Christyne Butler - The Last-Chance Maverick

“Yes, the ones you’ve been doing of the locals around town. They’re amazing. I love the portrait you did of me when I was tending to a scraped knee at the playground. I never even realized what you were up to until you gave it to me. I’ve got it hanging in my office at the clinic.”

A few weeks after her kids program took off, Vanessa had started to once again carry a sketch pad and colored pencils in her oversize bag.

Something she hadn’t done in months.

At first, the blank pages seemed to mock her whenever she opened the pad, but then she’d forced herself to do quick exercises, simple pen-and-ink sketches of whatever might catch her eye.

Surprisingly, it had been people.

The citizens of Rust Creek Falls had become her test subjects, either in the park, the community center or while sitting tucked away in a corner of a local business. Sometimes she asked for permission, but usually the sketches were done so quick the focus of her practice exercise didn’t even realize what Vanessa was doing until she’d rip out the page from her sketchbook afterward and offer it to them.

So far, no one had been upset with her. She’d figured most had just been tossed away, but she had spotted a few, like Callie’s, posted around town. Evidence that her creativity was trickling back little by little.

“The drawing you did of my mother working the counter at Crawford’s Store is now matted, framed and holds a place of honor in my father’s study,” Nate said. “Callie and I were there for Sunday dinner and that drawing got me thinking about the mural, the resort and you.”

Surprised at that, Vanessa’s gaze was drawn back to the empty space over the desk, looking very much like the oversize blank canvases in her cabin. Nate’s request caused her fingers to itch, a familiar sign they wanted to be wrapped around a paintbrush again. But Vanessa knew what would happen. As soon as she’d pull out her paints...nothing. Sketching a few random subjects was vastly different than taking on a commissioned work, where the nuances she’d have to capture in oils required planning and a delicate touch.

Things that were still beyond her reach.

Moving far away from home and memories of Adele had been her way to start her life again, and deep down, hopefully restore her spark, her inspiration for her craft. Except for those rare moments when she tried to paint and still failed, Vanessa was enjoying her time in Rust Creek Falls. She’d been lucky enough to find a great place to live, joined the Newcomers Club—a social group of women new to Rust Creek Falls—made some great friends and explored the area. The art program at the center kept her busy, she’d gone on a few dates with some of the local cowboys and made a point to appreciate each day of her new life.

Number thirteen: stop and enjoy sunrises and sunsets .

Another check mark on her list, made the first morning she woke up in Montana. Adele had been right. Concentrating on her life, and using their list as a guide, had helped her to find joy again.

Which made this idea of Nate’s downright scary. What if she said yes and her creative block kept her from putting anything on the wall? And her work was abstract in the truest sense of the word. Powerful color compositions with no reference of any kind to anything recognizable. What Nate was describing was much more detailed, and in a way, more personal.

Still, she found herself wanting desperately to take on the challenge.

Maybe this mural was a chance—her last chance—to find her talent again.

* * *

Jonah Dalton breathed in the cool morning air, holding it for a moment in his nose and mouth, like he used to do as kid. The air had a bite to it—like the fresh tartness of a Granny Smith apple the moment you first sink your teeth into it—that couldn’t be matched anywhere but here in the wilds of Montana.

He’d missed that taste more than he’d been willing to admit.

The air in Denver, his home for the past eight years, had a flavor that was a mix of excitement and culture, but that was to be expected in a sophisticated city of over 600,000 people, he guessed.

He released his breath, watching the white puffs disappear. He stood on the large circular drive outside of Bledsoe’s Folly, soon to be known as...well, whatever Nate Crawford decided to name his as-yet-unopened resort. All Jonah knew was that when the chance came to restore and revitalize this twenty-year-old log mansion into a state-of-the-art, and hopefully popular destination for year-round vacations, his architect’s heart wouldn’t let him turn down the project. Not when the initial construction of the castle-like mansion had fueled his love of architecture and design all those years ago.

So he’d taken a leave of absence from his job with one of the top firms in the country and worked pretty much nonstop on the plans and blueprints for the necessary renovations.

And now he was here.

Even though he’d been less than thrilled about Nate’s condition that he be onsite for the last three months of the project in case any problems arose, Jonah had always enjoyed seeing his designs come to life. At work, he forgot everything else. And that’s just how he liked it.

He figured he could do the same thing here, even if it meant coming home. And he had to admit he was looking forward to the quiet and slow pace of his home town, especially after all the craziness—professional and personal—he’d left behind in Denver. He’d arrived late last night after driving fifteen hours straight and hadn’t made it past the living room couch at his parents’ place.

Yet, here he was at the job site first thing the next morning, anxious to see his dream turned into reality.

His shiny Cadillac Escalade looked a bit out of place in the parking lot crowded with older-model cars and trucks, but Jonah took the number of vehicles present as a good sign that the crew was already hard at work. He grabbed his white hard hat and turned to head inside, surprised when his older brother Eli pulled up the long winding paved road in a battered pickup.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Good morning to you, too, little brother.” Eli waved a piece of paper at him. “Hey, I found your note on the kitchen counter as I was heading out. Decided to stop by and—”

“What are you doing with that?” Jonah cut him off. “I left that for Mom, warning her I plan to stay out at the cabin and not to worry about getting my old room ready.”

“I know, I read it. Here, take this.” Eli handed over a travel mug stamped with the brand of the family’s ranch, The Circle D. “Jeez, you’re just like the rest of the family, a bear without your morning cup of joe. Nice to know some things haven’t changed. Oh, and welcome home.”

The enticing aroma filled Jonah’s nose and his blood cried out for caffeinated bliss. Not wanting to wake his family, he’d only grabbed a quick shower and dressed, figuring he’d see everyone tonight at dinner. He’d guessed there’d be a canteen set up inside for the crew, but this was better.

Jonah took the cup. After Eli shut off the truck and climbed out to join him, he grabbed his brother’s outstretched hand and allowed Eli to pull him into a quick hug that ended with a strong slap to his back. “Thanks, it’s...ah, it’s good to be back, but I still don’t get why you took my note.”

“You can’t stay at the cabin.” Eli stepped back and righted the dark Stetson he wore so much Jonah had often wondered if his brother slept with the darn thing. “It’s been rented.”

Surprised filled him. “You rented out my cabin?”

“Technically, it wasn’t me. It was Mom. And it’s not your cabin.”

“I designed it. I built it. It’s on the acreage Grandpa and Dad set aside for me.” Jonah held tight to the mug as the memories that went along with the one bedroom cabin he’d forged with his own hands came crashing back to him. After eight years one would think he’d be over it by now. “Why would Mom rent my cabin to a stranger?”