Painted Montana Sky: A Montana Sky Series Novella (8 page)

Mrs. Thompson tapped one finger on her chin. “Is Miss Maxwell a big woman?”

“No. About yay high.” He raised a hand to the level of his nose. “And bird-bone thin. Very light.”

“Ah.” Her eyes twinkled. “Young? Pretty?”

Heat crept up his neck, and his gaze skittered away from her knowing look.

She took his silence for an answer. “I think Chico can pull her alone. All my mares have foals or are about to deliver, so I can’t let them go. How about I send the twins with you? Jack can drive the buggy, and Tim can ride his horse and lead Jack’s.”

Tyler had a moment’s apprehension, remembering the trouble the Cassidy twins had caused before Samantha Thompson, then Rodriguez, adopted them.

“But they’ll need to come straight home before nightfall.”

 
Then Tyler remembered Widow Murphy had been the chief gossiper about the boys. Since that time, the two had, by most accounts, buckled down and become responsible sons, only getting into the normal kind of boy mischief. “Sounds like a plan,” he drawled. “Much obliged.”

Daniel rounded the barn at a run.

Does that boy ever walk?
 

Daniel stopped next to his mother. “I watered him, Mr. Dunn. He’s tied to the rail by the trough.”

“Thank you, Daniel.” Tyler made his tone sound man-to-man.

The boy brightened, his mobile eyebrows flying up.

“Go inside,” his mother ordered. “Send the twins out here. Then change and you can have milk and cookies with Christine.”

      No sooner had Daniel gone inside than two boys opened the door and leaped down the steps. “Howdy, Mr. Dunn,” one said. The other boy didn’t say anything, only ducked his head in a greeting. They had unruly brown hair and mischievous green eyes in identical faces, although one had longer hair.

“Hello.” Tyler didn’t dare guess which boy was the speaker. He’d never talked with either one before, but had seen them at church and on the days he rode with Oliver to or from school.

Their mother explained what she wanted them to do, and both boys shot each other excited grins, and headed for the barn.

While Tyler waited for them to hitch up the buggy and saddle their horses, he and Mrs. Thompson made polite conversation. They talked about the school; the teacher, Mrs. Gordon, had ordered an up-to-date world map; Wyatt Thompson’s prize mare had delivered a filly; and the ice cream social was planned for Saturday night.

“You
will
bring Miss Maxwell to the social?” Mrs. Thompson had a matchmaking glint in her eyes. “We’re holding the event at the school.”

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Tyler muttered, remembering how Oliver had chatted about the social two days ago, and he’d promised his son that everyone could go. The precipitous arrival of Lily and Dove into their lives had banished Oliver’s memory of the social. And for a little boy who loved ice cream...that was some doing. And of course, without the boy’s constant reminders, Tyler had forgotten the event as well. “Miss Maxwell’s mighty busy trying to meet her deadline for those pictures of hers.”

“Miss Maxwell can hardly paint in the dark,” Mrs. Thompson oh-so-carefully pointed out.

She’s right about that.
Tyler shrugged, trying not to show his excitement about the idea. “Guess we’ll be there.”

She gave a decisive nod. “Good. I’m sure Elizabeth Sanders would like to meet your Miss Maxwell, too.

She’s not my Miss Maxwell
, Tyler almost protested. But his instinctive denial lacked strength.

“Mrs. Sanders is quite the artist, you know.”

He didn’t know. And, given his aversion to artists, Tyler was glad he hadn’t known before. Beautiful Mrs. Sanders, who had been a wealthy spinster before Nick Sanders snapped her up, had stirred the same urges in him that the former Mrs. Rodriguez had…meaning none.

Then a slip of a girl with fine violet eyes had fallen into his life and changed everything.

Just thinking about Lily made him want to hurry back to the ranch. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction to the small buggy pulled by Chico, the midget horse.

