Courting The Cowboy. Carolyne Aarsen

Now.

      Her mother answered right away.

      “Good morning, Mother,” Ella said, setting a cup under the spout. “How are you today?”

      “Good. Just getting ready for church.”

      Ella heard the expectation in her mother’s voice. Though Ella had gone to church her entire life, the last five years her attendance had petered off. She hadn’t attended at all the last year she and Darren were married. It bothered her mother, and many times Ella had wanted to explain but couldn’t. Too much was at stake.

      It took her over a year, after Darren’s death in a motorcycle accident, to start attending again. At first sporadically, then slowly the weekly rhythm created by years of church attendance asserted itself. The past couple of months she had started attending weekly again. This morning she felt a desire to go and had even gone so far as to search for a church nearby.

      “How are things in the gallery?” Ella asked, preferring to keep the conversation light and easy.

      “Good. Had a wonderful showing yesterday. A few people asked when we could expect to see more of your work.”

      Again her comment carried a heavy subtext. Start producing.

      “Has the move to the cabin helped you at all?” her mother continued. “Given you inspiration?”

      “It’s slow,” Ella said, slipping a cup underneath the coffeemaker. “Still working through stuff.”

      Her mother was quiet, acknowledging what Ella had dealt with. “Honey, it’s been two years.”

      “I know exactly how long it’s been,” Ella replied, pressing the heel of her hand against her eyes, frustrated at the sharp tone her voice took on. “Sorry. It’s even more frustrating for me than it is for you.”

      “I understand, dear, but sometimes you need to push through the resistance. Sometimes resistance is a signal that better things are coming.”

      Ella had heard variations on that theme often in her artistic career. Her husband, who had at one time been a part owner of her mother’s gallery, had tossed the same words at her when she was stuck. And sometimes he was right. But this was different. This was a wall she couldn’t get over no matter how hard she pushed and clawed, trying to find inspiration.

      “I’ll keep plugging. I’m sure it will change eventually.” Ella glanced at some of her older paintings stacked against the wall. Dark landscapes with jagged trees silhouetted against blue-black clouds that screened a silver disc of a moon. Superimposed over them in a different medium, were vague shadows of angels—transparent if you stood directly in front of them, but they changed as soon as you moved sideways.

      Though she had indulged in darker paintings, the last few years of her marriage the landscapes had become bleaker. They’d come out of a deep sorrow. A plaintive cry for comfort.

      And they sold for thousands.

      Her mother had pleaded with Ella to part with the few she had kept, saying they would fetch a goodly sum at the gallery.

      But Ella kept them as a reminder of that time in her life and of her dependence on a man she should never have married. Darren had spun daydreams for her that made her think she would be cared for. Cherished. Nurtured. They would have a dozen children. A beautiful home. Money would not be a problem.

      For a girl who never had a father or siblings and a mother who, though she loved her, was occupied with her business, these were heady dreams.

      The house had come but at a cost.

      So had the marriage.

      “Have you gone running?” her mother asked. “That’s always helped you before.”

      “I have. It’s beautiful here.” Ella glanced out the window, her one arm wrapped around her midsection as she looked past the copse of trees dividing her yard from the neighbors’. Beyond that the land flowed away to the solid line of granite mountains still capped with snow. “The neighbor, Mr. Walsh, his son and grandchildren live in the house. Apparently he has a house in town. Did you know that?”

      Her mother’s moment of hesitant silence answered that question.

      “Boyce assured me you would have your privacy,” her mother finally said.

      “I hope so. I can’t afford any distractions.”

      “Do you want me to contact Blanche DuMonde in Montreal? Ask for an extension? Explain your situation?”

      Situation. Is that what this deep guilt and pain is called?

      “No. I don’t want to give them a reason to refuse me. I really want that opportunity. To be able to teach art and paint...it’s a dream come true.”

      A year ago Ella’s mother had sent in some of Ella’s work to L’école des Arts Créatifs based in the heart of Montreal. The owners of the gallery connected to the school saw her work, were impressed and contacted Ella’s mother about a teaching/artist-in-residence position they were opening up. They wanted Ella to apply. But she needed to create a body of new work in order to get the job.

      And that was where things had fallen apart.

      “I need you to know I have been praying for you,” her mother said, her voice quiet as if hesitant to even say as much as she did.

      “Thanks, Mom.” Nice to know that while she’d struggled to pray to a God she had thought let her down, her mother still could intervene on her behalf.

      Ella steered the conversation to inconsequential things. People they knew. Sales her mother had attended. Upcoming artists she was featuring. Then they said goodbye with the promise to stay in touch, and Ella set her phone beside her computer screen, glancing at the website on it.

      Cedar Ridge Community Church. Services at 10:00.

      No doubt the Walsh family would be attending, as well. Though she’d seen children at the other churches she attended, she’d managed to avoid them and the reminders they gave her.

      Her mind skipped back to yesterday and her heart contracted thinking of Ollie.

      That moment she had held his arm as she steadied him had cut her like a cleaver. His soft skin. The sweetness of him.

      She stifled a groan, frustrated that seeing him could bring up the old pain so easily. Though she knew it would hover like a shadow over her life, she thought she had pushed it further back.

      She wasn’t sure she wanted to see him again.

      Pablo whined and she shut the lid of her laptop with a decisive snap.

      “Okay, okay. I guess we’ll go for a run instead,” she said to her dog.

      The first two years of Pablo’s life had caused extra stress for Ella as she tried to work his exercise in between painting and helping her mother and Darren at the gallery.

      However the past couple of years the two of them had clocked hundreds of miles as Ella ran every day, seeking peace and absolution in the steady movement of her feet on pavement.

      At one time she could lose herself in her painting but that had eluded her since she lost her baby son. Two months later Darren’s death had sent her world into a tailspin.

      Running centered and grounded her. Gave her a purpose.

      Then, as she stepped outside, Suzy’s and Paul’s voices carried through the grove of trees between the houses. It sounded like they were arguing.

      It’s none of your business, she told herself, tightening her grip on Pablo’s leash as he strained toward the noise of the children. Boyce or Cord should take care of that. Not you.

      But the fight was escalating. Then she heard a hollow thump followed by a heartrending wail from Suzy. And it sounded much closer than the main ranch yard.

      She waited to see if someone would come but no one did.

      So