Rekindling The Widower's Heart. Glynna Kaye

his uncle—the whole family—a heap of trouble.

      “And you know what, buddy?” He glanced at Rags. “She not only had the gall to sell and lease to outsiders the properties her lawyers wrested away from Uncle Doug, she made sure she got them into the hands of those she knew would most stick in the craw of the community.”

      His grip tightened on the wheel. One artist soon became two. Then three. And four... What if by a freak turn of events Sunshine Carston beat his mother during the town council elections? While the council had cautiously addressed the demands of that growing community, they’d never before had one of them in their midst.

      What if Delaney Marks got involved in the campaign? He’d tried to warn her off that first day when he’d caught a glimpse of Sunshine’s flier in her possession. But with her committing the kids to that Mason house deal, he didn’t put a whole lot of confidence in her personal judgment.

      “Don’t borrow trouble,” he said aloud, slowing to drive down a graveled, tree-lined stretch of road that led to home. Sun dappled through the needled branches of the towering pines, a jay called out, and the familiar scent of the forest wafted through the open windows. He relaxed his hands on the steering wheel, determined not to dwell on the consequences of Aunt Char’s vindictive betrayal of the family she’d married into. There was nothing he could do about that. Water under the bridge.

      But he might yet be able to steer Ms. Marks away from local politics. And possibly even get her to recognize that another project would be more suitable than bending over backward to assist the Masons.

      * * *

      “Your workmanship shows much promise. But it’s not quite there yet.”

      A wave of icy cold washed through Delaney as she stared into the keen black-brown eyes of Sunshine Carston, manager of the Hunter Ridge Artists’ Cooperative.

      They were seated across from each other at a small oak table, the wood-trimmed display cases around them glinting invitingly in the soft light. Oil, acrylic, pastels and watercolor paintings, as well as wood and hammered copper designs, adorned walls or free-standing easels. Pottery and sculpted pieces joined a wide array of ceramic tiles, blown glass, and handmade leather handbags and belts. But, as always, it had been the jewelry in the glass cases that drew her the moment she’d stepped through the gallery’s doors.

      Swallowing back the lump forming in her throat, she prayed Ms. Carston—Sunshine, she’d told Delaney to call her—wouldn’t perceive the wrenching impact of her point-blank pronouncement.

      “I... I understand.”

      But she didn’t. Her friends loved her rings and bracelets. Earrings. Charms. They said she should try to sell them, that maybe she could eventually earn a living doing what she loved most. Hadn’t Luke Hunter, a total stranger, even said her work was nice? No, not merely nice. Very nice.

      Luke. A knot twisted in her stomach at the thought of the handsome widower. While an unexpected negative response to her artistic efforts was a kick in the gut, this wasn’t a tragedy like he and his children had suffered. Still suffered, for how could you ever recover from such a blow? With considerable effort, she refocused her thoughts on Sunshine, attempting to keep things in perspective.

      But, to her shame, she failed miserably. How sure she’d been that her efforts would be welcomed, that she’d soon have a foot in the door to a future she could get excited about.

      Studying Delaney’s sampling of jewelry displayed against a sweep of dark velvet fabric, Sunshine brushed back her raven-black hair. Cut at an angle, shoulder-length in front and slightly shorter in back, it emphasized her high cheekbones, straight nose and a smooth, warm-toned complexion. Native American ancestry? She didn’t look much older than Delaney, but there was something about the self-assured way she carried herself and looked at you, as if she could see right into your soul, that made Delaney feel about ten years old.

      “How long did you say you’ve been working with silver? Since high school?” Obviously Sunshine doubted that anyone could have been making jewelry since a teen and have their work riddled with the flaws her experienced eyes must see.

      Delaney clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “We made silver rings in high school art class. I loved it and have been making silver, beaded, and other kinds of jewelry ever since.”

      A kitchen table hobbyist. That’s what Dwayne had dismissively called her.

      A slight crease formed between Sunshine’s brows as she again picked up one of the rings and tilted it in the lamplight. She tapped a blunt, unpolished fingernail on the inside of the ring. “See this seam? The bump?”

      Delaney nodded. She’d worked hard on that one, trying to smooth out the solder without weakening the joint. Only an expert eye would have seen it as a flaw.

      “And this?” Sunshine pointed to the setting. “This is too prominent, too fragile. Not organically incorporated into the design. It could easily catch on something, break off and the wearer would lose the stone.”

      Numb, Delaney nodded.

      “Which is another thing...” Sunshine set the ring back on the velvet. “You need to upgrade the quality of your gemstones. I would also suggest something other than the turquoise you’ve used here if you want to stand out from the Native American artists.”

      Delaney was familiar with the work of those appearing in Arizona park and roadside stands, in shops and in exclusive galleries throughout the Southwest. The latter were award-winning, highly collectible artists. While awed by their talent, she’d never considered herself to be a competitor and had deliberately not imitated traditional native designs.

      “I don’t make jewelry full-time, of course.” How pathetic her pieces now looked lying there under the illuminating brilliance of a gooseneck lamp. “I work it in around my job when I can.”

      Shut up, Delaney. Stop sounding as though you’re making excuses for inferior work. Why hadn’t she listened to Aunt Jen and Dwayne and not put herself through this embarrassment? But oh, no, she’d been certain they were wrong.

      After what seemed an excruciatingly long moment, Sunshine again looked up from where she’d continued to study the jewelry. “What do you do for a living?”

      Delaney lifted her chin slightly. “Computer programming.”

      The corners of Sunshine’s lips lifted, her eyes warming. “No wonder you need a creative outlet.”

      “I enjoy the challenge.” And she did. Most of the time. Not like Dwayne did, though, who lived and breathed programming and couldn’t understand her need for anything else. But Aunt Jen had urged her on her career path, and since her aunt had been the one paying the bills... “But my heart has always been with the fine arts.”

      The other woman met her gaze in sympathy. “Which can be a rocky road if you hope to support yourself at it.”

      “No immediate plans to.” Delaney forced a laugh, as if to prove to Sunshine that she hadn’t expected anything like that. But she had. Drawing comfort from the faint scent of oil paints and leather, she reluctantly glanced toward the glass cases where two women were excitedly examining the jewelry. Nothing of her own would be joining those beautifully arranged displays this summer.

      “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. You have customers.” With a quick, apologetic smile, she rose to her feet. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

      Surprise lit Sunshine’s eyes. Did people who were turned down for the co-op argue with her? Plead their case? But too clearly there was jewelry like she was making...and then there was fine jewelry that this gallery featured.

      Sunshine stood as well, watching as Delaney carefully returned her silver pieces to a velvet-lined box which she then slipped into her portfolio.

      “Please don’t leave here feeling as if your work holds no value. Even at your present skill level, you could make reasonable sales.” Sunshine folded her arms, her sharp black-brown