She was bundled in a thick fleece pullover and sitting on a low stool in front of her easel about fifty feet from Morgan and Clint Callen’s front porch. She had to admit, the flowers were spectacular as was the stone pathway that led to the front of the house. So far, neither man had shown up, but Clint had texted her that Morgan was about to go riding on the range. To make it appear as though she was an invited guest who really wanted to paint flowers, she’d already made the sketch and taken a few pictures. Because the light wasn’t the best, the photos lacked detail. The side door opened and heavy boots stomped their way down the steps. To pretend Morgan didn’t exist would be dumb. She inhaled to steel her nerves and looked over her shoulder. She casually waved. “Hey, Morgan.” Returning to her picture, she dabbed her brush into the yellow paint and stabbed the canvas. As expected, he charged over to her. “What are you doing here?” He stood so close she could smell his animal scent.
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