Claiming The Single Mom's Heart

Clutching the pen in her hand, she moved to stand across the desk from him. “Not exactly.”

A puzzled look shadowed his eyes.

“I don’t mean to sound mysterious,” she amended. “It’s just that, well, I never saw a lot of him. He wasn’t around much—he never got around to marrying my mom.”

Grady’s expression filled with sympathy. “Rough.”

“But I’m over it.” She slipped the pen into her purse, careful to push it securely to the bottom. “So I guess it’s corny to get overly sentimental about a high school graduation gift.”

“Not corny at all. I’m glad you found it.”

His reassuring words comforted. Made her feel less silly for clinging to the pen for all these years. “Like I said, it isn’t that he’s an intentionally bad father or anything like that. He has a busy career, and has always traveled frequently.”

“What did he do for a living that took him away so often?”

She trailed her fingers along the edge of the desk, remembering as a child how excited she’d be when he put in an appearance—and how disappointed when he left without a goodbye. “He’s an artist. Jewelry maker. His work is featured in shops and galleries throughout the Southwest.”

“Wow. So that’s where you got your talent.”

“And from my mother. And her mother and her mother’s mother before that. I’ve heard stories that my great-great-grandmother had strong creative leanings, as well.”

“That’s quite a lineage. You should be proud of that.”

“Oh, I am.” Why was she telling him this? Searching for a change in topic, she glanced at one of the wildlife photographs on the wall. “Who’s the photographer?”

He looked up from where he was booting up his laptop. “What’s that?”

“Who took these amazing wildlife shots? I noticed them the last time I was here. I’d love to get a print of this deer for my living room.”

“That can be arranged.”

“You know the artist? Whoever took these has an incredible eye for detail. A great understanding of composition.”

“I’ll pass on the compliment.”

“Is he local? Or she, I guess I should say. A focus on wildlife isn’t the sole domain of males.”

“He’s about as local as you can get.” Grady grinned sheepishly and suddenly she got it.

“You took these pictures?” She moved closer to the one of the fox. “They’re amazing. I didn’t know you were a professional photographer.”

He came around the desk to stand by her. “Define professional.”

“Talented. Gifted. And receiving payment for your work.”

“Then, I guess I don’t qualify.”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding. Why not?”

“Just a hobby.”

“You mean you’ve never tried to sell anything?”

He folded his arms. “Wildlife photographers are a dime a dozen—especially with the advent of digital cameras. Go online and type in wildlife photography and see the results you get. There are bunches of talented people out there.”

“And you’re one of them.”

He looked shyly pleased at her words, but she could only stare at him in surprise. “Has no one ever told you how accomplished you are? How sensitively you’ve captured the nuances of nature? It’s criminal that you’re not being paid to do this. I could—”

No, while she could easily prove her point that his work could garner sales, she wouldn’t offer to take his photos to the gallery. Not only would some of the other Co-op members—like Gideon—frown on that, but why should she, a struggling artist herself, smooth the rocky road for a Hunter?

Drawn to the charismatic outdoorsman with an artistic eye, how quickly she’d forgotten he was where he was today and she was where she was because his ancestor had cheated hers.

* * *

“Photography is a private thing for me.” Grady turned his full attention to the petite woman standing beside him, absorbing her evaluation of his work. He’d never talked to anyone outside the family about his photography. And seldom with family, although if he was going to get his plans off the ground to add a photographic element to the Hunter Ridge lineup, that would soon be changing. “Don’t you find that yourself? That in each of your creations you’ve poured a piece of yourself into it and find it hard to release it into the hands of others?”

He still didn’t understand how she could put that extraordinary watercolor of Tessa up for sale. To offer it to some stranger to hang on the wall of their home or office just because they forked over a credit card.

With a soft laugh, she cast him a wary look, no doubt recognizing where his thoughts were going. “A similar reluctance may have been the case for me years ago but now, with a child to support, the almighty dollar wins out every time. I definitely agree with you, though. Each creation carries the creator’s fingerprint, so to speak.”

He nodded. Although she’d pushed herself beyond the self-conscious unwillingness to expose her work to the criticism of others—the thing that held him back—she nevertheless understood his hesitance to go public.

Sunshine pointed at the photo of a fox he’d taken last winter. “Like this one. I don’t imagine you conveniently shot it through your kitchen window, did you? While it’s a moment caught in time, it’s my guess you observed the comings and goings of this elusive creature, studied the angle of the sun, glare off the snow, and gave thought to composition. You knew the mood and message you wanted to convey before the shutter clicked. All three of these photos strongly reflect the artist behind the lens.”

Artist. He didn’t much care for that label. He thought of himself as more of an observer of wildlife who’d learned the tricks of capturing an image. One who made use of a camera’s technical features to produce a pleasing photo.

They talked for some time about his current preference for black-and-white, use of focal length and the considerations made in composition. About the challenges of wildlife. It was in many ways oddly affirming to speak with someone knowledgeable about those aspects of his work.

“Oh, my goodness.” Sunshine cringed as she looked at the clock on his credenza. “I barged in on your day to look for my pen, but didn’t intend to take up all your time.”

He smiled at her flustered movements, the appealing flush on her face. “I didn’t have anything scheduled for the rest of the afternoon. I enjoyed our visit.”

“I did, too.” Another wave of color rose in her cheeks. Then she abruptly turned away. “But I need to get back to the gallery.”

Halfway to the door, she glanced at the grouping of vintage photos on the wall and paused. “So are these more of your mother’s yard-sale finds?”

Curiously relieved that she hadn’t dashed off, he moved to stand beside her. “Not these. I latched on to them when my grandpa Hunter passed away when I was nineteen.”

“So this is your family?”

“Some are.” He studied the photos, then pointed to a stiffly composed group of people standing outside a cabin. “Like this one.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“These two are my great-great-grandparents. Harrison—he went by Duke—and Pearl Hunter. They came here on the cusp of the twentieth century. Acquired land in the very early 1900s. The youngster hanging on to the mangy-looking dog is my great-grandfather, Carson. And his sisters are next to him.”

“And what about these two?” Sunshine touched her finger lightly to the nonreflective glass, noting another man and a woman off to the side. “If I’m not mistaken, the woman looks to be Native American.”