Hummingbird Lake (6 page)

Which made her wonder why she thought of her dad every time she spoke with Steve. “Your mind is a scary place, Anderson,” she muttered as she cleaned her brushes.

She spent the next hour packing and tidying her home, then departed for the airport. After a relatively smooth travel day, she arrived at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport and caught a cab to the boutique hotel in downtown Fort Worth where Steve had booked a room for her. She did manage a thirty-minute nap before Steve picked her up and took her to the gallery, where they spent a few hours finishing up last-minute show arrangements.

Later over dinner, Steve studied her over the top of his glass of wine and said, “What’s wrong, darling? Are you unhappy with the show design?”

“No, it’s wonderful. I told you I loved it.”

“Then what’s wrong? You seem to have lost your sparkle.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Well then, let’s get you back to the hotel and you can make an early night of it. In fact, have the concierge schedule a massage and facial for you tomorrow, too. My treat.”

Sage grimaced and reached for her purse and a mirror. “I must really look bad.”

“No, no, no. You’re lovely as always.” He signaled for the check and added, “I just want tomorrow to be fun and relaxing and special for you.”

That evening, Sage managed six whole hours of sleep and awoke feeling like a new woman. She spent the
morning with a sculptor whose work Vistas represented, then kept her spa appointments and snuck in a movie—an amusement she missed living in Eternity Springs—before returning to the hotel to prepare for the big event.

Following a twenty-minute, hot-as-she-could-stand-it shower, she turned off the water and grabbed a fluffy white bath towel in the luxurious bathroom of her suite. Once she’d dried the water from her body and slipped into her robe, she used a hand towel to wipe the steam off the mirror. She peered at her reflection and sighed.

The facial and massage had helped, but it would take a miracle application of makeup to hide the results of weeks of poor sleep.

“You can do this,” she lectured her reflection. “You’ll go to this reception and you’ll be charming and witty and no one will know that you are running on fumes.”

She did her hair and makeup and had taken a seat on the side of the bed to don her hose when her cell buzzed. Expecting it to be Steve, she didn’t bother to check the number before she answered. “Hello?”

“Sage? It’s Rose.”

Sage closed her eyes. Everything inside her went tense at the sound of her sister’s voice. “Hello, Rose. This is a surprise.”

The surprise of the century, in fact. She hadn’t heard from Rose since when? The brief duty call last Christmas?

“I have news I thought you’d like to know.”

“Okay,” Sage warily replied. She waited, but the line remained silent. “Rose?”

Her voice tight, Rose finally said, “I need to tell you …”

“Yes?”

Her sister blew out a sigh. “I keep up with the newspapers in places where we used to live. I saw that Mrs. Ayer passed away.”

It took Sage a moment to make the connection. Mrs. Ayer had lived across the street from them when the Colonel was stationed at Fort Bragg. She’d babysit Sage in the afternoons after school until Rose got home from tennis practice. She was nice. She’d made outstanding chocolate chip cookies. “I’m sorry to hear that. She must have been in her eighties by now.”

“Ninety-one. The obit said she died of natural causes.”

“I see. Well, she enjoyed a long life.” And why was Rose using this as an excuse to call?

“Yes, well, I thought you should know.”

But that’s not why you’re calling
. Sage’s hand tightened around the phone as her thoughts spun. Rose might have called to question her, to argue with her, or to scold her, but not to pass along old neighborhood news. That wasn’t Rose.

Sage’s relationship with her sister was complicated, to say the least. Rose Anderson, M.D., was six years older than Sage and in some ways more mother than sister, having stepped into the role at the age of eleven when their mother died. Even after Rose followed their father’s footsteps into the army, she’d kept in relatively close contact with Sage. She’d been disappointed when Sage chose not to enter the armed services, but she’d been thrilled the day Sage had been admitted to med school.

