Carter waited while she closed the gate and latched it again. He wanted to ask her why Mr. Robards hadn’t used some of his prize money from the races Picture of Perfection had won to do some upkeep on the farm. As a veterinarian, he knew faulty gates and fences could lead to animals escaping and getting hit by a car or falling prey to a predator.
“Looks like you could use a handyman to fix that gate,” he said.
She sighed. “I’ll get to it one of these days. It just seems like there’s never enough time to get everything done around here.”
An artist and a farmhand. He wondered what other talents she possessed.
They climbed a small knoll, the meadow grass reaching almost to his knees. Then he saw a white gazebo in the distance.
“That’s my refuge,” Gillian announced.
He followed her there, impressed at the way she’d transformed it into a makeshift artist’s studio. There was an easel with a partially completed painting on it, as well as a small table full of bristle brushes and paint.
“It’s very nice,” he said, noting how the breeze fanned her hair around her face.
Gillian smiled. “It might be a bit unorthodox, but I do my best work out here. I have the most inspiring view in the world.”
He turned to look beyond the gazebo and his breath caught in his throat. Lush green valleys dotted with horses lay between her gazebo and the Pacific Ocean. He recognized the horizon as the same one in the painting he’d just bought. Somehow, she’d been able to embrace the beauty of nature around her and make it come alive on the canvas.
“Come and have a look at my work in progress.” Gillian led him farther into the gazebo. “I could use a second opinion.”
Carter followed her inside, his eyes going immediately to the easel. “You’re doing another painting of Picture of Perfection?”
She sighed. “I can’t seem to stop painting him. His name is my curse, because no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to achieve perfection.”
Carter disagreed. Everything about her was perfect. Her painting, her eyes, her bewitching smile. He moved closer to the easel. “It looks perfect to me. What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “It just feels like something is missing. No matter how many times I paint this horse, I’m just not able to move on. I guess I’m looking for something I can’t explain.”
Carter turned to her. There was a vulnerability about Gillian that touched him, yet she definitely wasn’t the damsel-in-distress type. The dichotomy only deepened his curiosity about her.
“How long have you been painting?” he asked.
“About twelve years. I started shortly after I moved here. Herman Robards is my godfather and has never discouraged me from trying new things.” She smiled. “Even really stupid things.”
“We’ve all done really stupid things.”
She arched a winged brow. “Including you?”
“Sure,” he replied. “Some are easy to forget, but others stick with you for much too long. Sometimes forever.”
She moved closer to him. “Tell me one stupid thing you’ve done.”
He blinked, surprised by the request. This was supposed to be a simple meeting between an artist and the buyer of her painting. Now it was becoming surprisingly personal.
“Well, let’s see…,” he began, trying to think of something innocuous.
It had been a very long time since he’d done anything impulsive. Carter had gotten so used to suppressing his own needs and desires to help others that sometimes he felt as if he were just going through the motions of life. It had created an emptiness inside of him that he could usually ignore until someone like Gillian came along. Her vitality and spirit stirred something long dormant inside of him.
“I think you’re stalling,” she teased.
“I got a tattoo when I was a freshman in college,” he blurted.
She wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Why is that stupid?”
He smiled. “Because I’d had too much to drink at the time and did it on a whim. I didn’t give any thought to what the tattoo image should be, I just picked one that appealed to me. Then I spent the next two years covering it up with a bandage.”
Gillian laughed, a sound so enthralling that he ached to hear again.
“Was it that bad?” she asked.
“The art was okay, I guess. Quite good, actually. It was the image I chose that was stupid.”
Curiosity lit her face. “What was it?”
“A butterfly.”
Her eyes widened. “I think that’s a wonderful choice!”
He laughed. “But not the most masculine one. I was a skinny college kid trying to impress girls. Telling them I had picked a butterfly tattoo because I liked the colors wasn’t the best pickup line in the world.”
“It would have worked on me,” Gillian said softly, then she flushed. “I mean, I’m an artist, so I like colors. May I see it?”
Again, Carter was surprised by the request. Gillian didn’t stand on pretense. She was forthright, yet in a way that made him want to accommodate her.
Carter removed his jacket, then rolled up the short sleeve of his shirt to reveal the small butterfly on his bicep.
“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” she breathed, stepping closer to him. Her slender fingers reached out to trace the intricate design.
His body tightened at her soft touch and he had to remind himself to breathe. Standing this close to Gillian made him realize how very long it had been since he’d held a woman in his arms.
Gillian stepped away from him all too soon. “I think it’s a perfectly wonderful tattoo and does not in any way qualify as a stupid mistake. At least you don’t cover it with a bandage anymore.”
“I’ve gotten past the embarrassment, for the most part. I’m certainly not a teenager anymore and stopped trying to impress people years ago.”
She cocked her head to one side. “So how old are you, Carter?”
“I’m thirty-three.”
She grinned. “I’m twenty-two.”
Her age his him like a punch in the gut. Twenty-two. The eleven-year age difference gaped as wide and deep as the Grand Canyon in his mind. She was barely out of her teens and he’d been fantasizing about her naked….
Carter closed his eyes, realizing that she was almost the same age as Noah, his impulsive and immature little brother. Noah had often scoffed at Carter’s stoic predictability and no doubt Gillian would feel the same if she got to know him better. They were both too young to realize that life had a way of interfering with your dreams.
“I’ll be twenty-three next month,” she proclaimed.
Next month he’d be back in Kentucky. He looked at her, aware that her age had come as a shock to him because Gillian had painted a portrait with such a mature and unique perspective. There was something about her, something he couldn’t name. That made her seem wise for her years.
The whinny of a horse drew their attention to the magnificent stallion in the pasture. He stood only a few feet from the gazebo, close enough for Carter to get a good look at him.
“There he is,” Gillian said with a note of awe in her voice. “Picture of Perfection. I think his name fits him, don’t you?”
Carter’s breath hitched. Picture of Perfection really was the spitting image of Leopold’s