The Mountain Between Us. Cindy Myers

she was so surprised.

      “Sure,” Janelle said. “D. J. said he thought you’d be interested.”

      “D. J.?” Her head swam. Why had D. J. been talking to the café owners about her?

      “We told him we were looking for an artist and he recommended you,” Danielle said. “He said you were really talented.”

      “I’ve always admired the jewelry you make and the T-shirts you paint and stuff,” Janelle added.

      Olivia fingered the dangling earrings she’d beaded, then smoothed the front of her T-shirt, a plain white T she’d decorated with a painting of a columbine. Just last week a tourist had asked where she could get one like it. But instead of thanking Janelle for the compliment, what came out was, “D. J. said I was talented?”

      “He did,” Danielle said. “So, will you take the job?”

      The thought of having a whole wall to cover with paint—and in such a public place—both intimidated and excited her. She’d always had a secret dream of making a living as an artist, but she’d never told a soul. How had D. J. known?

      Both women stared at her, expressions expectant. “Okay. Do you know what you want?”

      “We thought you could work up some drawings for us to look at and we’ll pick one,” Danielle said.

      “And tell us your price,” Janelle added.

      “I guess I could do that.” Could she? She hadn’t a clue how to begin, but she wasn’t about to pass up a chance like this.

      “No hurry,” Danielle said. “Maybe some time in the next week or two.”

      “Okay.” Numb, the jar of olives still clutched tightly to her chest, she turned to leave. “Thanks.”

      D. J. was just climbing out of his truck in front of the Dirty Sally when Olivia came down the walk from the café. Still basking in the warm glow of the girls’ flattery, she forgot to be angry at him.

      “Hey, Olivia,” he said.

      “Hey, D. J.”

      “You’re looking happy about something,” he said, following her into the bar. The three couples from Texas were still at their table near the front window, laughing about something. Bob had showed up and sat at the bar, talking to Reggie. Everything was the same as any other afternoon in the Dirty Sally, but for Olivia everything was different.

      She turned to face D. J. “Thanks for suggesting me to Danielle and Janelle to paint their mural,” she said.

      “They gave you the job, then?”

      “Yeah, I’m going to do some drawings and get back to them. I figure Lucas can help me with the local history stuff.”

      “He told me he did a bunch of research for a project in school.”

      “His teacher’s idea to keep him out of trouble. He’s so damn smart.” Pride for her kid mingled with her own sudden happiness and she didn’t even try to hold back a smile.

      “He is that. I’m glad you’re going to paint the mural. You deserve to have more people see your talent.”

      “I can’t believe you even noticed.” For the first time in a long time she let herself meet his gaze. “It’s not like I was always painting or anything.”

      “No, but you couldn’t sit still for five minutes without doodling some little drawing, and you always put your own artistic touch on things, like that shirt you’re wearing. I’ll bet you painted that.”

      “Yeah.” She smoothed the shirt again, once more uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze. She set the olives on the bar. “Well, thanks anyway for recommending me.”

      “You’re welcome. I just came from the county offices. I got a job driving a snowplow.”

      “What do you know about driving a snowplow?” Until he’d moved to Connecticut, D. J. had spent most of his life in Texas and Oklahoma, where they never got enough snow to plow.

      “I drove heavy equipment in Iraq. A snowplow is just another big machine.”

      Snowplowing jobs were some of the best paying in the county, or so the guys who propped up the bar said. The work involved early hours and long treks into the mountains to clear high passes. At least one plow driver was pushed over the side each year by avalanches. Most survived the trip, but a monument up on Black Mountain Pass testified to all those who hadn’t made it.

      She pushed such macabre thoughts aside. “Bob says the snow is late this year, so you might not have any work.”

      “I’ll find ways to keep myself busy.”

      She couldn’t look at him anymore. He made her feel too weak-kneed and uncertain. “Yeah, well, thanks again. I better get to work.”

      “I’ll see you around.” He turned and strode out of the bar, a big man with broad shoulders and a cocky attitude that alternately drove her crazy and melted her heart.

      Only after the door closed behind him did she wonder why he’d stopped by the bar this afternoon. He hadn’t stayed to drink. Could it be he’d stopped to see her—to tell her about his new job, maybe, or to try again to persuade her to end the hostilities between them? Just because she’d been civil to him, she didn’t hope he thought that meant they could be friends. She wasn’t ready—would never be ready—to be that close to him again.

      She retreated behind the bar and put the jar of olives on the shelf. “Thanks for holding down the fort, Reggie.” The stocky, bearded lawyer looked more like a biker than an attorney, but she couldn’t picture some dark-suited legal brain fitting in in this town that had made a virtue of informality.

      “No problem. If I ever decide to give up the law, I can start a second career as a bartender.”

      “If you do, I’ll have to start drinking somewhere else,” Bob said. “Having to look at you every day would spoil the taste of the beer.”

      “I imagine you wouldn’t be the only one to complain,” Reg said. “Olivia here is a sight better looking than I am, I’ll agree.”

      “Where have you been anyway?” Bob asked. “Reg doesn’t have any idea how to put a decent head on a draft beer.”

      “I had to run next door for a jar of olives.”

      “Olives!” Bob’s expression grew more sour than usual. “Fruit and vegetables don’t belong in liquor.”

      “Now, Bob. Some people like to feel they’re getting a little more sustenance with their drinks,” Reggie said.

      “That’s what the pretzels and popcorn and beer nuts are for.”

      “Janelle and Danielle have asked me to paint a mural on the back wall of the café.” Reggie and Bob weren’t her first choice for confidants, but she couldn’t keep the news to herself anymore.

      “A mural?” Bob asked. “What of?”

      “They want something depicting the history of Eureka.”

      “That’s a great idea,” Reggie said. “Congratulations.”

      “I’d like to see that,” Bob said. “Give me something to look at over my eggs beside last year’s feed calendar.”

      Olivia waited, but neither of them said anything about it being odd for the girls to hire her or acted surprised that she’d been the one to get the job.

      “Guess this means you’re staying in town after all,” Reggie said.

      “Yeah, I guess it does.”

      “Say, maybe you can help me with my new project,” Bob said.

      His words brought her back down toward earth. Even though she hadn’t been