Country Roads (9 page)

“Lead the way,” Julia said to Tim, almost leaping out of her chair.

As they walked out of the room with Tim’s miniature Doberman dancing around their feet, Paul was struck by the contrast between the big vet and the red-haired wood sprite.

“Do Tim and I look that odd together?” Claire asked, her eyes also on the pair.

“No, because it’s clear you were made for each other.” He said it without thinking, surprising himself.

She reached out to touch the back of his hand. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from my oldest friend.” She propped her elbows on the table and changed the subject. “So what happened at the meeting today?”

He picked up a fork and twirled it through his fingers. “They said I was the obvious choice for the position.”

She let out a whoop of excitement. “That’s fantastic! Why aren’t you happier?”

“I didn’t accept it.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because there’s one significant factor to be ironed out: the location of my new office.”

“I thought it was going to be in Charleston. Putting it in the state capital makes sense.”

“Well, it turns out they want the project to go beyond West Virginia. They want it to be national in scope.”

Her eyes went wide. “That’s even more exciting.”

He had thought the same thing. In fact, he had started the Pro Bono Project with the idea that it could expand beyond his state’s borders. At lunch when ABA president Ben Serra had put down his knife and fork and leaned forward to say, “We want you to take it nationwide,” adrenaline had surged through Paul’s body so he felt like a racehorse at the starting gate. He was already mentally expanding the scope of his plans when Ben dropped the bombshell that destroyed his euphoria.

“The office would be in DC.” Paul spun the spoon so fast it blurred. “For political reasons.”

“Oh dear. That’s a problem.” Her defeated look echoed his own feelings. “There must be some way to work things out for your brother so you can be away during the week at least.”

He grimaced. He’d run through every possible scenario, but he could come up with no way to keep tabs on Jimmy while working in DC. “I don’t see how. I could have commuted to Charleston every day, but with DC I’d have to stay for the work-week. You know what happened when I took the job in Atlanta. I can’t risk it, for Eric’s sake.”

The thought of his nephew growing up without his father’s presence in his life was too heartbreaking to consider.

“Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry. It’s such a brilliant idea.”

A stab of regret lanced through him, sending the spoon skittering out of his grasp. “It will do a lot of good no matter who runs it.”

“And you’ll always know you were responsible for it.”

“Virtue is its own reward?”

Something in his voice or expression sent Claire on to a new topic. “Well, your virtue was certainly rewarded when you rescued your latest damsel in distress. I never thought I would get to meet the reclusive Julia Castillo.”

“Are her new paintings good?” He retrieved the spoon and placed it carefully beside his empty coffee cup. “Or were you just being kind?”

“It would not be kind to tell her they were good if they weren’t.”

He pushed the glass away and relaxed back in his chair. The suspicion that Claire might have felt sorry for a suffering artist had nagged at him, mostly because he thought the new paintings were so much more interesting than Claire’s famous one. Since he was no art expert, he figured he must be wrong.

“It’s strange,” Claire said, picking up the dessert plates. “She’s much younger than I expected based on the emotional depth of her work.”

He joined her in collecting dishes. “She’s much more Irish than I expected based on her name.”

“That too. All that red hair is gorgeous. And I think she’s wearing an original Villar. I’d kill for one of those.” She sighed with envy.

“A what?”

“Her blouse. I think it’s by an artist named Reuben Villar, who occasionally makes one-of-a-kind clothing. He always insists on a photograph of the purchaser to make sure his creation will suit them and vice versa.”

“He sounds like a control freak.” He stood up and balanced a stack of dirty cups on one forearm.

“Of course he is. He’s an artist.”

As Paul picked up another pile of dishes, Julia and Tim walked back into the dining room. “Careful! You’re going to drop
something!” Julia squeaked, diving toward him as he started toward the kitchen.

Tim caught her wrist with a chuckle. “Paul has the manual dexterity of a circus juggler. He’s never even lost a butter knife.”

“If the lawyer thing doesn’t work out, you’d make a terrific busboy,” Julia said.

The candlelight gleamed in the strands of her hair, shimmered over the silk of her blouse, and twinkled like dancing imps in her eyes. He nearly dumped all the dishes on the ground so he could wrap himself in the glow surrounding her. “Busboy was my fallback career if I didn’t pass the bar exam,” he said before he forced himself to follow Claire.

“Or a magician,” Claire said as she held the kitchen door for him. “He made money by entertaining at children’s birthday parties when he was a teenager,” she explained as Julia came in behind him.

Putting down the dishes in his right hand, he dug into his pocket and palmed a quarter. As Julia walked by, he reached behind her ear and pretended to pull the coin out of her curls. “Do you always carry change in your hair?”

She laughed delightedly, and he felt the bitterness of the afternoon’s disappointment begin to drain away. He should have known better than to fight the limits of his life.

