Indelible (7 page)

She shrugged a single shoulder. “Good thing I don’t care.”

“Uh-huh. They could use you over there. A hard-nosed counselor—”

She put a finger to his lips. “Don’t even breathe it. Besides, I’m still getting certified, I have Sarge to look after, a pair of half-breed coyotes, and a baby on the way.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. As long as I don’t eat, smell, or think about food.”

“You need to eat.”

“Closing my eyes and plugging my nose, I managed some cereal. Now I don’t want to talk about it.”

He rubbed her back. “How long does this last?”

“Do you think my mother told me these things?”

Not a chance. Stella was a wretched parent, punishing Tia for her own guilt—something they hadn’t known until Sarge illuminated them.

“Or even my sis—half sister.” Her brow puckered.

He felt the worst about that. Tia and Reba had been close, so close. This baby coming should be something happy they could share.

“Are we informing her?”

“She doesn’t want to know.” She raised her eyes to his. “She’d just imagine …”

Having a child with him. As once they’d planned. “I really wrecked things.”

She pulled a crooked smile. “You don’t get that much credit. They were pretty wrecked already.”

He stroked her face, her skin warming in his hands, the misery melting away. Her crazy mahogany hair fell all over his fingers, her nearly black eyes and arching brows an exotic contrast. He’d loved this woman since he first saw her on the playground when he was nine and she was only five. A fierce warrior child as needing of hope and affection as he was himself.

He slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She wrapped his waist and pressed the side of her head to his chest. She stirred when Sarge rolled slowly from his room toward the kitchen where they stood, but Jonah held her fast, then squeezed and let go. “Ready for dinner, Sarge?”

He craned his head up from a spine curling over on itself. “What’s on the menu?”

“Wait, don’t say it.” Tia stepped back. “I’ll take the dogs for a run while you cook. Please open the windows.” She went out with the coydog Enola—half coyote, half German shepherd—who had come to him last summer. Her yearling pup, Scout, bounded after.

“That woman is starving herself,” Sarge growled. “She have one of those eating disorders?”

“Yes. Morning sickness.”

Sarge’s mouth sagged open.
“That’s
what you’ve been doing?”

“A good job of it too.”

Sarge barked a laugh.

“Feel like steak?”

“Anyone ever say no?”

“Besides Tia?”

Sarge rested his hands in his lap and looked at the door she’d gone through. “She’s a good girl.”

“The best.”

“I never knew.”

“Her mother sullied the waters. I can’t blame you for listening, but why couldn’t you see through Stella the way you saw the truth about my dad?”

“Your damage was in the flesh, clear to anyone with an eye. The things Stella said about her girl, well, you wouldn’t think a mother could make that up. Such a pretty woman, but she had a streak.” He shook his head.

“Tia’s the best of them.”

Sarge shot him a look. “What got into you, proposing to her sister?”

“Hormones.”

Sarge nodded. “Hormones got you out of it too.”

“It wasn’t hormones with Tia, Sarge. It was soul-starved need.”

“Paid a price for the error.”

“Nine years.”

“And now she’s having your baby.”

He breathed, “Yeah,” and wondered if Sarge saw his terror. Like every good soldier, if he did, he kept it to himself.

A string quartet played Vivaldi in the lower level of the gallery as her guests mingled among the art. In a scoop-back Donna Karan dress, onyx choker, and heels, Natalie drew a trembling breath. It was real. It was wonderful. She could do this.

She moved through the room, greeting and thanking people for coming. She had developed the appearance of eye contact without actually focusing, the closest she’d get to looking normal. It helped that the focal point at a gallery was the art.

Besides her sculptures, she was showcasing two bronze abstracts from an artist she’d met through a Santa Fe co-op, five of Fleur’s paintings, and three paintings each from two New York artists. Quality work from them all. The electrician had fixed a glitch in the lighting, and the display floors on both levels shone with an elegant ambience. The only thing missing was Aaron, who, more than anyone else, had made this happen.

Two weeks since the attack, and he still hadn’t called. That was Paige’s fault—she hoped—and, truly, Aaron had done more than enough, buying her home and business. It was up to her to shape her future now, in the same way she took the raw images from nature and made them her own creations.

She turned as Paul Whitman and Sara entered, then Trevor with a platinum blonde who could rock a cover of
Elle
. Almost his height in four-inch stilettos, one snap of the single rhinestone strap and her electric blue
sheath would slide to the floor with hardly a ripple. Nothing like making a statement.

Chic and elegant, Trevor’s gray suit must have been tailored to him in a lightweight fabric that formed as he moved. An eye-catching couple, even among the notable others.

“I know you need to mingle, dear,” the elderly Mary Carson said, patting her arm. “Go spread your charm.”

Before she got far, a heavyset photographer in rolled shirt sleeves and leather vest shot her at two quick angles. “My reporter would like a word when you get the chance.” He pointed to a striking redhead in a shimmery white halter dress with a traffic-stopping leg split.

“Okay. Thanks.” She started in that direction, passing Trevor’s group closely enough that she heard his companion.

“Thank Gawd. Champagne. I’ll need it to fawn over nature statues.”

Natalie glanced away but not quickly enough, as Trevor, frowning, murmured in his girlfriend’s ear. He might have worked that little detail into the conversation before they’d gone climbing and saved them both the awkwardness. She sighed. At least she could hope this explained his reaction, not her oddness, after all. She’d read more into his helpfulness than it deserved.

