Free Perfect Touch by Elizabeth Lowell

she touches turns to shit. Pardon, Sara.”
    â€œWe called it cowsh when we were growing up,” she said. “Less punishment that way.”
    Henry snorted and set the last dish in the cupboard. “I’m turning in. Seems like dawn comes earlier every year.”
    With a slight frown, Jay watched Henry leave.
    â€œWhat?” Sara asked.
    â€œHenry’s so active that I don’t think about him aging. But he’s years older than JD was when he died.” Jay shook his head. “Time is a tricky thing. So long and so short at once.” He drained the sink and dried his hands. “Now let’s get some art education in me before we turn into cowhands in the morning.”
    â€œNow you’re talking,” Sara said, quickstepping out to the living room.
    By the time Jay caught up with her, she was already lost in the painting that hung over the fireplace.
    â€œWhat are you seeing?” Jay asked.
    â€œVast space,” she said almost absently. “And maybe, just maybe, Custer’s perverse sense of humor.”
    Jay made an encouraging noise.
    â€œDo you know if JD commissioned this painting?” Sara asked.
    â€œJD wanted him to paint the ranch, if that’s what you mean.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean. But instead of painting the ranch house set against the lush pastures and rugged peaks of the Tetons, Custer chose to view the ranch from a location that diminishes everything to the point that the ranch looks like a tiny lifeboat all but lost at sea, the sky and land ready to swallow it whole, leaving no trace of the legendary cattlemen who carved Vermilion Ranch from the wilderness.”
    Silently Jay studied the painting that for him had always been part of his home life.
    â€œAnd yet,” she said, “at the same time the painting shows the immensity of the task awaiting every generation of Vermilions. One man overseeing the well-being of everyone and everything that goes into keeping the ranch alive. The land serves your needs, but the land doesn’t need you.”
    â€œA fact I learn every dawn,” he said. “I’m transient. The land is forever. That’s why I came back home. I wanted to be a part of something that endures. Cities, cultures, empires—they all come and go. The land remains.”
    â€œBarton and Liza don’t feel that way,” Sara said. “To them, the ranch is just a stubborn ATM.”
    â€œNow they think the paintings are another ATM. Are they?”
    â€œProperly handled, they’re worth good to really good money.”
    â€œHow much?” he asked bluntly.
    â€œUndetermined short of an actual sale.”
    â€œThey must have a hell of a value for Liza, considering how much time and effort—and ranch money—she burned up in a legal wrangle over paintings she once walked away from.”
    Sara’s eyes widened. “She walked away from them? Before the divorce?”
    His mouth flattened. “Think of this as divorce phase two. Evidently she had a change of heart several years back. Maybe she thought the Custers would be valuable today. Not that she ever has to worry about cash. As long as Vermilion Ranch makes money, she does.”
    â€œShe would have needed a crystal ball to see this Custer buzz coming. Value comes from an audience. Custer’s potentially widened audience came from luck as much as anything else.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you about the movie?” Sara asked.
    â€œProbably,” he admitted, “but sometimes I got to dreaming while I listened to your voice.”
    She blinked.
    â€œSweetheart,” he said, “you have a voice that makes a man think of tangled sheets and slow, hot sex.”
    She laughed even as heat flushed her core. “You’re talking about your own voice. Midnight and velvet. Annnnd we’re getting off track. Value versus money. Art in general, Custer in specific.”
    â€œI