his gaze. “But then I realized this was my chance to do what I’ve wanted to do for years. I believe God opened this door so I could walk through it.” Softly she added, “My parents think I’m crazy.”
“It takes a lot of guts to do what you did.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.” He stared into space, a far-off look in his eyes, as if he could see something she couldn’t. “Yes, I do think so.”
She almost reached out to touch him, to comfort him somehow.
“Following a dream takes courage,” he said, his voice sounding as far away as his gaze. “Because it changes everything. Not just for yourself but for those who love you.”
He let his chair rock forward, put down the mug, then rose to his feet.
“I’d better get busy. We’ll have a short working day with those storms blowing in.”
And with that, he strode from the kitchen, leaving Shayla wondering what it was she’d seen in his eyes and heard in his voice.
Ian had thought a lot about Joanne in the last week. More than he’d thought about her in years. And he couldn’t say he cared much for it. He’d thought that was all behind him, that he’d laid it to rest long ago.
Apparently he’d been wrong.
As Blue picked the way up a shale-covered trail, Ian remembered again those last years of his marriage, remembered the way it had felt, seeing his wife changing before his eyes. She had discovered oil painting quite by accident, and once she’d begun, nothing else had been as important to her.
Not even him.
She’d turned one of the upstairs bedrooms into her studio—a bedroom that he’d thought would be the nursery. She’d spent hours poring over books about the great masters, about different painting techniques. That first summer, she’d driven down to Boise twice each week to take lessons from some teacher who was supposed to be one of the best instructors in the Northwest. Everybody had said Joanne possessed an extraordinary talent that should be developed.
But Ian had wanted a wife who was involved in the everyday workings of a thriving cattle ranch. He’d wanted children—a houseful of them—not more oil paintings on his walls.
At the top of the ridge, he stopped his horse and dismounted. Then he stood there, staring down at the crystal clear mountain lake below.
Joanne had loved him once, but she’d needed something he hadn’t been able to give her. It wasn’t pleasant, admitting the part he’d played in the disintegration of his marriage. Their love had died by inches; it had been painful, watching it deteriorate and crumble before his eyes. Joanne had had a dream to follow, and she’d had the courage to follow it. But he’d tried to stop her. He’d tried to make her want only what he wanted. He’d been immature, stubborn, selfish.
Maybe if he hadn’t been all those things, Joanne would be alive today. Maybe they would still be married. Maybe they would have the children he’d wanted. And maybe his childhood sweetheart would be famous, her paintings hanging in galleries from New York City to Los Angeles.
Only God knew what might have been if she hadn’t died while running away…from him.
“I’m sorry, Jo. I should’ve understood. I should’ve tried harder.”
Shayla Vincent also had a dream to pursue. And although she hadn’t said it in so many words, he suspected nobody close to her understood that dream or how important it was. He hoped they wouldn’t try to take it away from her.
For some crazy, inexplicable reason, he was determined to help make sure they didn’t.
Clasping a caddy full of cleaning products, rags and brushes, Shayla opened the door to the first bedroom on the second floor. But what she discovered was an artist’s studio instead of a bedroom.
His wife’s studio.
There was a faint odor of oil paint and turpentine in the closed room. A disturbing odor. It made Shayla feel like an intruder.
Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t an intruder. She was supposed to be
“It takes a lot of guts to do what you did.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.” He stared into space, a far-off look in his eyes, as if he could see something she couldn’t. “Yes, I do think so.”
She almost reached out to touch him, to comfort him somehow.
“Following a dream takes courage,” he said, his voice sounding as far away as his gaze. “Because it changes everything. Not just for yourself but for those who love you.”
He let his chair rock forward, put down the mug, then rose to his feet.
“I’d better get busy. We’ll have a short working day with those storms blowing in.”
And with that, he strode from the kitchen, leaving Shayla wondering what it was she’d seen in his eyes and heard in his voice.
Ian had thought a lot about Joanne in the last week. More than he’d thought about her in years. And he couldn’t say he cared much for it. He’d thought that was all behind him, that he’d laid it to rest long ago.
Apparently he’d been wrong.
As Blue picked the way up a shale-covered trail, Ian remembered again those last years of his marriage, remembered the way it had felt, seeing his wife changing before his eyes. She had discovered oil painting quite by accident, and once she’d begun, nothing else had been as important to her.
Not even him.
She’d turned one of the upstairs bedrooms into her studio—a bedroom that he’d thought would be the nursery. She’d spent hours poring over books about the great masters, about different painting techniques. That first summer, she’d driven down to Boise twice each week to take lessons from some teacher who was supposed to be one of the best instructors in the Northwest. Everybody had said Joanne possessed an extraordinary talent that should be developed.
But Ian had wanted a wife who was involved in the everyday workings of a thriving cattle ranch. He’d wanted children—a houseful of them—not more oil paintings on his walls.
At the top of the ridge, he stopped his horse and dismounted. Then he stood there, staring down at the crystal clear mountain lake below.
Joanne had loved him once, but she’d needed something he hadn’t been able to give her. It wasn’t pleasant, admitting the part he’d played in the disintegration of his marriage. Their love had died by inches; it had been painful, watching it deteriorate and crumble before his eyes. Joanne had had a dream to follow, and she’d had the courage to follow it. But he’d tried to stop her. He’d tried to make her want only what he wanted. He’d been immature, stubborn, selfish.
Maybe if he hadn’t been all those things, Joanne would be alive today. Maybe they would still be married. Maybe they would have the children he’d wanted. And maybe his childhood sweetheart would be famous, her paintings hanging in galleries from New York City to Los Angeles.
Only God knew what might have been if she hadn’t died while running away…from him.
“I’m sorry, Jo. I should’ve understood. I should’ve tried harder.”
Shayla Vincent also had a dream to pursue. And although she hadn’t said it in so many words, he suspected nobody close to her understood that dream or how important it was. He hoped they wouldn’t try to take it away from her.
For some crazy, inexplicable reason, he was determined to help make sure they didn’t.
Clasping a caddy full of cleaning products, rags and brushes, Shayla opened the door to the first bedroom on the second floor. But what she discovered was an artist’s studio instead of a bedroom.
His wife’s studio.
There was a faint odor of oil paint and turpentine in the closed room. A disturbing odor. It made Shayla feel like an intruder.
Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t an intruder. She was supposed to be
Similar Books
