Her Heart's Desire (Sunflower Series Book 1) (13 page)

If she did seduce him, where would things go
from there? A one-night stand wasn’t in character for either of
them. If they ever did make love, then what?

“How about humoring me?” Lucas said dryly.
“Call me when you get there. I like knowing you’re safe.”

Lia shook her head. “I’m a big girl now. I
appreciate your concern, but even Craig doesn’t insist I check in
with him when I travel.” She paused, a daring urge hitting her. “Or
do you want to come spend the night with me?”

Lucas glared. Had he growled? Was it a
frustrated groan? She couldn’t be sure, but what did that mean
regarding the
big brother
responsibilities Craig had foisted
on him?

“Call me, or”—Lucas pointed a finger—“I’ll.
Call. You.” He rolled up the window and pulled away.

Had he actually given her an order?

Lia drove through Harvest. She waved at Helen
who stood in the window at the café. She beeped the horn at Zoë as
she passed the post office, and Gentleman Jack barked his greeting.
Without hitting a single red light in Harvest, she made it all the
way through Atchison, and then she left Kansas behind via the tall
metal bridge spanning the Missouri River and linking two states
together. When she finally hit the interstate, her confidence about
the future anchored solidly in her heart as strong as steel-tough
chert found in the Flint Hills.

Interstate traffic moved steadily. Ahead, a
flashing sign advising drivers to prepare to stop due to
construction caught Lia’s attention. She pulled off I-29 and into a
truck stop. They’d been on the road for only two hours, but there
was no reason to die of thirst. Sitting in traffic would make her
antsy. Jack, too. A pit stop would do them good.

White lines marked parking spaces with fronts
of the cars pointing toward a building. She parked in the section
for tractor-trailers, pulling between two, and grabbed her wallet
before leashing Gentleman Jack, taking him to a grassy pet walk
area directly on the far side of the parking lot.

Forty-five minutes later, after paying for a
bottle of water and a bag of chips, Lia pulled back on the
highway.

“Jack,” Lia said when the dog bumped her
shoulder. “I gave you water and a cookie. This is my drink and the
chips are my treat. Lie back down.”

Unless traffic on the bridge crossing into
Kansas City had been reduced to one lane, she’d make it to her
one-thirty appointment.

At the construction zone, traffic narrowed to
one lane on the approach to the bridge crossing the Missouri River,
moving slowly, but steadily. She checked her watch. Shifting in her
seat a moment later, she checked her watch again. Her fingers
gripped the steering wheel. Even at the turtle’s pace, she’d make
it on time, but only if there were no other delays.

When she rounded a long sweeping curve,
Kansas City rose on the hill before them.

“Gentleman Jack, look! I’m sure this was Oz
in the movie with Dorothy and Toto.”

Jack braced his paws on the armrest and
barked excitedly. Lia lowered the windows to capture breezes as she
navigated city traffic. When she finally reached the tree-lined
streets of Brookside, she pulled into the art gallery’s parking lot
at the rear of the building. Excitement vibrated, tingling all the
way to her toes. She hopped out of the truck and ran the few steps
to the gallery’s back door. The buzzer sounded. A moment later, a
heavy steel door opened.

Janice Keller, one of the gallery owners,
appeared. “Lia! Welcome! I can’t wait to see the pieces.” She
rubbed her hands together in apparent anticipation.

“Ms. Keller, I am very honored that you’ve
decided to give me a show.”

“Call me Jan. It’s only two weeks away. We
sent out postcards made from the images you sent us. They looked
professional and the work so refined. Let’s get these paintings
unloaded. Paul will be in after lunch to start hanging the art in
our new wing. It’s so exciting to share new talent.”

Lia walked beside Jan toward the back of the
trailer. Gentleman Jack barked excitedly as they passed the truck
cab.

“I see you brought your own fan club.” Jan
chuckled, reaching through the open window to pet Jack. “I’m
thrilled, too. Talent like yours doesn’t come along every day.”

