Read Online Trouble in Paradise by Robin Lee Hatcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Lee Hatcher
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there.
She set the caddy on a small folding table, then crossed the room. She turned the latches and lifted each of the three windows, letting in a rush of fresh air. Afterward she turned to survey her surroundings.
A thick layer of dust covered all surfaces, but the room wasn’t as cluttered as the rest of the house. There was a bookcase containing how-to-paint books, books on the history of art and others whose contents couldn’t be easily discerned by their titles alone. Art magazines were neatly stored in plastic magazineracks in one corner. Blank canvases were stacked against the far wall. An empty easel stood in the center of the room, turned toward the windows, she supposed for the best light. An organizer cart on casters had been placed near the easel. She suspected the five drawers of the cart were filled with paintbrushes, tubes of oil paint and other supplies. She wondered how long it had been since any of them were used.
Turning around, she spied a grouping of three portraits on the same wall as the door: portraits of Ian O’Connell.
She walked toward them, feeling the quickening of her heart as she did so. The largest of the three paintings showed the cowboy on horseback. Pine-covered mountains served as a backdrop, and Hereford cattle grazed nearby. Dressed in his usual Western attire, he sat on the horse with ease, a half smile lifting one corner of his mouth. His eyes were shaded by the brim of his hat, and yet she felt as if he were staring—and smiling—right at her.
She shifted her gaze to the second painting. This one showed Ian sitting in the tall grass, his head bare, hat on the ground beside him. He was surrounded by several border collies, although their markings were different from either Bonny or Coira. He was laughing as one of the dogs licked his chin, his head thrown back, his face bathed in sunshine. She could almost hear his laughter, it seemed so real.
The third painting was much darker than the other two, in both mood and colors. The setting was nightfall, the color scheme predominately shades of blue, gray and black. Ian stood at a corral fence, one boot resting on the lower rail, his arms crossed on the top one. He stared into the distance; his expression was one of longing and great loss.
She felt an unreasonable urge to weep for him.
“She was good, wasn’t she?”
Shayla whirled toward the doorway.
Ian stood there, hat in hand. “Better than I wanted her to be.”
It seemed an odd thing to say.
“She would’ve gone far, probably been famous.” He stepped into the room.
“How long has she been…gone?”
“Ten years.”
“Ten?”
“Long time, isn’t it? I know I should’ve gotten rid of all this. It’s just going to waste. But I…” He shrugged, then came to stand beside her, his gaze now on the portraits. “She did those two—” he motioned toward the one with him on horseback and the one with the dogs “—that first year after she took arts lessons in Boise.” He pointed to the darker one. “This one was the last she painted before she died.”
“How…” She closed her mouth before the rest of the question came out.
But he understood. “How did she die? Car accident. She was driving south of here on the highway, on her way to stay at an artists’ colony. A logging truck overturned right in front of her. The logs broke loose and rolled over the top of her car,crushing it. She was killed instantly.” He paused a moment, then said, “She wasn’t quite twenty-six.”
“How tragic.”
“Joanne never got the chance to do what she wanted before she died.” He looked at her. “Don’t let anything or anyone stop you, Shayla. No one but God knows how long we’ll live. Life can be cut short in an instant. You may not get another chance to write that book of yours if you put it off.”
“That’s why I came here.”
He slapped his Stetson onto his head. “I’m taking the truck into town to order the supplies we’ll need to repair your
She set the caddy on a small folding table, then crossed the room. She turned the latches and lifted each of the three windows, letting in a rush of fresh air. Afterward she turned to survey her surroundings.
A thick layer of dust covered all surfaces, but the room wasn’t as cluttered as the rest of the house. There was a bookcase containing how-to-paint books, books on the history of art and others whose contents couldn’t be easily discerned by their titles alone. Art magazines were neatly stored in plastic magazineracks in one corner. Blank canvases were stacked against the far wall. An empty easel stood in the center of the room, turned toward the windows, she supposed for the best light. An organizer cart on casters had been placed near the easel. She suspected the five drawers of the cart were filled with paintbrushes, tubes of oil paint and other supplies. She wondered how long it had been since any of them were used.
Turning around, she spied a grouping of three portraits on the same wall as the door: portraits of Ian O’Connell.
She walked toward them, feeling the quickening of her heart as she did so. The largest of the three paintings showed the cowboy on horseback. Pine-covered mountains served as a backdrop, and Hereford cattle grazed nearby. Dressed in his usual Western attire, he sat on the horse with ease, a half smile lifting one corner of his mouth. His eyes were shaded by the brim of his hat, and yet she felt as if he were staring—and smiling—right at her.
She shifted her gaze to the second painting. This one showed Ian sitting in the tall grass, his head bare, hat on the ground beside him. He was surrounded by several border collies, although their markings were different from either Bonny or Coira. He was laughing as one of the dogs licked his chin, his head thrown back, his face bathed in sunshine. She could almost hear his laughter, it seemed so real.
The third painting was much darker than the other two, in both mood and colors. The setting was nightfall, the color scheme predominately shades of blue, gray and black. Ian stood at a corral fence, one boot resting on the lower rail, his arms crossed on the top one. He stared into the distance; his expression was one of longing and great loss.
She felt an unreasonable urge to weep for him.
“She was good, wasn’t she?”
Shayla whirled toward the doorway.
Ian stood there, hat in hand. “Better than I wanted her to be.”
It seemed an odd thing to say.
“She would’ve gone far, probably been famous.” He stepped into the room.
“How long has she been…gone?”
“Ten years.”
“Ten?”
“Long time, isn’t it? I know I should’ve gotten rid of all this. It’s just going to waste. But I…” He shrugged, then came to stand beside her, his gaze now on the portraits. “She did those two—” he motioned toward the one with him on horseback and the one with the dogs “—that first year after she took arts lessons in Boise.” He pointed to the darker one. “This one was the last she painted before she died.”
“How…” She closed her mouth before the rest of the question came out.
But he understood. “How did she die? Car accident. She was driving south of here on the highway, on her way to stay at an artists’ colony. A logging truck overturned right in front of her. The logs broke loose and rolled over the top of her car,crushing it. She was killed instantly.” He paused a moment, then said, “She wasn’t quite twenty-six.”
“How tragic.”
“Joanne never got the chance to do what she wanted before she died.” He looked at her. “Don’t let anything or anyone stop you, Shayla. No one but God knows how long we’ll live. Life can be cut short in an instant. You may not get another chance to write that book of yours if you put it off.”
“That’s why I came here.”
He slapped his Stetson onto his head. “I’m taking the truck into town to order the supplies we’ll need to repair your
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