around noon, she steps back from the easel and calls my name.

"Colt? Can you come look at this?"

I set down the axe and walk over, curious. What I see takes my breath away.

She's captured the forest in perfect detail—every shade of green, every play of light and shadow through the leaves. But more than that, she's captured the feeling of this place. The peace. The wildness. The sense of being completely alone in the world.

"It's incredible," I say, and mean it.

She ducks her head, suddenly shy. "I'm out of practice."

"It's perfect."

She looks up at me then, and I see tears in her eyes.

"I forgot how much I loved this," she whispers. "How much I missed it."

I pull her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her. "Then don't stop," I murmur against her hair.

"I won't," she says fiercely.

And holding her there on the porch, surrounded by the scent of pine and paint and possibility, I make a silent promise to myself.

Whatever it takes, I'm going to make sure she never has to stop being herself again.

That afternoon, while she works on a second painting, I walk down to check on her car. It’s totaled—engine flooded, front axle bent beyond repair. It's not going anywhere without a tow truck and a lot of money.

When I get back to the cabin, she's cleaning brushes in the kitchen sink, humming that same tune from this morning.

"Car's done for," I tell her.

She pauses, brush halfway to the water. For a second, I see panic flicker across her face—the reality of her situation hitting home.

Then she squares her shoulders and nods.

"Okay. I'll figure something out."

"You could stay."

The words are out before I can stop them. She turns to face me, eyes wide.

"Stay?"

"Here. With me. As long as you want."

She sets down the brush, studying my face like she's trying to read my mind.

"You don't even know me," she says softly.

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