Read Online Dove in the Window by Earlene Fowler - Free Book Online Page A

Parker House rolls) came to realize that all her creativity was focused on her art. Known to her rapidly growing and fanatically loyal cache of collectors as P.L. Williams, she was a recent addition to our artist’s co-op. Her specialties were meticulous pencil renderings and autumn-toned watercolors of various aspects of western life. She worked part time at Roland Bennett’s gallery downtown, barely subsisting on her meager salary and on the money from the occasional sale of her work. A native of Bakersfield, she often used migrant farm workers as subjects in her paintings because she herself was only one generation removed from the Okie migrant workers who had settled the Central Valley in the thirties.
    “You’ll see plenty of beef today,” I assured her. “Bovine and otherwise.” I grinned at Olivia, who gave me a thumbs up. She wore a bright red flannel shirt, tight Levi’s, and an electric blue down vest. A dark sketching pencil was tucked inside the thick knot of black hair piled haphazardly on her head.
    Olivia Contreras specialized in western Latino life with a personal affinity for the Latino cowboy. Her acrylic paintings were bright, bold, and big—just like Olivia herself. She’d recently made a sale to a small museum in Santa Fe, which was an important addition to her portfolio. She’d also won the very sought-after commission for the Heritage Days poster. Her colorful painting depicted the Mission Santa Celine, the Sinclair Hacienda, the Chumash Indian petroglyphs at Painted Rock, the old Sam Lee store in what was once San Celina’s bustling Chinatown district, and the Ruiz-Simon Victorian house in downtown San Celina. The poster hung in every business downtown and would be on sale all next week. Both artists were here at my invitation—to view the roundup and to experience a real ranch barbecue.
    I gestured at the glossy truck that, if my estimation was right, cost at least twenty-five thousand dollars. “Who’d you steal the truck from?”
    “It’s mine,” Olivia said, leaning against it. “I couldn’t resist.”
    I nodded but couldn’t help wondering where she got the money to buy the truck. She was one of the more vocal complainers of poverty at the co-op. I scanned the large group of people milling around.
    “Have you seen Shelby?” I asked. “We talked earlier this morning, but she’s disappeared. She’s supposed to be riding with us today.”
    “I saw her and Kip at the bunkhouse about fifteen minutes ago,” Parker said. Her voice lowered. “They were having one horrendous fight.”
    “She ought to tell that red-necked cretino to take a hike,” Olivia said. “I just hope if she’s putting out that she’s protecting herself ‘cause I’d bet fifty bucks he’s screwing around on her.”
    Parker shrugged. “I think she’s a pretty sharp lady.”
    I didn’t comment. I’d been, with great determination and only a modicum of success, trying not to get involved in the gossip that flew like swift little sparrows around the co-op and museum.
    “Anything in particular either of you are looking to observe today?” I asked, trying to change the subject. Ignoring their tempting tidbit of gossip was almost physically painful for someone as nosy as me.
    “I’m thinking about starting a new series of renderings,” Parker said. “I’m concentrating on the younger women today. I’ve been thinking about how the role of women has changed in agriculture in the last few years. The older women are back at the ranch house cooking our food, while you young women are out here gathering cattle. That’s liberation, for sure, but the question is, who’s going to feed everyone when this older generation passes away? Anyway, I’ve got my trusty old Minolta and a ton of black-and-white film. But you know me, I don’t really know what I want until I see it, so just act natural.”
    “Oh, great,” I said. “In other words, you and Shelby both will be attempting to catch me in my most