LITMIR.BIZ

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a braid. “As you can see, I do my own upkeep around here, and I’ve already completed my painting chores for the year.”

      To my amazement, he’d thrown back his head and laughed heartily. As vibrant as the sound had been, I immediately bristled, convinced that I was dealing with yet another man seeing me as a helpless woman. As the saying goes, Charlie had been hardly cold in the ground when several in town had approached me about buying or leasing our property, some even going so far as to ask, “What use will you have for it now that he’s gone?” Incredible. They’d all seemed to have experienced some collective memory lapse forgetting that I’d been born on this land, and had worked alongside my father, and then with my husband our entire married life. What’s more, I was as capable as most men when it came to maintenance and basic repairs.

      Just as I’d opened my mouth to give this intruder a piece of my mind, he held up his hand in that universal gesture of requesting patience. I found some by reaching for the near-empty thermos at my feet. I hoped it had enough cool water left in it so when he did let me speak, my voice didn’t sound like a crow’s. I had read that in Europe they used to refer to an annoyed woman as, “Sounding like a fish wife.”

      “I’m not that kind of painter,” Sam offered almost gently. “Although I’m not against such labor when it’s needed back at my own place.”

      It was a miracle that I didn’t choke on that last swallow of water. And, while it was still cool, my face burned with embarrassment. That must have showed even with my wide-brim straw hat casting my face in shadow because he abruptly leaned across the seat and extended his hand. From my vast readings, I knew he’d just committed a social error in that I clearly remembered by Emily Post standards, it was for a woman to decide whether to shake a man’s hand or not. But I so wanted this moment over, I tore off my leather glove and reciprocated with my firm, if clammy, grasp.

      “How about we start over?” he’d continued, his gaze searching. “I’m Sam and I was looking forward to meeting you, and seeing this beautiful countryside I’d heard so much about.”

      He was all easygoing charm and reassurance, and by evening we were sharing a bottle of cabernet on my recently repainted porch. Sam proved to be one of the most fascinating men I’d ever met. Soon, he even convinced me to rent him the guesthouse attached to the stables to use when he was in the area. He sweetened the temptation by giving me one of his first landscape paintings of my property. We kept our agreement as quiet as possible knowing what a surge of gossip it would have spawned around town—something I didn’t need any more than he wanted the celebrity ogling. It wasn’t like me to consent to such an arrangement with someone I barely knew, but I am a person who trusts her instincts and believes she reads people fairly well, and those attributes told me it would be okay. My decision was soon supported by facts after I checked him out a bit.

      A web search confirmed that Sam was far more than a painter. Yes, he was a renowned western artist whose work commanded incredible prices, but first he’d been a respected surgeon—a pediatric cardiologist. Not only that, he was equally famous for his philanthropy, including being responsible for a new wing at Cook Children’s Hospital in Fort Worth, which I later learned is where he’d done most of his surgeries. That alone left me speechless and humbled for days afterward.

      Fast forward from last spring, now we were rushing into an extra early winter given it wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet. Sam had not only become a good and dear friend; he was fast becoming an important part of my life. I knew he would leave a huge emptiness if he stopped coming to East Texas. But he wanted more, so much more that I was growing overly warm again just thinking about our last conversation.

      “Get out of my head for now,” I pleaded, as I hurried to the main floor bathroom to be sure there were enough towels and toiletries for my guests. Otherwise, I knew when Maggie arrived, she would take one look at me and jump to the conclusion Sam and I had indulged in more than a little verbal flirtation.

      When I was through with inside preparations, I pulled on my jacket to go to the stable. I’d already put extra hay out for the cattle, but my four horses needed to be fed and watered. Next I brought more dry wood inside, carrying some upstairs to the fireplace in the master bedroom. I’d almost returned to the bottom of the stairs when I heard the front door open.

      “Yoo-hoo . . . Retta?” Maggie’s first-soprano voice echoed throughout the house. “We’re here.”

      “Perfect timing . . . now that the chores are all done,” I sang back at her. Maggie would know I was teasing, just as she knew not to bother with knocking or ringing the doorbell before entering.

      “Oh, thank goodness.” Maggie pursed her lips to send a kiss my way as she limped toward the kitchen bearing what looked and sounded like quite the liquor supply. “This system has my bunions killing me. I can’t wait to get out of these gorgeous but hideously tight boots.”

      There was only a few months difference in our ages; however, we were polar opposites when it came to fashion and style. Her hair—currently in a short, chic do—changed length and color more often than the seasons, and some of her clothing choices left me wondering if she sometimes dressed in the dark? Nevertheless, there was no denying Maggie still had whatever “it” was and, even at her age, managed to look sexy. Today, she was wearing a pair of snug-fitting jeans and some sort of orange sherbet-colored, shaggy-haired jacket over a navy blue wool tunic.

      I raised my eyebrows at the jacket. “What had to die so you could wear that thing?”

      “Nothing, smarty,” she said over her shoulder. “Highland sheep are sheared.”

      “Sheep, huh? I would have put money on it being musk ox.”

      “Witch.”

      Fighting back a grin, I called after her, “I had no idea they came in that color!”

      Behind her came Dana, her warm smile diluted by the sadness in her brown eyes. She was a pretty, petite woman, with dark hair cut gamin-short that framed an oval, photogenic face with an enviable complexion. Her pregnant belly protruded far beyond a well-worn suede jacket that perfectly matched her hair.

      “Thank you, Retta. It’s so good of you to let us come stay with you.”

      The way she carefully leaned over to set her canvas tote by the entryway table gave me concern. “None of us need to be alone during a storm, particularly one promising such unpredictable conditions. How are you feeling, dear? It looks like your back is giving you all kinds of trouble.”

      “Then I’m perfect for a woman who’s six weeks away from delivery. The doctor claims we’re both doing fine, although last week one of his repeat patients told me in the reception area that he doesn’t always wait until closing time to start mixing martinis, so I’m not sure how much faith to put in his vision, let alone his medical prowess.”

      I hugged her gently. “Well, if it’s any reassurance, you look as lovely as ever.”

      Carly entered with some hesitation. Her long hair resembled strands of golden wheat and appeared as naturally straight. Her hot-pink cashmere turtleneck sweater and skinny jeans perfectly accentuated a Hollywood starlet’s figure. A black leather jacket with matching knee-high boots, and Chanel handbag with the iconic overlapping C emblem on the front completed the ensemble. Her outfit probably cost more than all of my living room furniture; however, I stopped speculating when I saw the white little dog she had tucked against her. It had to be a toy something or other, since it wasn’t much bigger than the palm of her hand. I struggled to repress a wince as I thought of my cow dog, Rosie, who, since Charlie’s death had been my only housemate. Even though she’s been good to never actually kill one, Rosie’s favorite pastime tends to be chasing after rabbits and squirrels. That had me hoping she wouldn’t mistake the little fur ball for a cottontail.

      “Carly,” I said, with a more formal smile. “Welcome.”

      “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Cole,” she said in a soft and melodious Marilyn Monroe-type voice. “Your house is beautiful and I loved driving up that tree-lined driveway.”

      “Thank

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