“That metal sculpture you have in your garden is fantastic,” Julia said, as she put the remains of the cake back in its box. “Tim said the local farrier did it. I’d like to talk to him.”

“Blake’s not big on socializing,” Claire said. “Your best bet is to hang around Healing Springs Stables when a horse is due for shoeing. In fact, we should go for a trail ride together. The mountain paths around here are beautiful.”

Paul watched in fascination as Julia’s skin went from pale cream to delicate pink. “Well, er, that would be nice. Except I don’t know how to ride.”

The varying expressions of shock on the three faces turned toward her made Julia’s flush burn even hotter. She hated to admit this fact about herself. “I never learned.”

She was not allowed to.

Her stepfather, a skilled equestrian, had put her on a horse when she was six. She had been excited until the horse moved, and she looked down at the ground whizzing past far below her. Panic closed up her throat so tightly she couldn’t breathe, while a cloud of darkness spread over her vision. She woke up cradled against Papi’s chest as he frantically called her name while the horse grazed peacefully beside them. No one realized it, but that had been her first seizure.

Although her family believed it was nothing more than a panic attack, when she asked to ride again, Papi refused. He was too traumatized by what he thought he had done to his little stepdaughter to attempt it.

Wanting to please her new daddy, she began to draw the horses she couldn’t ride, trying to grind her terror down by understanding them in little pieces: their hooves, their manes, their slender legs and big bodies, their huge, liquid eyes. Then she fell in love with their power and beauty.

A few months later, she was watching the antics of a new foal, her drawing pad balanced on her knees, when the next seizure sent her tumbling off the fence she’d been sitting on. Her uncle found her rolled up in a ball inside the pen, sobbing, as the foal’s mother gently snuffled at her.

It was no longer a panic attack. It was epilepsy.

She’d lost count of the times she’d opened her eyes to find the anguished faces of her parents, her uncle, or her stepbrothers hovering over her. No matter how she tried to reassure them, her seizures distressed and terrified them, leading her relatives to cosset her in an effort to avoid another episode.

As she scanned their astonished expressions, she knew she was not going to tell anyone in Sanctuary about the electrical storms that used to wrack her brain. Two years ago, the doctors had agreed to let her stop her antiseizure medication. She’d been fine since then, so there was no need to risk the pity or withdrawal the information always evoked.

“But you paint your horses with such perception!” Claire looked the most flabbergasted.

Julia wanted to shrink down and crawl away under the door. Until she felt the solid warmth of Paul’s arm circling her shoulders and pulling her against his side. He ran his palm up and down the silk covering her arm in a gesture of comfort. “It just makes your pictures all the more amazing,” he said.

“Of course it does,” Claire said, looking horrified. “I’m sorry. I was just so surprised.”

“Please, it’s fine,” Julia said. And it was, as long as Paul offered her the support of his body. “Just embarrassing when you’re known as an equine artist.”

“You know, you can still hang around Sharon’s barn and talk to the farrier,” Tim said. “Sharon’s an admirer of your paintings too.”

“Then I’d like to meet her.”

Paul stepped away, and the side of her body that had been pressed against his felt chilled. “I’ll take you down there tomorrow,” he said.

She felt a surge of gratitude for his matter-of-fact tone, but she didn’t want him to babysit her out of a sense of responsibility. It was time for her to stand on her own two feet. “Thanks, but I don’t want you to feel no good deed goes unpunished.”

“I would hardly call a fifteen-minute drive with a famous artist punishment,” he said. His words were light, but he wasn’t smiling. She got the sinking feeling she had somehow insulted him.

“A
beautiful
famous artist,” Tim interjected into the suddenly tense atmosphere, his eyes holding a twinkle.

When she caught Claire throwing him an approving glance, Julia knew she had put her foot in her mouth. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“Maybe Sharon will find you a whisper horse,” Claire said.

“A whisper horse? What does that mean?”

“I’ll tell you on the way home,” Paul said. “Claire’s explanation might make you question her sanity.”

Julia’s curiosity was piqued when Tim smiled at Claire in a very private way, and said, “We owe a lot to Claire’s whisper horse.”

Paul came back to Julia’s side, taking her elbow with his hand. “We should get going. I have an early meeting tomorrow morning.”

Julia said her good-byes with regret. These people made her feel like one of their circle, but they didn’t handle her with kid gloves. Her uncle treated her like a hothouse flower that had to be protected from the elements and fed special food. But this flower was expected to grow in a certain direction.

O
KAY, IS A
whisper horse like a horse whisperer?” Julia asked as soon as the ’Vette had cleared the first bend in the Arbuckles’ driveway.

“I’ll explain, but you’re not going to believe it.”

“I’m in the mood to believe anything.” Julia settled back in her seat with a contented sigh. “All that good food and wine have made me very receptive.”

“Now that’s a good way to get yourself in trouble.” Paul’s voice vibrated low and sexy in the dim, enclosed space.