Page 16 of Horned to be Wild
“This is a local wine,” she told him, admiring the deep ruby liquid. “I didn’t know what to expect but it’s delicious.”
He gave an amused grunt. “It should be. Satyrs know their grapes. I deliver wood to the owner,” he added.
“Do you deliver wood to everyone in town?”
“Pretty much. My father used to do it, and now I do it.”
“Is your father still in town?” she asked curiously. It was the first time he’d ever mentioned a family.
“Nah. He drank himself to death years ago.” His voice was low and even, but she could hear the pain beneath the words. Before she could respond, he moved on. “What about your parents?”
“They have a house in California, but they’re digital nomads. My mom makes nature documentaries all over the world so they’re hardly ever home.”
“That sounds exciting,” he said, an odd note in his voice.
“I suppose, but I’ve always been more of a homebody. There’s something very satisfying about this.” She waved at the finished porch. “I never thought I’d be any good at home improvement. My ex said my ‘artistic temperament’ wasn’t suited for such practical matters.”
He frowned at her. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I know that now.” She took another sip of wine. “He was like that about my art, too. Called it a ‘cute hobby’ and talked about my ‘little paintings.’ He said I should focus on more ‘realistic career goals’ if I ever wanted to be taken seriously.”
The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “He’d look at my work with this condescending little smile and ask when I was going to ‘grow out of it.’ As if creating art was childish. As if what I loved most didn’t matter.”
Torin’s expression darkened. “He was wrong.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “That’s one of the reasons I came here. So I could focus on my art, and paint without his voice in my head.”
He was silent for so long that she wondered if she’d said too much.
“My father called it whittling,” he said finally, his voice rough, and she gave him a confused look.
“My carvings,” he clarified, staring into his wine glass. “No matter how intricate or detailed, he dismissed it as just whittling. Said no son of his would waste time on such nonsense when there was real work to be done.”
He took a long drink of wine, his massive shoulders hunched.
“And then there was Annette. We dated all through high school, and I thought—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“What happened?” she asked gently.
“She wanted more than this town could offer. More than I could offer,” he said quietly. “The day she left, she told me she wanted more than a small town lumberjack. She looked at the pieces inmy workshop, and told me they were just trinkets. Then she was gone. Off to the city, to a bigger life.”
The pain in his voice made her heart ache. She could see how those wounds had shaped him. His gruff exterior, his isolation, and his reluctance to share his beautiful art—all of it made sense now.
“She was wrong. They both were,” she said fiercely. “You’re an artist, Torin. A real, genuine artist with vision and skill that takes my breath away.”
His gaze shot to hers, startled and uncertain, and she realized with a pang that no one had ever told him that before.
“I mean it,” she said earnestly. “Your carvings are extraordinary. They’re not just whittling, or trinkets. They’re beautiful pieces of art. You bring the wood to life in a way I’ve never seen before.”
He stared at her as if he were searching her face for the truth. She could see the vulnerability in his eyes, the desire to believe her, and she couldn’t stand to see him doubt himself any longer.
“Wait here,” she said, and jumped to her feet. She ran to her studio and pulled out one of the paintings she’d worked on since she arrived, and carried it back to the porch. “I want you to see something.”
She took a deep breath and held the canvas out to him. He stared at it for a long time, then reached out to take it, gently cradling the delicate canvas.
“This is one of the first pieces I did here,” she said quietly. “It’s how I see you.”
She had captured him in motion, his shirt clinging to his powerful muscles, the sun shining on his horns, one of his raresmiles tugging at his lips. Behind him, the forest was a blur of color and light, and the entire painting was a celebration of strength and movement and life.
