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“You know,” she said, and he braced himself as her voice took on that tone that warned him she’d been using that Mom intuition again, “I think you two are a lot alike.” He blinked at that. She went on. “You’ve just been doubtful about different things. Seems like she’s sure of her talent with a camera, but nothing else. You grew up knowing you turned heads, but you’ve never been sure of the genius you were born with.”
“It’s just a knack,” he said. He tried to shrug, but Kaitlyn’s words echoing in his head made it impossible.
… denying him.
He knew sloughing it off had been a mistake when his mother set down her own coffee mug rather sharply. “You can belittle my opinion, because I’m here to defend it. But your father isn’t.”
He drew back. What was that supposed to mean? “What are you—”
“Your father knew what talent you had. I remember the night, after you’d gone to bed, that he sat right where you’re sitting and went through that old sketchbook of yours. And he looked up and said, ‘He’ll outshine me someday.’”
Ry stared at her. “You never told me that. Neither did he.”
The old, too familiar pain glowed in her blue eyes for a moment. He was sorry about that, but he was too stunned by what she’d said to want to divert this.
“Because,” she said, that pain in her voice as well, “he assumed there would be a next time. But that night was his last in this house.” She stopped, and Ry swallowed hard as he watched his mother, this petite woman who had held the Raffertys together, steady herself. As she had done so many times. “And after that, I couldn’t bear to. But I should have told you. When you first started denying you were an artist, I should have told you.”
He couldn’t stop himself; he crossed the few feet between them and pulled her into a fierce hug. She so rarely let the old pain show, so he knew how close to the surface it must be now for her to let it out.
“He said it with such pride, Rylan,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. “Such fierce, fatherly pride. Only a loving father could be so very glad that his son would one day outshine him.”
For a moment longer she lingered, but then the strong, steel-spined Maggie Rafferty was back, and she straightened.
“You get going. I have to go check on Two. He’s still a little mopey about being weaned.”
“He loves his mother. I get that,” Ry said, holding her gaze. “I love mine too. More than she’ll ever know.”
The smile she gave him then was almost blinding. And when she headed for the barn, Quinta dancing at her heels, he thought yet again that despite tragedy, the Rafferty family was pretty darn lucky.
He glanced at the painting on the wall. “You built well, Dad,” he said softly.
Then he finished his coffee, grabbed his mother’s abandoned mug, rinsed them both and put them in the dishwasher. And headed out to his truck to go get Kaitlyn, who had had much more tragedy, and was long overdue on some luck.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You’re as beautifulas your rider, aren’t you, m’boy?”
Kaitlyn crooned at the big black horse who nudged her with his nose. He whickered softly, and she smiled as she patted him. She’d come ahead into the barn while Ry paused to take a phone call, wanting to see how Two, the colt being weaned, was doing. But Flyer had stuck his head out and snorted at her as she went, as if offended she’d passed by without saying hello.
“And about as easy to ignore, too,” she said, stroking the silken smooth nose.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
The light, amused voice came from so close behind her Kaitlyn almost jumped. She turned to see the irrepressible Sydney Brock.
“Hi,” she said, feeling a bit awkward that the woman might have overheard her incautious comments to the horse.
“He is beautiful, isn’t he?” When Kaitlyn hesitated, the blonde chuckled. “That applies to both of them.”
Kaitlyn felt her cheeks heat, but it was impossible to be too embarrassed when it was clear Sydney was laughing with her, not at her. Still, she was glad when Sydney continued, relieving her of the burden of coming up with a response.
“I’ve often wondered which combination would be more striking, the matching duo with Ry aboard this guy and Cody aboard Chance’s palomino, or if they switched.”
Kaitlyn smiled, remembering her own musings on the topic. “I had the same thought. I decided that if they were together, the opposites. Individually, the match.”
Sydney looked thoughtful, then smiled and nodded. “Good call. But then, you do have that artist’s eye. Speaking of which, where is the resident non-artist?”
“On the phone,” she said, nodding back toward the tack room. “Slater, the man from the saloon, I think?”
