The Rebel

“This is Ranch Road Twelve,” Gabe said. “If you go west and hang a right at Dripping Springs, you’ll get to Austin.

This way takes us through Wimberley. Keep going and you’ll reach San Marcos. From there you can go north to Austin or south to San Antonio.”

“That’s our only major grocery store,” Flora said, pointing to a large building on a rise. “And there’s the visitor’s center.”

“And this is Cypress Creek,” Gabe said as they crossed a bridge that spanned a picturesque stream tumbling over a rocky ledge in a rush through town. “It joins the Blanco River just south of here.”

“Blanco,” Belle said. “I remember going to Blanco on a field trip when I was in junior high. Aren’t there some dinosaur tracks there?”

“Yep,” Gabe said, smiling. “In the next county. And this is the square. Except that it isn’t exactly square.” He pulled to a stop in front of a row of shops with wooden storefronts.

Belle glanced around at the colorful array of buildings. “Where’s the courthouse?”

“In San Marcos.”

“Pardon?”

“The courthouse for Hayes County is in San Marcos, the county seat,” Gabe said.

“When you said ‘square,’ I assumed that you meant courthouse square. Like our square in Naconiche.”

“No courthouse here,” Gabe said. “We don’t even have a jail.”

“What do you do with the bad guys?” Belle asked.

Gabe smiled. “We don’t have many bad guys, but the few assorted lawbreakers get carted off to the calaboose in San Marcos.”

“No police force?”

“Nope,” he said. “The county sheriff and his deputies handle things pretty well.”

“We frown on crime,” Flora said. “This is the Firefly, the gallery that handles my work.” She pointed to a shop painted a sun-weathered blue. “And Daisy’s Health Food is just beyond it.”

Gabe retrieved the paintings from the trunk while Belle and Flora got out and went inside the gallery.

When the bell over the door jingled, a tall, slender man, with more hair on his chin than on his head, turned from his customers. His face brightened. “Flora! Dear heart. Your timing is perfect.” He rushed over to envelop Flora in a hug, trailing a scent that reminded Belle of sweet potato pie and mint tea. “Where on earth have you been, darlin’? And who is this gorgeous lady with you?”

“This gorgeous lady is Belle Outlaw, our houseguest. Belle, this is Mason Perdue, the owner of the Firefly.”

“Mr. Perdue.” Belle offered her hand.

He grasped her hand in both of his and bowed slightly. “Mason will do. My late fahtha was Mr. Perdue. Are you an artist, Belle?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The bell jingled again, and Gabe came inside carrying the two paintings. “Where shall I put these, Mason?”

“By my desk for now if you don’t mind, Gabe. Belle, may I steal Flora away for a moment? These very nice people from San Antonio have stopped by and are absolutely enamored by her portraits. They’d like to discuss a commission with her.”

“Mason,” Flora whispered, “I wish you wouldn’t put me on the spot like this. You know how I feel about it.”

“Double your price, darlin’,” Mason whispered back. “They’re loaded, and I need to pay my light bill. Things have been slow this month.”

Flora rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Excuse me, Belle.”

“No problem. I’ll look around.”

“I’ll give you the guided tour,” Gabe said.

Amused, Belle asked, “Think I might get lost?” The gallery was no more than twenty feet square.

Gabe grinned. “You might lose yourself among all these bluebonnets.”

Belle soon discovered what he meant. About half the paintings were landscapes, and most of those were of fields of wild-flowers, primarily bluebonnets. But these weren’t poor attempts by somebody’s grandmother or a weekend hobbyist. They were beautifully done by a variety of artists.

“Are these local artists?” she asked.

“Most of them, I think,” Gabe said.

“Why so many bluebonnets?”

“Tourists, my dear,” Mason said from behind them. “They gobble them up—even the bad ones at the place down the street. By the end of wildflower season, we won’t have a one left. I’ve tried to get Flora to paint more bluebonnets, but, alas, one is all she’ll do for now. This is hers.” He hung one of the canvases Gabe had brought in an empty spot on her left.

Belle moved toward it and stopped dead still. It took her breath away.

“You can almost see the unicorns frolicking in the mists, can’t you?” Mason asked.

Unicorns? No. But she could almost see fairies dancing in the flower fields. “It’s…spectacular.” And the price discreetly displayed on a card in the corner was spectacular, too. It was well beyond her means—especially now that she didn’t have a job.

“I’ll wager that it’s gone by the weekend,” Mason said. He sighed. “God, what I wouldn’t give to be able to paint like that.”

“You don’t paint?” Belle asked.

“Compared to Flora, I merely dabble. I’m mediocre at best.”

“But an excellent teacher,” Gabe said.

Mason sighed. “You know what they say. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Belle said. “My oldest brother was an outstanding cop, and now he’s an excellent criminal justice teacher. I suspect that you’re a very good artist.”

“Good, I suppose, but not great. Look at these portraits of Flora’s.”

They walked along the display beside Flora’s landscape, and Belle stopped again to draw a deep breath. Spectacular didn’t begin to describe the three large paintings displayed there. A surreal quality radiated from the canvases, captivating her. Besides her own few pitiful attempts at sketching and watercolor, Belle didn’t know a great deal about art, but she recognized brilliance.

These were brilliant.

Beyond brilliant.