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Kaitlyn’s smile, on the other hand—that dynamite smile—looked absolutely genuine. And when Quinta walked over to her, she immediately bent to greet the dog, whose tail wagged in approval. When she straightened to look at his mother, that smile was even wider. “It’s a wonderful place, Mrs. Rafferty.”
“Not the best time of year for beauty,” Mom said. “You want that, you need to be here in April. Bluebonnet season.”
“I love the hills in all their seasons,” Kaitlyn said. “But if I wanted to see the full beauty and glory, I only have to look there.”
She gestured at The Painting. Ry saw his mother’s gaze narrow assessingly. Heaven help Kaitlyn Miller if Maggie Rafferty decided there was any falsity, any phony flattery in what she’d said. He didn’t think there had been, but he freely admitted his mother was an excellent—better than he, certainly—judge of people. Especially their sincerity.
“I found out in my research before we came today,” Kaitlyn said, her voice soft, her tone almost apologetic. “How he died, I mean.”
Ry saw his mother go still. He stiffened himself, waiting for the inevitable platitude. It didn’t come.
“His service, this place, that genius,” Kaitlyn said as she nodded at the painting, “What a combination. How fascinating he must have been.” Ry forgot to breathe for a moment. In just a few words, this woman had summed up the complexity of the man his father had been.
Mom drew herself up to her full five foot two. Ry knew from her expression that what Kaitlyn had said had struck a chord with her as it had with him. Emotion echoed in her voice when she spoke. “He was. All of that. The only thing he loved as much as his family and painting was this ranch, and as part of that, this country.”
“We’re lucky to have people like him,” Kaitlyn said quietly. “For however sadly short a time.”
After a moment his mother gave a short, decisive nod of her head. “Welcome to the Rafferty Ranch,” she repeated, only there was genuine warmth in her voice this time. And he knew Kaitlyn Miller had, at least in his mother’s eyes, passed muster. Perhaps more importantly, he saw by her expression and smile that Kaitlyn realized it.
“Thank you,” she said softly, and the warmth in her voice was undeniable. And that was apparently enough to trigger Jillian.
“Kaitlyn will be taking her pictures today,” she said in a tone imperious enough—and dismissive enough—that Ry saw his mother’s eyebrows raise a bit. Jillian seemed to notice, for her tone was much more deferential when she went on. “I’ll be in town, to get the atmosphere. I always try to do that on a story, get the feel for the place my subject calls home.”
Ry didn’t know which Jillian to believe, the imperious one, or the courteous one. He remembered the first moment he’d felt that jab of anger toward her. It had taken him a moment to realize he’d been ticked because of how she’d treated Kaitlyn. No one deserved that kind of disrespect. Well, no one just doing their job, anyway. But given he was going to be stuck talking to the woman for a while, he probably needed to adjust his attitude.
But he wasn’t sure a day spent with Kaitlyn taking photos wasn’t going to be even worse, in a very different way.
As Jillian drove off in the expensive rental car, Ry pondered the situation. It was funny, he would have expected the writer to be the more perceptive one, and yet it was Kaitlyn who had somehow known what to say—or perhaps what not to say—as she spoke of his father. Who had shown respect bordering on awe to both his skill as an artist and his sacrifice.
It hit him suddenly, belatedly…how had she known? He searched his memory, not that he really needed to—he was certain he hadn’t told her Dad had painted that painting. He turned his head to look at her, study her as she chatted with his now-smiling mother. Obviously they had quite hit it off. They’d strayed into Last Stand history, a topic his mother could talk about for hours. Kaitlyn listened with every evidence of genuine interest and proved both that she was paying close attention and that, as a Texan herself, she knew enough of their history to ask things that put a spark of joy in his mother’s eyes.
Ry watched and listened, enjoying it as he always did when his mother dove into her passion. Especially with a willing audience, which Kaitlyn clearly was. She’d just launched on the eighteen-minute battle of San Jacinto when her phone chimed an alarm and Mom announced she had to go, sounding almost reluctant.
“Meeting of the Daughters of Last Stand, about the upcoming Bluebonnet Festival,” she said.
“It’s the beginning of January,” Ry felt compelled to point out.
“And it’s the biggest event in Last Stand, short of the rodeo and Christmas. Never too early to start.”
He gave her a smile and a wry shake of his head before bending to give her a hug. “Love you, Mom.”
“Back at you, my precious son.”
Ry felt himself flush a little; he wished she’d keep the extra syrup to the times when no one else was around. But she never had, and all of the Rafferty boys had learned she likely never would.
“Your mother is…everything she had to be, isn’t she.”
He looked toward Kaitlyn at the words that weren’t really a question. He’d never seen an expression quite like the one she wore now. She looked wistful. Almost sad. “Yes. She is. Was. Always.” Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he blurted, “How did you know my father did that painting?”
For a moment she looked even sadder. “By the pain in your eyes when you look at it,” she said softly. He blinked, she shrugged. “I recognized the look. I’ve seen in it my mirror often enough.”
He understood then. “Your father?” She nodded. “So you know the pain.”
“Yes and no.” He drew back slightly, puzzled. This time her shrug was accompanied by a sigh. “Your father died doing a noble thing. My father died because my mother’s a drunk. A beautiful, alluring drunk.”
The wistful expression as she watched his mother go suddenly made sense. “Ouch,” he said, because he could think of nothing else.
“Yes,” she said.