The break between them occurred when their father suffered a stroke after Sage had returned from Africa and events spiraled out of both sisters’ control. Sage couldn’t tell Rose about her exchange with their dad, and Rose had said and done some things that Sage found unforgivable. Contact between them since had been short, sparse, and fraught with tension. Each time it happened, Sage wanted to get roaring drunk.

“Okay,” Sage said finally. “Thanks for telling me.”

“You’re welcome. Sage, I, um, need …”

Sage waited a long minute, and when Rose didn’t continue, she prodded, “You need what?”

“I, um … nothing. Never mind. I have to go. Goodbye.”

The dial tone sounded in Sage’s ear.

She counted to five, then exhaled a heavy breath and threw the phone down against the pillows. What was that all about? She blinked away the tears she wasn’t aware had pooled in her eyes. “Excuse me, but she’s the one who cut me off at the knees. She’s the one who turned her back on me, not the other way around.”

She shoved a foot into one leg of her pantyhose and almost tore a hole. Since it was the only pair she had with her, she was more careful with the other. She finished dressing, slipping into her favorite emerald green cocktail dress and a sparkly pair of heels that she acknowledged did wonders for her legs. Picking up her lipstick, she stood before the mirror and stared at her reflection. “Forget it. Forget her. This is your night.”

She smoothed the bronze shade over her upper lip, then her lower. She rubbed her lips together, smoothed the color with a fingertip, then repeated, “It’s your night and no one is going to spoil it.”

At the downtown Fort Worth steak house following a mouthwatering rib eye and an excellent Napa Valley cab, Colt Rafferty surreptitiously checked his watch as his dinner companion asked, “Shall we order dessert?”

“Whatever you’d like, Melody.”

Melody Slaughter was a lovely woman about his age, a happily married mother of three and a marketing director with a local defense industry contractor. As the senior planner for the safety seminar he’d attended today, she’d secured the speakers for the event and had
invited Colt and his two fellow presenters to join her for dinner. He’d been the only one to accept.

“I shouldn’t,” Melody said, offering a sheepish smile. “But the chocolate cake here is divine and I have no willpower at all.”

“Then by all means, let’s order dessert.” He signaled the waiter and smothered his impatience. She was a nice lady, friendly, intelligent, and interesting. Under other circumstances, he’d have been happy to prolong the meal. But ever since he’d scanned the society section of the local newspaper while waiting in the hotel lobby for Melody to arrive, he’d been anxious for the meal to be done. He had somewhere he wanted to go. Someone he wanted to see.

He gave their dessert orders, then Melody said, “At the risk of sounding like a suck-up, I want to tell you again how informative and fascinating I found your presentation today, Colt. You really know how to get people’s attention.”

“Graphic photographs will do that.”

She shook her head. “No. The photos were part of it, true, but it’s the narratives that will haunt me. So much tragedy that a little bit of planning and precaution could have prevented. What you said, the way you said it, connected with people. They won’t forget it.”

“Good. Maybe they’ll be more aware and save me some work.”

“You mean save lives.”

“The less work my team has, the better.”

“Amen to that. I have to admit, though, your presentation leaves me a bit nervous. My husband is a sales rep for a plastics distributor and he’s in and out of a lot of factories. I hope they’re all doing what they’re supposed to be doing safety-wise.”

As Colt searched for a more comforting response to that than
Probably not
, their desserts arrived. The interruption
made it easy to change the subject, so after the waiter poured coffee and departed, he asked, “Are you familiar with an art gallery called Art on the Bricks?”

She brightened. “I am. The owner is a baseball fan. He has tickets in the same section as ours at Rangers Ballpark.”

“Is the gallery far from downtown?”

“No, it’s a five-minute car ride from here. It’s near the Kimbell Art Museum.”

Colt nodded. He knew where the Kimbell was located. He’d passed it on the way from his downtown hotel to the speaking venue. “I saw a newspaper ad about a reception they’re having tonight. It’s open to the public and I’d like to go. Would you care to join me?”