“Ah, the lovely wonder who’s brought sophistication to our slopes,” said a white-haired gentleman with a liver spot shaped like an oak leaf hugging his jaw. “Sim Lemmons.”

She had to smile when he kissed her hand, a sweet, elegant gesture.

“I can’t tell you how delighted I am with your work. I believe you’ll find me a patron.”

“Thank you so much.” Patrons were an artist’s dream.

“I understand one of your painters is blind.”

“Fleur Destry.” Natalie nodded toward her standing by the wall. “In the green dress.”

“I must congratulate her as well.”

“She’ll be delighted.”

Approaching with Sara, Whit did an impression of discomfort with his shoulders. “I feel like the riffraff next door.”

Natalie laughed. “I’ll send them all over to kayak in the morning.” She
turned to Sara. “You look beautiful.” Her navy and cream dress crisscrossed in front, where for once no baby nestled.

Sara ran her hands down the skirt. “I barely fit back into it. The waist isn’t so bad but breast-feeding gives me what I never had before.”

“It’s a flattering style. I hope you’ll enjoy your evening out.” Before she could move on, Trevor joined them.

“Natalie, this is Kirstin.”

“Oh good, you found the champagne.” Natalie squeezed her elbow and tried to escape, but the reporter chose that moment to approach. Except the woman’s gaze wasn’t on her.

“Trevor MacDaniel at a gallery gala.” Her acerbic tone set Natalie’s teeth on edge.

“Jaz.” His mouth formed a wry twist.

“In a suit. A tailored suit.” She circled him. “Very chic. Did you steal it off a truck?”

“You might want to pass on the next tray of champagne.”

Her eyes chilled. Before Jaz bit back, Kirstin tugged his sleeve.

“Jazmyn Dufoe, my date, Kirstin Bach.”

“Aren’t you stunning? Do you charge by the hour?”

The photographer hooked Jazmyn’s arm and towed her away, sending a plea over his shoulder.

Nodding to the group, Natalie said, “Excuse me,” and followed them. The photographer hadn’t given his name, but they shared a desire to save the degrading situation.

He said, “This is Natalie Reeve, Jaz.”

Her eyes still shot ice-blue flames.

“The gallery owner.” He turned. “Ms. Reeve, tell us about your art.”

With this level of emotional tension, she couldn’t even fake eye contact. “What would you like to know?”

Jaz hissed, “Why on earth would you invite Trevor MacDaniel?”

Trevor turned his back on Jaz and effectively on Natalie also. He could hardly have made a worse appearance at this event Whit insisted he attend.
“She’s our neighbor. You took her climbing. You can’t blow off her opening. You’re the one with experience at these things.”

Whit was right, he had to come. But the last thing he’d wanted was to draw attention. Natalie deserved this night. And he hadn’t handled their last interaction with the greatest finesse.

“You’re kidding, right?” Kirstin looked down her nose at Jaz. “You dated her?”

“Briefly.”

“Do you do it any other way?”

He shrugged, hands loose in his pants pockets.

She pouted her lower lip. “How long do we have to stay?” She’d exhausted her attention span.

“Long enough to see the exhibit. And buy something.” He’d noticed several
SOLD
tags already.

“For me?”

“You don’t like art.”

“I like art.”

He didn’t argue the point, but neither did she. She grabbed another flute of champagne. He felt like swilling from the bottle.

A petite woman stepped around her companion and called, “Trevor.”

He did a double take. “Tia?”

She laughed, touching the deep auburn twist of hair. “Not my normal style.”

How had she even gotten her lion’s mane in there?

Her husband, the chief of police, turned. As they shook hands, Trevor could tell the hawkish eyes caught everything, including the look he’d given Tia, though that couldn’t be unusual. She had a dusky allure.

“Quite an event,” the chief said.

“Culture comes to Redford.”

“I’m Tia.” She reached a hand to Kirstin.

“I’m sorry.” Trevor turned. “This is Kirstin Bach. Jonah is chief of police, and Tia works search and rescue.”

“Really?” Kirstin could not have sounded less interested.

What had he been thinking? “Nice to see you both.” With a grip on Kirstin’s elbow, he mounted the stairs to the loft.

Kirstin helped herself to another flute from the tray on a stand. He lifted and drained one himself. With the bubbles climbing up his sinuses and watering his eyes, he perused the offerings. One painting that was deep tones of blue shifting across the canvas caught and held his eye. The hues matched the wolf sculpture he’d purchased, but it had a power of its own.

“Trevor, I’m bored.”

“Okay.” He leaned in and got the ID number from the card beside the painting. Artist: Fleur Destry. Wasn’t she the blind woman he saw around?

He went downstairs, Kirstin descending on her stilettos like the runway model she was. Behind a discreet podium, a proper-looking woman quietly tallied purchases. Trevor approached and gave her the number on the painting. It would be delivered tomorrow or the next day. Unless he needed it shipped.

“I’m local. Pine Crest.”

“Oh, very good, Mr. MacDaniel. We’ll look forward to future visits.”

He didn’t tell her he owned the business next door, just slid his wallet back into his coat and thanked her. She thanked him back. Kirstin gave his arm a tug. Maybe she thought this their lucky night. No one believed he wouldn’t take the opportunities offered. Especially Jaz, who had taken it personally.

He stopped behind Whit and told him they were leaving. Jaz stood head to head with her photographer, checking his shots on the digital camera. Natalie stood near the door, speaking with a man wearing a pale blue jacket and black turban. He ought to congratulate her, but he’d done enough damage for one night.