“I think the paintings you’ve selected are
some of my best work,” Lia said, rounding the corner of the
trailer, her feet wanting to tap dance. If she were any more
excited, she’d bob above the ground, floating like a helium-filled
balloon. She stopped. Staring at the lever holding the double doors
closed, she blinked and looked again.

Hair on the back of her neck stood up. Slowly
she shook her head and blinked again. “No!”

Jan jumped. “What?”

“It can’t be. It just can’t be.” Grabbing the
lever, Lia jerked it, throwing open the trailer doors.

Her greatest fear stared back, taunting her.
The words of her brother whispered in her ear, “
You will
fail
.”

Dread bloomed in her gut. She doubled over in
pain.

“Oh no,” Jan whispered.

All that remained inside was an empty wooden
rack.

Chapter 10

Lia pushed her fingers impatiently into her
hair, wanting to yank it out by the roots. Her anxiety was riding a
rollercoaster. She fought back rising nausea and forced her feet to
anchor to one spot inside the art gallery. Every nerve in her body
urged her to hop in the pickup and return to the truck stop in
search of the paintings.

There had to be a clue. Someone had to have
seen something. Her mind recreated the events of the pit stop
step-by-step. What had she overlooked? No one loitered about the
trailer. Not that she saw, but then, she really hadn’t paid much
attention. How naive of her to believe all was safe because of a
padlock.

“Trailer was locked?” a policeman asked as he
handed back her driver’s license and insurance card.

She stuffed the items in her purse. “Yes,
Officer,” she said calmly, holding back an impulse to shout, I
already told you,
I had a padlock on it
. This was the third
policeman she’d spoken to, each time before she’d been passed off
to another police department. They each said the correct
jurisdiction needed to investigate.

“Tumbler or key?”

“Key.” She bit back a snarky retort—
It was
the kind of lock thieves used bolt cutters on. Key? Tumbler? Who
cares?

“And you think this happened at the truck
stop?”

“It was the only place I stopped on the trip
between home and here. The truck stop across the river. Before the
construction work begins. I was there for”—she glanced at her
watch—“maybe forty-five minutes. Long enough to walk Jack, my dog,
go the restroom, and buy a soda.”

“Twelve pieces of artwork.” The officer
scribbled notes.

“I have photos of the paintings,” Jan
interjected. “I can print them out for you now.” She left them in
the gallery in a hurry and headed for the office.

“That would be great, along with a list, the
titles of each artwork, and the approximate amount of the loss.
Then email me the photos, please,” the officer called after her.
Turning back to Lia, he asked, “You’re positive you didn’t have
insurance on your work?”

“I think I would know.”

The officer raised an eyebrow at her.

“What? You think I made up this story to
collect insurance money?” Shocked, she took a step back. “I am not
that kind of person!”

“I’m not saying you are or you aren’t. I’m
trying to get appropriate information to make my report. So, once
again, you’re sure there’s no insurance on the paintings.”

Wasn’t that rich? The police considered her a
suspect rather than a victim. Planned a heist to collect insurance
money. The notion had never crossed her mind.

“Is there anyone else who might have insured
the paintings?”

“Not that I know of. In fact, my knowledge of
how to insure art could be placed on a nail head.”

The officer leaned in closer. “The gallery
doesn’t insure art for you, do they?”

“I’m sure they have insurance for their
property and maybe the artwork before it’s sold, but my work never
made it through the door. I guess if my TV education is worth
anything, you could ask Jan if they have surveillance cameras to
corroborate my story.”

“Anyone who might benefit from your
loss?”

The name that settled in her mind made her
swallow hard. Craig. Only her bother would stand to gain from her
loss—he and some unnamed thief would reap the benefits loss of her
misfortune. The loss of her artwork created the perfect storm, one
where no money rained down in her direction. One where she couldn’t
pay the bills. One where the farm would be ripped from her just
like Dorothy’s house had been ripped off its foundation in the
Wizard of Oz
. “No. Can’t think of anyone.”

“Well, then,” the officer snorted, “I wish I
could give you more hope.” He handed over his business card.
“Here’s the case number.” He showed her the handwritten number at
the bottom. “But when items are so portable...”

