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He looked at her. This was a woman who got it. “Where are you from?”
“I was born in Kingsland.”
“Ah. The Slab. Great place. Took a trip there, when I was a kid.” He remembered well the popular spot where the Llano River flowed over some rock slabs, creating pools, sandy beaches, water chutes to lie in, even some miniature rapids. It had also been one of the last trips with Dad; he’d been deployed again not long after. And hadn’t come back alive.
“Points for not mentioning chainsaws,” she answered dryly.
He laughed, glad of the distraction of her mention of the popular horror movie that had been filmed at a house there.
“Shall we get started?” Ms. Jacobs said, sounding irritated again and giving Kaitlyn an annoyed look. As if she couldn’t stand not being the center of attention for more than a few minutes.
He’d been wishing ever since he’d said yes that he’d said no instead. Now that wish was even more fervent. If it was only the photographer, or if she’d been the writer, he might have ended up looking forward to this. But she wasn’t, and since it was too late to back out, the best he could do was get it over with fast.
“Ms. Jacobs,” he began.
She flashed him a lovely smile that he was sure was supposed to be engaging. “Please, call me Jillian.” Then she glanced at Kaitlyn. “Why don’t you head outside and do what you do, while we start the heavy lifting here.”
It wasn’t a question, it was an order. And it appeared Kaitlyn would obey without dissent. It was obvious who was in charge here. He understood that on things like this photos were only a part, that it was the story in words that mattered most to many. That he worked visually, with work you could see and touch, was probably coloring his reaction. But he couldn’t help wondering if the woman who had reacted as she had to The Painting could really take ordinary photographs.
And he wondered what she’d think of his own painting by the same artist. But since it hung on the wall of the loft bedroom in his barn studio, he was never going to know.
Before that thought could derail him completely, he shifted his focus.
“Why don’t you wait, and I’ll show you around later.”
He made certain his words weren’t a question either. Start as you mean to go on, his father had always said, and he wasn’t going to let this imperious woman completely run the show. Not here, on the ranch that had been his family’s foundation for generations. Where he also didn’t want strangers wandering around unescorted, even if they were here for a legitimate reason.
Irritation flashed in those lime eyes. But Kaitlyn said evenly, “He has a point, Jillian. Liability and all that.”
“Oh. I suppose you’re right.” She said it grudgingly. Clearly the woman hadn’t thought of that aspect, and it seemed as if she resented that Kaitlyn had. And honestly, neither had he; he’d only wanted a little more control over this situation he’d let himself be talked into.
He should have insisted they do this somewhere else, neutral ground. He was even more reluctant now to have his work space invaded. It was sacrosanct, and in the back of his mind he’d had the idea that the writer would stick her nose in for a quick glance, but the rest of the interview would take place here, or outside. But Jillian Jacobs didn’t look like an outside kind of woman. No, she was more the elegant cocktail party type. With important people she could schmooze and contacts she could later turn to her benefit.
Well, that was harsh. Judge much? Still letting Chelsea affect your thinking?
Maybe he needed to lighten up. It was just his antipathy toward this whole thing that had him on edge. Maybe she was really a nice person at heart.
A nice person who said things like: “She’s just the photographer.”
Then again, maybe not.
*
Kaitlyn had toadmit Jillian was good at this. She started with benign, expected questions, like where did he learn something like what he did—the basics from an old hand who did it over in Whiskey River, the next town over, the rest from trial, error, and a lot of discarded pieces—when did he decide to make it a career—he didn’t, it just sort of happened that his work got discovered—and several other routine things that one would expect. And she found she was glad to still be here, able to listen and watch. She was intrigued in a way she rarely was. Intrigued by more than his incredible appearance and that cat-quick way of his, by more than how extraordinary he was going to be to photograph.
And fascinated by the way he had turned Jillian’s dismissal of her around, using the same technique of a question that was an order in disguise, only with much more sense of command.
Jillian kept on with the ordinary questions a bit longer. Yes, his family had been here even before the battle that gave the town its name. Yes, four brothers, Cody she’d met, Chance they’d heard about, and Keller, the oldest, who ran the ranch along with their mother after their father had died.
Kaitlyn saw the flash of a long-carried grief in his eyes. A familiar look she recognized because she often saw it in her own reflection, on those days when she missed her own father to the point of a physical ache. She also thought she saw his gaze flick, just for an instant, to the gorgeous painting on the wall behind where Jillian was sitting. And a sudden certainty came to her, that explained the pain in his eyes and his voice when she’d asked about it.
His father. His father had painted it.
She studied the painting, which she’d been staring at a lot of the time anyway, with a fresh vision. The composition of the scene was perfect, with an outcropping of the stone that made up the Balcones escarpment beneath the Hill Country on the left edge, making the incredible expanse of the bluebonnet-covered hills seem even more like a luxury blue carpet, and the spot where earth met sky so close to the same color blue that the horizon was almost impossible to discern. A hawk of some kind circled above. She thought a redtail from the faintest touch of that color, exactly as it happened in real life when you only caught a glimpse of one of the raptors far above.
She shifted her gaze back to the man sitting in the chair opposite Jillian. Kaitlyn had taken the chair to one side, not wanting to be too close, knowing the woman would see it as an intrusion. She wanted her interviewee’s attention solely on her.
She was still softballing, and he was answering easily enough. Kaitlyn sensed he was beginning to relax.
