Robyn Carr - Wild Man Creek

“A little cream.”

“Will two percent milk do?” she asked.

He gave her a slight smile. “Yeah. That’ll work fine.”

She pulled the quilt around her and shuffled into the house, into the kitchen. She poured and dressed his coffee.

“There’s no furniture in here,” he said from behind her. He had followed her inside.

She turned around while stirring. “Sure there is. I have a recliner and all my important stuff—computer, printer, TV. I had to ask Jack to throw a stovetop and refrigerator in here, even though I’m sure the eventual owner will want custom stuff that actually fits the space the builder provided. There’s room for lots of large, high-end kitchen appliances—stuff with all the bells and whistles. I just needed the occasional flame and a small refrigerator. I mostly use the microwave.”

“Do you have a bed somewhere?”

“Is that important? I’m very comfortable in the recliner and, since I’m not expecting any company it’ll do just fine for now … unless my sister comes to be sure I haven’t completely lost my mind.” She smiled and said, “I told her she’d have to bring her own recliner.”

He reached for the coffee. “Why is she worried about that? Because you’re living in the kitchen and are planting the back forty?”

Jill chuckled. “You have no idea how perfect this is. When I turn out the lights and the TV I can see the stars from that chair. If it’s clear, that is. And it’s going to be clear a lot more often in summer. I stand guard, trying to train the deer and bunnies to move along to the next farm. In the early morning, just as the mist and fog are lifting, I can watch the land come to life. I don’t usually go outside before seven, but it was such a nice morning today. Actually, I half expected you to show up.”

He sipped his coffee. “Where are your clothes?”

She pulled the quilt around her. Her hair was still mussed from sleep and her cheeks kind of rosy and he wanted to pull her into his arms for just a little touch. A little taste. “I’ll get dressed in a while,” she said.

“No,” he said with a laugh. “Your wardrobe. Your luggage. You obviously don’t keep them in the kitchen.”

“Oh, that—there’s a closet in that bedroom—one of two closets in the whole house. Maid’s quarters, we think.”

“Ah,” he said. “So, I guess this means you’re going full speed ahead?”

“With the growing? Oh, yes. I’m so charged up I can hardly sleep at night. Want to go outside? Sit on the porch? I mean, there could be a totally crazy deer out there that hasn’t been completely intimidated by the excavation noise.”

“Sure,” he said. “And you can tell me about your greatest expectation for this exercise.”

“I think,” she said as they went back out the door, “that I’m trying my hand at becoming a commercial farmer. I don’t know if it’ll work until I know if I can grow the stuff, but I could farm exotic, rare, heirloom fruits and vegetables. The kind that are hard to produce. I would sell them to high-end restaurants that are looking for new and unique, fabulous foods.”

He sipped again. “Going to buy a fleet of trucks to deliver them to big cities?”

She laughed. “Nope. Going to call UPS or FedEx and send them overnight. They’re delicate—none of them have a long shelf life. And they’re not used in mass quantities, usually as side dishes or garnishes.”

“How do you make money doing that?”

She shrugged. “You become the best, with the best marketing campaign. And, of course, you start small and regionally. I’ve already identified target cities with five-star restaurants. I wouldn’t ship to New York—it’s too far. But shipping to Portland, Sun Valley, Seattle, Vancouver, San Francisco and the surrounding areas would not be a problem.”

He chuckled. “I have to admit, it’s gutsy and it actually sounds reasonable.”

“It’s completely reasonable! There is one ‘x’ factor … and that’s whether I can grow these rare, old seeds. I bought product from several different seed companies and I’ll check them out. My great-grandmother canned some, sold some fresh off the porch—we had a hard time getting by back then and she had lots of ways to supplement her income. This is a whole different story. If it works, buyers will order ahead of season, so I have to know I can deliver. It’ll take me six to eighteen months to figure that out.”

“But how long are you renting …?”

“Through summer. But things like moves and leases can be worked out. The one thing I can’t control is whether or not I can grow the stuff.”

“So, you’ll have fruit trees, too?” he asked.

“No trees,” she said, shaking her head. “There are a few apple trees on the property, but I’m not planting trees …”

“But you said fruits …”

“Tomatoes, tomatillo, melons, et cetera—are all considered fruits.” She smiled.

He felt a little pang of something. A jolt of some kind. She was awful cute. Incredibly smart and very cute.

Colin was a little startled. Cute was not in his vernacular. He felt those sizzling jolts when he was with women he would describe as hot or sexy or edible, but he had never before felt a single nerve-tingle for cute. He was too jaded for that. He reasoned this was probably only because he hadn’t been with a woman for so long and, further, because he assumed he probably wouldn’t be again, at least not for a very long time. And certainly not this one—although she was smart as a whip, she was too “girl next door.” He was attracted to women in low-cut tops with generous cleavages, microscopic skirts and four-inch heels. The kind of women you wouldn’t want your mother to meet.

“Is the eagle painting done?” she asked him.

“Done? Oh, no,” he said. “That won’t be done for a while. Maybe another few weeks.”

“Wow. Don’t you get bored, spending so much time on one painting?”

“I have several going at one time. I keep going back, improving, changing, fixing, getting them right. It’s hard to know when it’s really done. And sometimes when you think they’re finished, they’re not. More often, when you think they’re not finished, they really are. Sometimes knowing when to stop is more important than knowing when to keep working on it.”

“And then you sell them?”

He shook his head. “Haven’t ever sold one.”

She sat up straighter and her quilt slipped off one shoulder exposing her striped pajamas. They were almost little-girl pajamas. “Never sold one? How do you make a living?”

Again he chuckled. “I’m independently wealthy.”

“How nice for you. Do you plan to ever sell any or are you doing this for fun?”

“Right now painting them is more important than selling them,” he said.

“What kind of market is there for a … an eagle? ”

He smiled at her. Straight to the point, wasn’t she?

“Huge,” he said. “I didn’t realize that when I got hooked on animals. Wild animals, not kittens or puppies. I liked them better than bowls of fruit ….”

She got a teasing grin on her face. “Better than nudes?”

He matched her grin. “I’ve never painted any nudes.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Was that an offer?”

She burst out laughing and he found the sound was perfectly charming. Charming? Yet another word Colin had never used before, but it suited her. And son of a bitch if it didn’t charm him!

“Oh, believe me, you can do way better than me! Maybe I could strip, wear my garden gloves, straw hat and rubber boots—that should get you a big Playboy commission!” And she laughed some more while he got an irresistible image in his head that he wanted to paint. “But seriously, who buys paintings of animals?”