“I’d love to join you. Thank you.”

“Your husband won’t come after me with a gun or something for keeping you out longer than expected?”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Nothing to worry about. He had poker night earlier this week when our two-year-old was teething, so he owes me.”

They talked about her children as the valet brought her car around, then on the short drive to the gallery she asked him about the reception. “Are they showing a new artist?”

“Yes. A woman from a little town in Colorado where I vacation, Eternity Springs. Her name is Sage Anderson. Are you familiar with her work?”

“No, I’m afraid not, but I do know Eternity Springs. It’s a great little town. We spent a week there a few summers ago. Out of the way and not much to do there, but it’s so gorgeous, so beautiful.”

“Yes, it is.” And so was one of its residents. Sage Anderson. Dr. Sage Anderson. He couldn’t wait to see her again. Colt and Melody discussed Eternity Springs until they arrived at the gallery and discovered that they shared a few acquaintances, most memorably the mountain man
who went by the name Bear. “My husband hired Bear as a guide to teach him and our eight-year-old how to fly-fish. He’s quite a character. He and our son hit it off, though, so Bear took us up to his private land to fish. It has to be one of the most beautiful places on earth.”

“Oh, yeah? I’ve never been there. Where is his place?”

“Up by Heartache Falls.”

Colt flashed her a grin. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll have to see what I can do about wrangling an invitation myself next time I’m up there.”

The gallery’s parking lot was filled to overflowing and Melody drove around a bit before finding a space. “So, is this artist a painter? A sculptor? What are we going to see?”

“She paints, but I didn’t notice the name for this show, so I’m not sure what we’ll see.”

Something emotional, he expected. Dramatic. He wouldn’t be surprised to see boiling seas or tumultuous skies or even abstract art as long as it was full of motion and energy and depth. He’d wondered about it, and half a dozen times he’d started to indulge his curiosity and Google her, but the part of him that appreciated fine art wanted to wait and experience her artwork firsthand. He believed that seeing her work would tell him so much about her.

Pieces for the puzzle.

They reached the gallery door. Colt opened it for Melody, then stepped inside after her. Despite the crush of people in the room, his eye was immediately drawn to the centerpiece of the show. He gaped.
What the hell?

“Isn’t that beautiful?” Melody said at his side. “The colors are fabulous.”

“It’s … fairies. And butterflies.”

“Yes, isn’t it fun?”

He struggled for a response. Fairies. Butterflies. Sweetness. Finally he shrugged. “It’s … okay.”

Melody looked at him in surprise. “Well, that’s a ringing endorsement.”

“It’s not what I expected. It’s … nice.”

From right behind him, he heard a familiar voice snap, “Rafferty? Did you just say my painting is nice?”

FIVE

Colt winced.
Ah, hell
. She’d heard him. Pasting on a smile, he turned … and all but swallowed his tongue. She wore a green cocktail dress that hugged her delicious curves and made her eyes glow like emeralds.

Or maybe it was the temper snapping in her eyes that made them gleam.

“Hello, Sage.”

Sage folded her arms, lifted her chin, and demanded, “What do you mean ‘nice’?”

Colt faced a choice. He could lie to her, tell her she misheard him, slather her with flattery, and perhaps pull himself out of this hole. But, frankly, he didn’t want to do that. He tried never to lie, and he thought this woman deserved better than that from him.

“It’s … pretty,” he said. Glancing around the gallery, he spied another five or six paintings and had the same reaction. Pretty and whimsical. Passionless. Not the sort of thing he’d expect from a woman who’d shown the depth of emotion she’d demonstrated when he found her crying behind the carriage house at Angel’s Rest. That woman had emoted from every pore. “They’re pretty.”

“Pretty,” the artist repeated as if he’d insulted her firstborn.

“Hey, the world needs pretty.” He snagged two glasses of champagne from the tray of a circulating
server and handed one of them to Melody, asking, “Don’t you think?”