~ ~ ~

Lily had lingered too long in the kitchen, enjoying the company of the Pendells, Tyler, and Oliver, and if truth be told, avoiding the task ahead of her. Now the afternoon sun had moved, still bright enough to paint by, but she wouldn’t have a lot of time until the light dimmed. She had to make the most of every minute.

Back at the easel with the thicket of thimbleberries in front of her, Dove curled up under a bush, Lily bent to her task. As she worked, she forced herself to take the deepest breaths her corset would allow, striving for calm. From experience, she knew trying to hurry just made for mistakes.

This drawing has turned out reasonably well.
She dabbed on a final dot of green. Perhaps anyone who didn’t have an expert eye would judge it to be a fine piece. But Lily knew better. The painting wasn’t her best effort. Too stilted, no life to the blossom. Feeling despair, she rinsed the brush in a cup of water, then set it down. It was all she could do not to tear up this one like she had her previous attempts.

A breeze drifted the sweet smell of thimbleberries her way and dried the watercolor paint on the paper.

Lily had a sensation of being watched, and when she turned, she saw Oliver standing about ten feet behind her, his hands in his pockets, brows puckered. He’d obviously been warned to keep his distance, but Lily could tell he wanted to approach. She smiled and beckoned him over.

His face lit up in the expression she was already coming to love, and he ran toward her, careful to stop at her shoulder and go no farther. He studied her painting. “That’s beeeutiful, Miss Maxwell.”

She laughed and put her arm around him. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

“Wish I could paint like that,” he said in a wistful tone.

“Well, so you could. Not just like this, every artist is different—has his or her own vision. But you could paint something similar in your own way.”

“Can I try it?”

Lily picked up a charcoal stick and handed it to him. Without regret, she sacrificed the drawing that wasn’t quite good enough, tapping the blank patch on the paper beneath her flower. “Right here. Show me what you can do.” She pulled him onto her lap, holding his sides. He was heavy, but since her hip didn’t protest much, she left him there.

His face scrunched in concentration, Oliver tried to copy the inked lines of her flower. His lines turned out wobbly, but the result was better than she’d seen from most children his age.

He twisted to look at her. “Can we draw Dove?”

“Let’s tell Dove’s adventure. But you’ll need to stand so I can draw.” She picked up another charcoal stick and sketched a picture of Dove chasing a bird, then drew a few squiggles to show the river.

Wide-eyed, with a big smile, Oliver made an expression of delight. “Me now?”

She laughed at his enthusiasm. “You now.” She made a line dividing her drawing and the blank space for his.

He copied her river, but made it bigger. Then he added a shape in the middle, which, when Lily squinted, looked like Dove. When Oliver finished, he glanced at her for approval.

The memory of Dove sucked downstream jumped into Lily’s head. This time, though, the intensity was less, so she ignored her thoughts and smiled at Oliver. “Very good.”

He beamed, and then drew a line to separate his picture from the white space. “Now you go.”

Lily thought for a moment before beginning. This time, Lily took the time to make a more detailed sketch. When she’d finished, a boy and a man stood beside the river, fishing. With a final stroke, she added a line down the side.

Oliver crowed with delight. “That’s Pa and me. How did you make us look so real?”

She demonstrated, talking in the easy teaching tone she used with her little cousins and the neighborhood children when they wanted to paint with her.

Time passed, and soon the paper had scribbles and sketches all across the bottom, sides, and top. When they finally ran out of space, Lily glanced at the sky and realized the hour had grown late enough that a new attempt at the thimbleberry wouldn’t last out the sun. She straightened and drew in a breath, feeling lighter.

Acting on that feeling, Lily unclipped the paper and flipped it over. Using the charcoal stick, she playfully drew the thimbleberry flower, using broad strokes, and the flat of the stick to shade areas. Then in the blossom’s center, where normally she’d carefully add yellow paint, she sketched in a tiny face, smiling with plump apple cheeks and upside down V eyebrows. Then for fun, she drew a bug underneath, a cross between an ant and a bee, with several parts to the body, big antennas, and many feet. With deft strokes, she gave a face to this one too, but made the insect look melodramatically sinister.

