Page 25 of Christmas with the Cowgirl
That wasn’t the only idea that had struck him over this weekend.He supposed he’d had to let go of the idea of resurrectingStonewallbefore he could let in anything new.But the Highwater story was just the first that started that side of his brain working.That creative, visionary side Jackson called it.
The side that had him pacing his great room now, because he didn’t want to stop moving for fear he’d lose this stream of energy.He thought of the people he’d met this weekend including, very unexpectedly, the woman who had created the online marketplace that was the hottest thing in Hollywood at the moment.The World In a Gift, a name that was familiar even to him.
And that woman was now married to Keller Rafferty, the man who had taken in the orphaned cousin she had never known existed.That alone would make a heck of a story on screen.
He chuckled out loud, thinking that the story of Last Stand itself would make a great movie.Even more outnumbered than those at the Alamo, fighting to hold a saloon, not a mission, and surviving to tell the tale.
He was letting the images spin out in his head when his food delivery arrived.He grimaced, realizing he should have been thinking about what he might need to take with him instead of letting all those potential stories seize him.
You just didn’t want to think about Riley.
The words shot through his mind as he opened the door, and he was thankfully distracted by that before the idea could take hold.
Less than half an hour later he was in his car and headed west.It was only twenty-five miles as the seagull flies to his place on the beach, but given this was L.A.the driving distance was much farther.He decided to forego the canyon drives and head straight down to SR1 now, and take the longer but more pleasant drive along the coast.
What he hadn’t thought was that the extra—and easier—drive, without the steep sides and constant curves of Topanga Canyon, left his brain too much freedom to wander.And it kept wanting to go back to Last Stand.
When he finally pulled into the single-car garage his beach shack—he’d decided he was going to call it that from now on—provided, and closed the door behind him, he let out a long, relieved breath he didn’t quite understand.Was it the jet lag—which should be nothing, given the mere two-hour time difference—or simply that feeling of escape once he was out of L.A.proper?
He lugged what he’d brought inside.The garage opened into the kitchen, so he got the groceries put away first, then got his laptop out of its case and set it on the counter.He stretched, gratefully, and felt himself finally beginning to relax.And not for the first time considered just working from here, permanently.The problem was, this place wasn’t nearly fancy enough to impress some of the people he had to deal with.Swiffer, for example, had merely asked when he was going to tear down this dump and build something fit for human habitation.
He’d resisted saying that if it was fit for humans, it would mean Swiffer couldn’t visit at all.Barely.
He poured himself a small glass of his favorite Knobel whiskey, picked up the laptop, walked into the living room, and nearly collapsed on the couch.The moment he had done that, he thought he should have turned on the gas fireplace, because it was chilly enough.But he really didn’t want to get up again.
In the process of that thought he’d looked at that fireplace…which sent his gaze inevitably to the painting that hung above it.
He couldn’t describe the strange feeling that went through him as he looked at the springtime rendering of the scene, of that place he’d now actually been.He’d stood right where the artist had stood, taking in the bench-like boulder on the left, and the rolling expanse of hills beyond it.Even covered here as they were in that glorious carpet of bluebonnets, they were recognizable.The solitary oak tree still stood to the right side, and in the distance he now knew that that little glint of light was a reflection off the Pedernales River.
The painting had always spoken to him.Had always caused a kind of longing he’d never really understood and had written off to some vague desire for more space than he had here.Why, he didn’t know, but the feeling was there.He’d gotten to wondering what living that kind of life would be like.Wondering how ranch life had adapted over the years.Wondering if it would survive indefinitely.
Capture it now.
Those were the words that had hit him the day the idea of a show that did just that appeared in his mind, fully formed, as if some part of his brain had been working on it for a long time.That part Jackson talked about, only half joking.
But this time, looking at the vista he’d now seen in reality, the longing escalated until it felt like more than just a sort of wistfulness.He thought he could have stood that, but his mind kept adding the image of Riley sitting there in her favorite spot.And that intensified it all into an ache he could actually physically feel.
He was, he thought, losing his mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Riley had neverbeen more grateful for Ace Whitney than she was at the moment.With the end of the year bearing down on her, and all the ranch bookkeeping to do, the accounting for that other part of her life would be overwhelming.When she’d handed that part over to him, the rather crusty old man had gotten a gleam in his eye she hadn’t seen since before his wife had died several years ago.
“The decisions are yours, Mr.Whitney.I won’t be hovering.My father says I can trust you implicitly, and that there’s no one better in the state of Texas to entrust with this.”
“Well, now,” the financial wizard had drawled, “if ol’ Rocket said that, I reckon I’d best live up to it.”
She’d smiled widely at him then, thinking she’d gotten a glimpse of the infamous Last Stand baseball duo of Ace and Rocket.Ace, the incredible pitcher, and Rocket, the impossible hitter who consistently rocketed balls out of the school stadium, the duo that had led Creekbend High School to the state championship three years in a row, back in the day, as her father put it.
And the Ace had proven himself just as accurate with investments as he had been with a baseball.She had no qualms about leaving it all in his hands, doing nothing more herself than looking at the statements he sent her regularly.Which, right now, was a very good thing.Because she couldn’t remember ever having a harder time focusing on numbers and statistics and balances and columns on a spreadsheet.
Besides, she’d just as soon ignore the whole thing.It was a bit embarrassing, and she didn’t like to dwell on it, even if the numbers Ace sent her made the future pretty bright.Well, on that front, anyway.
She pulled her mind back to the present, to face some current issues.Such as that she’d be fine on all fronts, if she could just quit thinking about a certain guest at Jeremy Thorpe’s birthday party last week.She’d tried to chalk it up to him just being a stranger she was curious about, but also one who could likely be trusted because of his friendship with Jackson.And she couldn’t deny his clearly genuine caring for Jeremy—and his support for Jackson’s decision, which had cost him dearly—had registered with her.
And didn’t it just figure that the first guy who captured that much of her attention in years was some Hollywood bigwig?
Could have been worse.Could have been Swiffer.
