Christmas at Home (Spikes & Spurs #5) - Carolyn Brown Page 0,27

going to burn it or put it with my stash to take to the gallery.”

“Good God, Sage! You’ve worked on that thing for hours and hours. Surely you wouldn’t burn it,” Creed said.

“What would you do if you were riding a horse, one that you’d raised yourself from birth, one you’d broken to the saddle and who’d carried you through a blizzard to a warm house, and he stepped in a hole and snapped his leg bone so badly that it stuck out of the skin and it could never be fixed? Would you shoot him to put him out of his misery or let him lie there in excruciating pain?”

“It would break my heart, but I’d shoot him,” Creed said.

“That’s my point. I’d rather burn it than take something that looks like a second grader’s coloring book page to a gallery showing. And this picture scares me. I’ve never painted anything that quickly.”

Creed gave the cleaning rag to Noel and pulled his rocking chair over close to Sage’s chair. He reached across the distance separating them and laid his hand on hers and together they studied the painting.

“What do you see?” she asked finally.

“I’m not a critic. I don’t know how long a masterpiece is supposed to take from start to finish. Hell, my momma thinks the prettiest picture in her house is a velvet Elvis that Daddy bought for her when they visited Graceland for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It hangs above her bed and there’s never a spot of dust on it.”

“Surely you see something,” she said.

Creed took a deep breath and told her the emotions it had evoked in him when she was painting the mistletoe.

“And you say you aren’t a critic.” She smiled. “It’s just that I’ve never painted snow before. I’m building a reputation as a Western artist.”

He pointed to the picture hanging above the credenza just inside the front door. “Like that?”

She nodded. “What do you see in that one?”

“I see the big rock formation over on the backside of the property. And the way the top is eroded, it looks like an old cowboy without his hat. His neck is sagging with age and his eyebrows have drooped. His face is fuller and wider than it would have been in his youth, but there’s character there and lessons he could teach a grandchild.”

“Wow!” She pulled her hand from his and hugged herself.

“Do I get an A?”

“A-plus. Are there any similarities in the pictures?” she pressed on.

“Oh, yeah!” He pointed to the one above the sofa again. “That one is fall and the end of life is near for the old cowboy. The one you painted is right now and there’s a beginning for those two birds if they survive the cold. He’d like to kiss her under the mistletoe, but his little beak is frozen.” Creed chuckled at his own joke.

“Then you could tell that the same artist painted them?” she asked.

Creed studied one picture and then the other. They were so different that his first thought was no one would ever know that Sage Presley had done both. But that first impression was totally wrong. It was very evident that she’d done both pictures.

“Well?”

“Give me a minute to put my words together. And while I’m doing that, Sage, you should be building a career as an artist, period, not solely as a Western artist. Paint life. It will sell because people will feel it.”

“It’s just that I’ve never finished a picture, even a small one, this fast and it scares me. I usually do six a year, maybe eight on a very good year.”

“Okay, does size mean anything to a critic? Is bigger better?” he asked.

She giggled nervously. “Are we still talking about paintings?”

He laughed with her. “For now, we definitely are.”

“Then the answer is no. Size is not a factor.”

“You won’t think I’m a sissy if I tell you my honest opinion, will you?” Creed asked.

She shook her head.

He ran his fingers through his dark hair. Men weren’t supposed to see feelings or feel emotion or pain and they damn sure weren’t supposed to discuss any of the above. That was women’s business when they got together for a hen session.

He cleared his throat and started, “What I see is emotion, Sage. It’s not just pretty pictures that you paint. It is feelings. Momma says that when she looks at her velvet Elvis she remembers the wonderful second honeymoon she and Daddy had. To her that is pure art. When