“Do more, Miss Maxwell,” Oliver pleaded.

Lily couldn’t resist. She added a butterfly in the top right corner, with big spotted wings and an angel face.

Oliver leaned against her shoulder, his body relaxed, obviously happy and trusting.

With a surge of maternal love, she gathered him into her arms and pulled him on her lap. He rested against her, and they both studied the drawings.

For the first time since she’d started working on the botanical drawings for Mrs. Sebastian Regis-Smith, Lily felt relaxed and happy. She’d just used her artistic ability for fun and pleasure, something she’d been missing during the last few weeks.
No wonder I haven’t been able to paint.
Her painting wasn’t about moving a brush, pen, or charcoal stick with her fingers. The skill came from a well of creative, happy energy deep within her.

The sun dropped lower, and the shadows lengthened. She turned her head to look at the orange orb, then seeing the sunset, shifted them both around to watch. Rosy and amber hues streaked across the broad purpling sky. A few puffy clouds glowed golden. “Look, Oliver.” Lily pointed upward. “God’s painting the sky.”

He tilted his face to follow her finger, staying still as if catching her appreciation for the sight.

Lily inhaled a deep breath, feeling the beauty of the sky as an ache in her soul, and she wished she could capture the vision before her on paper. Maybe another time, she’d try. But today, she was content to hold the child and watch the burning orb sink behind the land.

Tomorrow, Lily knew instinctively, she’d be able to find that artistic place inside and her flowers would bloom on the paper as they were meant to. She could hardly wait.

CHAPTER TEN

The sun dropped lower and the shadows lengthened. From the corner of her eye, Lily caught a glimpse of movement on the road to the house. She took a closer look.

Tyler approached on Domino. Next to him, a teenage boy rode a black horse and led a buckskin by the reins. The sight of another boy driving a small buggy hitched to a tiny brown horse made her gasp. “Whatever is that?”

Oliver stood. “Pa and Jack and Tim!” He abandoned her to race over to the group.

Lily set her charcoal stick in the easel’s rack. Stiff from sitting with Oliver on her lap, she rose and limped to follow the boy.

Tyler held up his hand to stay her and nudged Domino in her direction. He had the biggest smile she’d ever seen on his face, and her heart couldn’t help but warm in response.

He reined in before her and dismounted. “I have a surprise for you, Lily.” He tipped up his hat, exposing more of his face.

“For me?” Her heart beat a bit faster

“I’ve borrowed Mrs. Thompson’s little buggy and her Falabella stallion, Chico, for you.”

“For me?” Puzzled, Lily could only repeat herself.

Tyler took her hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and led her to the buggy. “So you can drive around the ranch to get to those flowers you want to paint.”

Speechless, Lily stared at the adorable small horse, then back at Tyler.

His grin crinkled the skin around his eyes. Tapping her on the nose, he tilted his head in the direction of the buggy. “Come meet Chico.”

One boy stayed on his horse. The other, driving the buggy, set the brake, and climbed out, holding the reins.

A quick glance showed her the two were identical twins. Normally, the artist in her would have wanted to study them, figure out the differences in their faces, but now the little horse captured her attention.

Chico tossed his head, as if preening.

“I’ve never seen the like.”

The boy motioned her to come closer. “You can pet him, ma’am. He’s a Falabella. My mama brought him and the mares all the way from Argentina.”

Unable to resist, Lily stepped forward and ran her hand over the stallion’s head and rubbed behind his ears.

The horse stretched his neck.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured to him. “I’m very pleased to meet you.” She looked up at the boy holding Chico’s head.

His green eyes sparkled with pride. “Everyone’s always taken with him. He sure likes the attention. Mama calls him a showman.”

“That he is. You’ll have to forgive me for not introducing myself. I’m Miss Maxwell.”