Not on His Watch

“Not at all. And, by the way, I prefer when you call me Natalie. ‘Miss Natalie’ doesn’t suit me.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” As they backtracked down the stairs, Quint watched the black windbreaker. Would he follow them?

The man with the Vandyke continued up the stairs and disappeared into the shadows of the columns. He must be just an innocent tourist, here to appreciate fine art.

When they reached the curb, Quint said, “Changed my mind. I’ll shop for souvenirs later. Let’s go see some art.”

“Fine.”

A slight edge of irritation crept through her professional politeness, and Quint figured he was driving this lady crazy.

Inside the Art Institute, Quint felt relatively safe. There were plenty of guards on every floor. Nobody was going to grab Natalie in here.

He allowed himself to relax.

“What sort of art do you like?” Natalie asked. “Old masters? Asian? Photography?”

“I like Remington.”

“Pictures of cowboys,” she said. “Of course.”

In his wildcatting years, Quint had blown through life like a Texan tumbleweed. He’d viewed art collections around the world from the Louvre in Paris to the Georgia O’Keefe Gallery in Santa Fe. In fact, he’d visited the Art Institute of Chicago once before.

As they toured the postmodernists, he stopped in front of a painting by Edward Hopper depicting a night scene of a near-deserted cafeteria on a city street corner. “Must be lonely living in the city,” he said. “After the crowds go home, there’s nothing but you and the concrete walls.”

“Sometimes, it’s lonelier in a crowd,” she said.

He stepped back, supposedly to get a better perspective on the painting. His gaze rested on the back of Natalie’s head. Her smooth, thick, brown hair fell in a delicate swoosh to her shoulders. Highlights of gold shimmered in the light. Her hair looked soft, touchable. He hated to think she might be lonely.

In another part of the gallery, he paused in front of the famous portrait by Grant Wood of a bald farmer with a pitchfork and his plain wife, American Gothic. “They look bored.”

“Not much action on the old homestead,” she said.

“Depends on your viewpoint. I’ve spent a whole afternoon on horseback, watching the prairie grass grow and the clouds roll by. But I wasn’t bored.”

“No?”

“Sameness is a comfort, knowing that every morning the sun is going to rise in the east. Whether or not I’m there to watch, the clouds will build and the rain will fall. I don’t need a lot of excitement to be content.”

For once, she didn’t sneer or smirk. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

“I can appreciate the stillness in nature. The touch of the wind on your face. The amazing beauty of a pink sunset.” She nodded toward the old couple in the painting. “Maybe they’re the smart ones. Knowing what to expect. Being together no matter what.”

“I like that,” he said. He liked her, too. He wanted to take her to his ranch and show her the vistas that went on forever until you could see the curve of the earth. Natalie would enjoy ranch life. From the way she handled those threatening notes, he knew she was tough and brave—not a sissy.

She was a city gal with a highly competitive nature. She didn’t like to be second best, and she wasn’t shy about stating her opinions. If she came to his ranch, she’d likely be running the damn place within a week.

When Quint turned away from the painting, he glimpsed a face—shaggy hair and a Vandyke beard. It was the guy from the street, but he wasn’t wearing his black windbreaker. Was he following? Was his presence a coincidence?

The cell phone inside Natalie’s purse rang out, and she quickly grabbed it. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I hate to interrupt anyone’s appreciation of these paintings.”

“Don’t worry on my account.”

She stepped into the foyer and conferred in hushed tones. After she disconnected the call, she returned to him. “We have to leave. Prince Zahir arrived a week early. He’s at Quantum.”

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