Hummingbird Lake by Emily March

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 circulatingserver and handed one of them to Melody, asking, “Don’t you think?”
    “Well, um, yes,” his clearly uncomfortable dinner date replied.
    Sage’s eyes narrowed to slits and raked him head to toe. Colt wondered if he should check himself for laser burns.
    Her voice tight, she asked, “What are you doing here?”
    “It’s a public gathering. I saw the ad in the paper. I’m in town for a meeting.” He gestured toward the ill-at-ease woman at his side and added, “Sage Anderson, meet Melody Slaughter. Melody has visited Eternity Springs and she knows Bear.”
    At that, Sage dismissed him, turned to Melody, and spoke graciously. “It’s lovely to meet you. Thank you so much for coming.”
    Melody’s distress disappeared. Curious amusement replaced it as she glanced from Sage to Colt, then back to Sage again. Then with genuine warmth she said, “I’m so glad to be here. I want to tell you that your work”—she gestured to the centerpiece—“warms my heart and lifts my spirits. It makes me smile.”
    Sage beamed with pleasure. She shot Colt a look just short of smug. “Let me show you a painting over here. It’s my favorite.”
    She slipped her arm through Melody’s and led her away from Colt. As he