Page 89 of Captivated

Trust.

Zeeb stood on the other side of Sorrel, running his hand over the horse’s smooth flank. “In case I forget to tell you, what you just did in there? That took courage. But what I’d love to know is what brought you to it. What changed?”

Nate put the brush down. “I figured if I had the guts to drive eight or nine hours to confront a pair of strangers to tell them what I thought of them, then breakfast with a bunch of cowboys was nothing to be scared of.” He wiped his damp brow. “Is it me, or is it hot in here?”

Zeeb snickered. “Today’s gonna be a scorcher. You might wanna reconsidernotvisitin’ the lake. I reckon it’ll be the only way we’ll get through the day.”

Nate scraped his fingers through his hair. “You might be right. I could take my painting and work on that. At least there’s shade up there under the trees.”

Zeeb grinned. “And besides, I wanna get my own back for that dunkin’ you gave me last time.”

Nate chuckled. “Okay, you’ve sold me. Let me go back to the cabin and collect my gear, and then we can go.” He grinned. “Not forgetting a towel, of course.”

“I’ll raid the kitchen for munchies and apples.” Zeeb glanced at Paul. “We’re gonna take Bailey an’ Sorrel out.”

Paul nodded. “I’ll get them ready for you.”

Zeeb tipped his hat at Paul, then left the stable.

As he walked toward the bunkhouse, he thought about Sol’s advice.

If Nate doesn’t wanna talk, that’s fine. Sure, hesaidhe wanted to, but a man’s allowed to change his mind, isn’t he?

Except Zeeb knew better.

There’s no stoppin’ this train, not now.

Nate paused for a moment to inhale the scent of pine.

“This was a good idea.” It was cool under the trees, but the lake kept throwing out invitations for him to submerge his body in cold water, and Nate knew he’d succumb eventually.

Zeeb joined Nate on his boulder, still clutching his Kindle, and leaned over to peer at his sketchpad. “That’s beautiful.”

Nate flushed. “Thanks, but it isn’t finished yet.” He peered at the Kindle. “No drawing today?”

Zeeb huffed. “I don’t think I’m in the right frame of mind for it.”

He sighed. “That happens sometimes.”

“You said you do illustrations? What kinda things do you do?”

He put his paintbrush down. “Usually whatever I’m asked. I can turn my hand to most subjects—landscape, figures, you name it.”

“I bet you were the best in your class at school.”

His face grew tight. “I didn’t study it at school. Then again, it wasn’t an ordinary school, and art was frowned upon.” It wasn’t seen as a manly pursuit. Instead, Nate was pushed into sports.

He hated them with a passion.

He washed his brush in the glass jar filled with water from the lake. Then he realized Zeeb had lapsed into silence.

Nate gave him an inquiring glance. Zeeb was staring out at the lake, his brow furrowed, his Kindle forgotten.

It didn’t take a genius to know where Zeeb’s head was at.

“It’s okay,” Nate said in a low voice. Zeeb turned to look at him, and Nate smiled. “Ask your questions. The ones that have been piling up ever since last night.”

Zeeb remained quiet, but that was okay too. He had a way of making silence feel safe.

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