Page 8 of Dove
I look back to the road just in time to see the next turn and jerk the wheel, earning a startled shout behind me, and remember nearly too late that Cameron is back there without a seat belt, in a truck that saw its best era about twenty years ago.
"Sorry!" I call over my shoulder.
"You'll be even sorrier if I die back here!" he shouts back. "I'll haunt you for the rest of your life, Sammy!"
I snort. "As if you could ever leave. Promise to make me pancakes every morning and I'll let you."
There's a flash of silence as he tries to process that, and then a sharp "Ghosts can't make pancakes," which tells me he isn't feeling quick enough on his feet this morning to come up with anything clever.
That brings the curve of a smile to my mouth and I continue up the mountain, already planning the stop we have to accomplish... and the one I want to make after that. Cameron might not be my real brother, but he's been my best friend for nearly as long as I can remember, and though he likes to tease me about leaving, I know he never would.
He can't survive without me.
He just doesn't like to admit it.
By the time we roll into Old Man Rivers' driveway, the sun is peeking up over the trees and the air around us is warming. Rivers lives far enough from town that it's a trek to get up here, but I'm never disappointed. The old cabin he owns looks as though it was built in the 1800s, full of jutting old wood and antique shingles, and his homestead includes cows, pigs, donkeys, horses, and chickens.
All of which I'll get to pet before we leave.
I park in front of the ancient house and jump out of the truck, heading toward the bed to help Cameron with the sculpture. This one is small, compared to some of the things we've done, but when I arrive at the open end of the bed, I stop to admire it.
"God that's gorgeous." I let my eyes slip across the surface of the piece, which is even prettier out here in the sun, angles and sheet metal set off by the thicker outline of horse shoes and nails. Cameron has spent the last three years as an apprentice to the local blacksmith, learning the ropes when it comes to horseshoes and most of the metal work in town, but a year ago he started talking about using his skills with a forge and hammer to make artwork. I didn't understand what he meant at first, but when he made his first piece–just a rough set of horse shoes welded together in a whole new pattern–I started to understand what he meant. He sees metal in a whole different way, even when it’s already got a function. For him, the horse shoes dance into something prettier, sheet metal becomes more than just a flat plain of aluminum, and they blend together in a way that screams Cameron Hawke with every breath.
He’s getting really good, too. Every piece is prettier than the last.
His reputation has also grown, thanks in large part to me taking over the marketing and bookkeeping aspect of the business. We don't have a shop or a real studio, but I’ve arranged so many exhibits that nearly everyone has seen his work, and I’ve started using our Uncle Gunner’s shop as a place to “store” extra art, so that anyone who goes in there happens to see it.
Which means people in town have started placing orders.
I'm the one that makes sure they happen, and that we deliver on time.
And I know what you're thinking; I don't have what it takes to make sureanythinghappens on time. I'm just the daughter of a man who didn't want to stay and a woman who killed herself when life got too tough. I don't have any respect for life or the rules it takes to live it.
I mean, you'd be right on all those counts.
But one thing I do know is how to take care of the people I love. And Cameron is not only my step brother but also my best friend. He's the only person who means anything to me. So if it means making him successful...
Well, I can follow rules that will make that happen.
"Think he'll like it?" the guy in question murmurs into my ear.
I jump and turn to glare at him, chills running over my skin at the ghost of his breath on the shell of my ear, and find him looking nervous and twitchy, like someone who just said something he can't believe he said. That was a real question, then.
For all his talent, Cameron's never gotten used to people believing in him. He's clever and brilliant, but has no view of that for himself. And I've never figured out how to make him believe he's worth more than an afterthought.
"He's going to love it," I murmur. "And if he doesn't, I'll stab him and we'll take it back to the shop to sell to someone else. Come on."
I turn and head for the door of the house, going through the numbers for the payment and my standard spiel about what we'll do for him if he doesn't like the piece. Not that I'll need it. We have a satisfaction guarantee, but we've never had to use it.
Like I said, Cameron is incredibly talented. The artwork is gorgeous.
And he's the only one who doesn't seem to understand that.
Twenty minutes later the deal is done and I'm counting the money, then shoving it into my bra. Rivers loved the piece–as he should, considering he helped design it himself–and had no argument about the price or the fact that I wanted it in cash. Hell, he even let Cameron recommend a placement for the art, and listened patiently while Cam explained why he thought it was best put to the side of the fireplace rather than directly over it. Cam had opinions on how to hang the piece as well, withattachments he'd built into it and never told me about, and when we walked back out of the house, we left Rivers standing in front of the artwork, grinning to himself.
I don't know if Cameron noticed that part, but I did.
Maybe I should start collecting pictures of people staring at his artwork with that lost, dreamy look on their faces. That absolute absorption that comes when you look at a piece so beautiful that you fall into it and just want to soak it in for hours.
