Free Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) by Sheri Whitefeather, Dixie Browning Page A

“When they’re painted by hand they’re called paintings.”
    â€œWell, sure, I knew that.” Ben rocked on his heels like a kid with a guilty conscience. Maggie thought it was endearing in a big, tough-looking guy from West Texas…or wherever.
    â€œThing is, these weren’t real paintings, they were some kind of prints, I guess, but he wrote his nameon them and sold a bunch of ’em. Miss Emma shot her wad buying one of everything. Things weren’t even framed, just matted and sealed in plastic. Most of ’em looked pretty much like that thing Silver did this morning. Not much color, mostly browns and grays. Dead trees, log cabins, cornfields and patches of snow, maybe a mountain or two in the background.”
    Now that she’d finally got her feet planted firmly on earth again, Maggie wondered where he was going with this. She didn’t find Perry’s work particularly exciting, either the one he’d done as a demonstration or those she’d seen hanging on the downstairs walls. But then, she was no art critic. Not yet, at any rate.
    And neither, if his own effort was any example, was Ben Hunter.
    â€œSo you see where I’m going with this,” he said.
    â€œUh…not really.”
    Just then something small and dark swooped silently out of nowhere. Maggie flinched and hid her face. Ben grabbed her arm. “Steady there,” he cautioned. “Some of those rocks are slippery—easy to lose your footing.”
    Breathless, she said, “It’s not my feet I’m worried about. Was that a—a bat?”
    â€œNot a bloodsucker, just the ordinary bug-eating kind. You didn’t twist your ankle, did you?”
    She was shaking her foot. “I’m fine, stop fussing.” She staggered slightly. She was wearing her clogs again. She’d packed only two pairs of shoes, not counting the old pair she kept in the trunk of her car for emergencies that were practical, but ugly as sin.
    â€œI’ve got a pebble in my shoe,” she admitted when the thing refused to fall out.
    Ben squatted and took her foot in his hand. She grabbed his shoulder for support while he ran his finger between the platform and the sole of her foot.
    â€œThat’s got it. I’m fine now, honestly,” she said breathlessly. She’d be fine if he would remove his hands from her ankle and stop tickling her foot. On the other hand, if he wanted to kiss it and make it all better, she wouldn’t complain.
    When another bat swept past, she hardly even noticed.
    Ben said, “You’re sure?” He levered himself up, all six-feet whatever of lean, clean-smelling male. He really wasn’t the handsomest man she’d ever seen, but there was something about him…
    Maggie decided on the spot that starting tomorrow she would dig around in her car under the accumulation of junk and retrieve the hideous shoes with the thick soles, the padded tongues and the stripes on the sides. She’d tossed them in along with her space blanket, a flashlight and a first aid kit in case she ever got stranded on the road and had to walk. With her skinny legs, they made her look like Minnie Mouse, but then, even Minnie would have better sense than to go all mooney-eyed over a long-legged Texan.
    â€œCould we get on with whatever it was you brought me out here to discuss? Something about teaming up?”
    â€œRight,” he said slowly, as if he were mentally skimming down a long page, trying to find his place. He was probably as rattled by that bat as she’d been, only being a man, he’d never admit it.
    â€œYou were telling me about your grandmother and her taste in art,” she prompted when he stood there staring down at her as if he’d forgotten who she was, much less what he’d been about to tell her.
    â€œOh yeah. Well, like I said, Miss Emma’s big on independence and all that. Once she retired, she bought herself an