Claiming The Single Mom's Heart. Glynna Kaye
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There are bunches of talented people out there.”
“And you’re one of them.”
He looked shyly pleased at her words, but she could only stare at him in surprise. “Has no one ever told you how accomplished you are? How sensitively you’ve captured the nuances of nature? It’s criminal that you’re not being paid to do this. I could—”
No, while she could easily prove her point that his work could garner sales, she wouldn’t offer to take his photos to the gallery. Not only would some of the other Co-op members—like Gideon—frown on that, but why should she, a struggling artist herself, smooth the rocky road for a Hunter?
Drawn to the charismatic outdoorsman with an artistic eye, how quickly she’d forgotten he was where he was today and she was where she was because his ancestor had cheated hers.
* * *
“Photography is a private thing for me.” Grady turned his full attention to the petite woman standing beside him, absorbing her evaluation of his work. He’d never talked to anyone outside the family about his photography. And seldom with family, although if he was going to get his plans off the ground to add a photographic element to the Hunter Ridge lineup, that would soon be changing. “Don’t you find that yourself? That in each of your creations you’ve poured a piece of yourself into it and find it hard to release it into the hands of others?”
He still didn’t understand how she could put that extraordinary watercolor of Tessa up for sale. To offer it to some stranger to hang on the wall of their home or office just because they forked over a credit card.
With a soft laugh, she cast him a wary look, no doubt recognizing where his thoughts were going. “A similar reluctance may have been the case for me years ago but now, with a child to support, the almighty dollar wins out every time. I definitely agree with you, though. Each creation carries the creator’s fingerprint, so to speak.”
He nodded. Although she’d pushed herself beyond the self-conscious unwillingness to expose her work to the criticism of others—the thing that held him back—she nevertheless understood his hesitance to go public.
Sunshine pointed at the photo of a fox he’d taken last winter. “Like this one. I don’t imagine you conveniently shot it through your kitchen window, did you? While it’s a moment caught in time, it’s my guess you observed the comings and goings of this elusive creature, studied the angle of the sun, glare off the snow, and gave thought to composition. You knew the mood and message you wanted to convey before the shutter clicked. All three of these photos strongly reflect the artist behind the lens.”
Artist. He didn’t much care for that label. He thought of himself as more of an observer of wildlife who’d learned the tricks of capturing an image. One who made use of a camera’s technical features to produce a pleasing photo.
They talked for some time about his current preference for black-and-white, use of focal length and the considerations made in composition. About the challenges of wildlife. It was in many ways oddly affirming to speak with someone knowledgeable about those aspects of his work.
“Oh, my goodness.” Sunshine cringed as she looked at the clock on his credenza. “I barged in on your day to look for my pen, but didn’t intend to take up all your time.”
He smiled at her flustered movements, the appealing flush on her face. “I didn’t have anything scheduled for the rest of the afternoon. I enjoyed our visit.”
“I did, too.” Another wave of color rose in her cheeks. Then she abruptly turned away. “But I need to get back to the gallery.”
Halfway to the door, she glanced at the grouping of vintage photos on the wall and paused. “So are these more of your mother’s yard-sale finds?”
Curiously relieved that she hadn’t dashed off, he moved to stand beside her. “Not these. I latched on to them when my grandpa Hunter passed away when I was nineteen.”
“So this is your family?”
“Some are.” He studied the photos, then pointed to a stiffly composed group of people standing outside a cabin. “Like this one.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“These two are my great-great-grandparents. Harrison—he went by Duke—and Pearl Hunter. They came here on the cusp of the twentieth century. Acquired land in the very early 1900s. The youngster hanging on to the mangy-looking dog is my great-grandfather, Carson. And his sisters are next to him.”
“And what about these two?” Sunshine touched her finger lightly to the nonreflective glass, noting another man and a woman off to the side. “If I’m not mistaken, the woman looks to be Native American.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Those people lived on the property. Friends of the family.”
That was, if you could call a man who’d betrayed you a friend. Grady had intentionally placed this photo front and center in his office after Jasmine’s underhandedness. A reminder that, as also in the case of Aunt Char’s disloyalty, Hunters had to look out for Hunters first and foremost. Outsiders couldn’t be trusted.
“Do they have names?”
“Walter Royce and his wife, Flora.” Their monikers were emblazoned on his brain. “And yes, she’s Native American. White Mountain Apache.”
Sunshine stepped closer, her gaze more intent. Like his mom, she seemed enthralled with old-time photographs and the stories they held.
“That woven blanket draped over her arm... It’s such an interesting pattern. One I’d like to incorporate in one of my paintings.” She looked to him hopefully. “Would you mind if I took a picture of it?”
He shrugged. “Have at it.”
She eagerly slipped her cell phone from her purse and snapped a few shots. “Inspiration sometimes comes from directions you least expect, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so.” Actually, he knew so. How many times had his eyes been drawn to something because of the texture, the shadow, the sheer beauty of it and his fingers itched to reach for his camera? Like right now. With Sunshine’s dark eyes bright with excitement and natural light from the windows glinting off her glossy black hair and highlighting a soft cheek and the gentle curve of her lips.
“When do you think this photo was taken?”
“Judging from my great-grandfather’s age here, I’m guessing about 1906, 1907, maybe?”
A wistful look flickered in her eyes. “It must be wonderful to trace your family back this far. To know that these pine trees on the property shaded them as they do your family now. That every single day you’re walking where they walked.”
“Yeah, I guess it is remarkable.” Her enthusiasm was almost contagious, and he found himself smiling. “In fact, the original cabin in this picture and the one the Royces lived in are still on the property.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding. I’d love to see them sometime.”
While they weren’t rotting or anything like that—his family had seen to it that they were well maintained—they hadn’t been modernized. “They’re nothing fancy, you understand.”
“I wouldn’t expect them to be. But I’d love to see buildings that hold such history.”
“Well, then, sometime when you don’t have to rush off, I can arrange that.”
From the indecisive flicker in her eyes, for a moment he thought she might claim that getting back to the gallery was of minor importance and insist that now was as good a time as any for a tour. But when she merely uttered a thank-you, he determined the perceived wavering on her part must have been in his imagination.
Wishful thinking?
Unfortunately, that could only get him into trouble. He’d heard grumblings at a family breakfast meeting that morning about