“Portable? One of the paintings is four feet
by five feet! Most people couldn’t pack that away inside their
trunk, let alone get it into the backseat of their car.” She
clasped her hands together and sucked on her bottom lip to keep
from making a further scene.

“I’ll be in touch if I find anything.”

“So, you’re saying if with a capitol I and
F,” Lia muttered as the officer left.

“Lia,” Jan said, returning after walking the
policeman out. “I’ll get us some lemonade, and let’s talk about
this in the conference room.” Jan pointed to a door across the
gallery.

Lia set her purse on the table. When she
dropped down into a high-back padded chair, rioting panic surged
through her. Leaning over, shoulders hunched, elbows on the table,
she closed her eyes tight and hid her face in her hands. Her
paintings weren’t Van Gogh or Monet, but her golden eggs, a reward
at the end of the rainbow. In one swift blow, a stranger had ruined
her life. Why?

She would lose the farm. Lose. The. Farm.
Pain ripped a ragged tear in her heart. She curled her toes tight
in her shoes. When she began to shake, she held her breath hoping
to stop the tremors. It wasn’t that she’d failed, just as Craig had
predicted, but her connection to family land would be forever
severed, an amputation of something so dear it was rooted in her
DNA. Anguish burned in her chest. She fought back welling tears.
Losing the farm was as painful as losing her parents all over
again.

Clenching her hands, she banged them on the
table until her fists hurt. What she wanted was a brick wall to
bang her head. Sniffling, she swallowed hard. She would not cry in
front of Jan. Being labeled a temperamental artist was one thing,
but unprofessional was a word she wouldn’t have attached to her
name. She swallowed again and straightened in the chair. All of
this heartache because of a stupid padlock. Would Lucas have
recommended something different? Could the theft have been avoided
if he’d been along?

Her thoughts continued to drift to him. How
had he survived when he returned from the war to find his family
farm sold out from under him? He never said much, just took over
organizing his parents’ relocation to Arizona and got Megan back in
school. Whenever someone in town offered condolences over the loss,
Lucas shook them off, said he was glad he’d made it back alive and
that’s what mattered most. He always looked on the positive side of
any situation. But still, the loss of his family’s farm had to be a
great disappointment.

A glass of lemonade appeared before her on
the smooth granite tabletop. She looked up. Jan wore an expression
of determination.

“We must have lemons to make lemonade,” Jan
said, taking the chair directly across the table from Lia.

“You made this fresh?” Lia asked, examining
the liquid in the glass. The color looked a little too yellow.

“No.” Jan laughed. “It’s out of a can.
Frozen. I meant that we have to make a buzz about the theft and
that may attract more people to the opening. The ones we sent
postcards to will have seen the quality of your art. Maybe we can
work some commissioned pieces out of this and capitalize on the
loss.”

“Opening of what? I can’t reproduce a dozen
paintings in two weeks. Eight landscapes? Not doable. And even if
it were, I just can’t magically conjure up four still- life
paintings. Those take me even more time.”

“I looked through the portfolio of your work
while the police talked with you. I believe there are ten, maybe
twelve other paintings, I could show. They’re good, but I won’t
lie, I prefer the ones I first chose. I like the idea of doing
mixed media work. It will be unique. I’ve got a source that could
take a print of your work and transfer it to canvas.”

“But that’s not original artwork,” Lia said,
shocked at Jan’s suggestion.

“Just think about it.” She reached over and
patted Lia’s hand.

“A collage? I worked with that in college. It
takes even more time. I have to find the right details to add. Like
the perfect piece of grayed, weathered board from an old barn.”

“Give it some thought. In the meantime, I’ll
print the list of the paintings you have to replace the stolen
ones. Only this time, make the trip without stopping, please.”

“I’ll hire an armed guard,” Lia said
dejectedly.

Jan flashed a half-smile, as though placating
a temperamental artist and left the conference room.

Lia rose and paced. The more she tried to
focus on a mixed media piece the more a fog seemed to settle in her
brain. When the phone in her purse rang, it jolted her into a
panic. Grabbing for the phone, she prayed the police had some news.
A quick look at caller ID deflated her momentary hope. Lucas.