Wild Man Creek. Робин Карр

“And you can tell me about your greatest expectation for this exercise.”

      “I think,” she said as they went back out the door, “that I’m trying my hand at becoming a commercial farmer. I don’t know if it’ll work until I know if I can grow the stuff, but I could farm exotic, rare, heirloom fruits and vegetables. The kind that are hard to produce. I would sell them to high-end restaurants that are looking for new and unique, fabulous foods.”

      He sipped again. “Going to buy a fleet of trucks to deliver them to big cities?”

      She laughed. “Nope. Going to call UPS or FedEx and send them overnight. They’re delicate—none of them have a long shelf life. And they’re not used in mass quantities, usually as side dishes or garnishes.”

      “How do you make money doing that?”

      She shrugged. “You become the best, with the best marketing campaign. And, of course, you start small and regionally. I’ve already identified target cities with five-star restaurants. I wouldn’t ship to New York—it’s too far. But shipping to Portland, Sun Valley, Seattle, Vancouver, San Francisco and the surrounding areas would not be a problem.”

      He chuckled. “I have to admit, it’s gutsy and it actually sounds reasonable.”

      “It’s completely reasonable! There is one ‘x’ factor … and that’s whether I can grow these rare, old seeds. I bought product from several different seed companies and I’ll check them out. My great-grandmother canned some, sold some fresh off the porch—we had a hard time getting by back then and she had lots of ways to supplement her income. This is a whole different story. If it works, buyers will order ahead of season, so I have to know I can deliver. It’ll take me six to eighteen months to figure that out.”

      “But how long are you renting …?”

      “Through summer. But things like moves and leases can be worked out. The one thing I can’t control is whether or not I can grow the stuff.”

      “So, you’ll have fruit trees, too?” he asked.

      “No trees,” she said, shaking her head. “There are a few apple trees on the property, but I’m not planting trees …”

      “But you said fruits …”

      “Tomatoes, tomatillo, melons, et cetera—are all considered fruits.” She smiled.

      He felt a little pang of something. A jolt of some kind. She was awful cute. Incredibly smart and very cute.

      Colin was a little startled. Cute was not in his vernacular. He felt those sizzling jolts when he was with women he would describe as hot or sexy or edible, but he had never before felt a single nerve-tingle for cute. He was too jaded for that. He reasoned this was probably only because he hadn’t been with a woman for so long and, further, because he assumed he probably wouldn’t be again, at least not for a very long time. And certainly not this one—although she was smart as a whip, she was too “girl next door.” He was attracted to women in low-cut tops with generous cleavages, microscopic skirts and four-inch heels. The kind of women you wouldn’t want your mother to meet.

      “Is the eagle painting done?” she asked him.

      “Done? Oh, no,” he said. “That won’t be done for a while. Maybe another few weeks.”

      “Wow. Don’t you get bored, spending so much time on one painting?”

      “I have several going at one time. I keep going back, improving, changing, fixing, getting them right. It’s hard to know when it’s really done. And sometimes when you think they’re finished, they’re not. More often, when you think they’re not finished, they really are. Sometimes knowing when to stop is more important than knowing when to keep working on it.”

      “And then you sell them?”

      He shook his head. “Haven’t ever sold one.”

      She sat up straighter and her quilt slipped off one shoulder exposing her striped pajamas. They were almost little-girl pajamas. “Never sold one? How do you make a living?”

      Again he chuckled. “I’m independently wealthy.”

      “How nice for you. Do you plan to ever sell any or are you doing this for fun?”

      “Right now painting them is more important than selling them,” he said.

      “What kind of market is there for a … an eagle?”

      He smiled at her. Straight to the point, wasn’t she?

      “Huge,” he said. “I didn’t realize that when I got hooked on animals. Wild animals, not kittens or puppies. I liked them better than bowls of fruit ….”

      She got a teasing grin on her face. “Better than nudes?”

      He matched her grin. “I’ve never painted any nudes.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Was that an offer?”

      She burst out laughing and he found the sound was perfectly charming. Charming? Yet another word Colin had never used before, but it suited her. And son of a bitch if it didn’t charm him!

      “Oh, believe me, you can do way better than me! Maybe I could strip, wear my garden gloves, straw hat and rubber boots—that should get you a big Playboy commission!” And she laughed some more while he got an irresistible image in his head that he wanted to paint. “But seriously, who buys paintings of animals?”

      “Wildlife art,” he said. “Look it up on Google sometime. It surprised the hell out of me.”

      “So,” she said, sipping the coffee, “you’ve been at this for a while?”

      What the hell, he thought. Everyone else probably knew, given his brother lived here. “I was in the Army. I was a pilot and crashed in a helicopter. I broke a bunch of bones, got some burns, was in therapy for six months trying to get back on my feet, and I painted.” He shrugged. “I’ve always done some drawing and painting, but it kinda looks like this is how I’m going to spend my time, at least for now. The Army retired me. So,” he said with a nod of his chin, “I’m trying to get good.”

      “Oh,” she said, serious. “Sorry about the crash. You all right now?”

      “Getting there. I get a little stiff and sore, but otherwise, pretty good.”

      “And you’re here because …?”

      “Because my brother is here and there’s also an abundance of wildlife. I have another brother in Chico, but no deer or fox or eagles around his house. I rented a cabin till hunting season opens in September. I should be ready to hit the road by then. Meantime, I can paint. My cabin is in a valley by a stream, very isolated. I’m already getting some good pictures of animals there.”

      She sat up a little straighter. “What happens when hunting season starts?”

      “I’ll be moving on. Oh, I’m sure I’ll visit sometimes. But before I decide where I’ll live next I’m planning to spend six months in Africa. The Serengeti. Maybe even head over to the Amazon.”

      “Big game,” she said. Her eyes gently closed and he wondered if she could be visualizing it in her head the way he was—large canvases of elephants, lions, tigers, wildebeests ….

      “Big game for me—tiny, weird little vegetables for you. How do you think we’re going to do?”

      “I don’t know how you’re going to do, Colin, but I’m going to kick some ass. I’m a marketing and public relations expert and I was taught to grow by the best—my nana. She could throw a diamond in the ground and grow a diamond vine.” She grinned. “You don’t know me but, trust me, I haven’t been this excited in a long, long time.”

       Four

      Colin tried to limit dinner at Luke’s to once