Treasured by Sherryl Woods

“Yes, I can see why you wouldn’t want me taking their advice at face value.”
    “What did those two tell you?” she asked, clearly ready to defend herself against all charges.
    “Nothing I hadn’t already figured out for myself,” Kathleen said. “You’re a clever woman, Destiny. And a force to be reckoned with.”
    Destiny squared her shoulders. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said.
    “I thought you might,” Kathleen said, her grin spreading. “I’m not entirely convinced they meant it that way, though.”
    “Those two have nothing to complain about,” Destiny grumbled. “If it weren’t for me giving them and my nephews a timely nudge, their lives would be very different.”
    “I’m sure they would all concede that,” Kathleen agreed. “But may I give you a piece of advice?”
    “Of course.”
    “Don’t count on getting your way where Ben and I are concerned.”
    Destiny looked amused. “Because you’re made of tougher stuff?”
    “Precisely.”
    “Darling, that only means you’ll fall even faster and harder.”
    Abandoning Kathleen to ponder that, she swept out of the gallery, leaving only the scent of her expensive perfume and her warning to linger in the air.
     
    Ben slapped a heavy layer of dark, swirling paint on the canvas and regarded it bleakly. It pretty much mirrored his mood ever since Thanksgiving. Anyone looking at the painting would see nothing but turmoil and confusion. Some fool critic would probably look at it and see evidence of madness, and maybe he had gone a little mad from the moment he’d met Kathleen Dugan. Heaven knew, he couldn’t get her out of his head, which was something he hadn’t expected.
    Nor had he been able to paint, not with the delicate touch required to translate nature into art. The fiasco in front of him had started out to be a painting of Canada geese heading north, but he’d messed it up so badly, he’d simply started layering coats of paint over the disaster, swirling together colors simply to rid himself of the restless desire to be doing something artistic even when his talent seemed to have deserted him. Who knew? Maybe he’d discover a whole new style. Looking at the canvas, though, it didn’t seem likely.
    He was about to put a fresh canvas on the easel and start over when he heard the slam of a car door. He glanced outside and saw Mack climbing out of his SUV. He figured his big brother had probably come to gloat. One look at the painting in front of Ben and even without an ounce of artistic talent of his own, Mack would recognize that his brother was in a funk. To avoid that, Ben took the still-damp canvas and shoved it out of sight, then grabbed a blank one and sat it on the easel.
    Mack came in seconds later, carrying a bag filled with sandwiches and bottles of soda. He glanced at the pristine canvas and raised an eyebrow.
    “Artist’s block?” he inquired, barely containing a grin.
    “Nope,” Ben lied. “Just thinking about a new painting. Haven’t even picked up my brush yet.”
    Mack’s gaze immediately went to the palette of paints that had clearly been in use recently. “Oh?”
    “I finished something earlier,” Ben claimed, knowing he was only digging the hole deeper. Mack might not know art, but he knew his brother. He was also pretty deft at recognizing an evasion when he heard one.
    “Can I see?” he asked, his expression innocent. His eyes betrayed him, though. They were filled with amusement.
    “No. I tossed it out,” Ben claimed. “It wasn’t coming together right.”
    “Maybe you were too close to it. Could be you’d lost perspective. I could give you my opinion,” Mack offered cheerfully, clearly not buying the elaborate tale.
    “I’d rather you just dole out one of those sandwiches and leave the art critiques to people who know what they’re talking about,” Ben groused.
    “You mean people like Kathleen Dugan?” Mack asked, his expression perfectly bland as he handed over a roast