IT WAS SEPTEMBER BEFORE MILES—HAVING FINISHED the Leonard family portrait—began to paint the portrait of Shiloh’s Star. Only the painting wasn’t to be of the blood bay stallion by himself. Miles insisted Anna be in the portrait too. She couldn’t refuse the request. Didn’t want to refuse it. Agreeing meant spending more time with Miles, and she always wanted more time with him.
There was no doubt about it. Anna McKenna was in love. Thoroughly, completely, devastatingly in love. Did Miles have any idea how she felt about him? If he did, he didn’t let on.
“That’s perfect,” he called to her from behind his easel. “Keep that expression. Try not to move.”
It was much harder than it sounded, to hold any one particular expression, to stand like a statue. “Have you thought of asking Miss Carter to take a photograph and then paint from it? Everyone says her pictures are gorgeous. Then both me and Star would stand still for you and never change an expression or swat at a fly.” The idea appealed to Anna for more than one reason. If Miles was looking at a photograph while he painted, Anna would be free to move about and to gaze upon him with complete freedom.
“Hold still. And forget about a photograph. I could never capture the colors and the life I see before me now if I was looking at a black-and-white picture.”
Anna forced herself to focus on the palette Miles held in his left hand, thumb stuck through the hole, board resting on his forearm. A kaleidoscope of oil colors covered the palette’s surface. Miles twirled the tip of the brush in his right hand in one color, then another, then applied it to the canvas on the easel. It was pleasant to watch him work, even though she couldn’t see what he was doing. He often pressed his lips together, one corner slightly higher than the other, and squinted his eyes. Whenever he glanced up, he seemed to see her but not see her. As if she were in his dreams.
She smiled at the thought. How grand it would be if Miles Stanley dreamed about her. It would only be fair. She dreamed about him. Often.
“Hey, Anna, I told you to hold your expression. Now you’re smiling and your smile is too . . . happy. I want a look that’s a little mysterious.”
She laughed. “But I am happy.”
“All right then. I’ll paint the horse. He isn’t smiling.”
“You are.”
“Am I?” He set aside palette and brush, then touched the corners of his mouth with his fingertips. “Well I’ll be. You’re right.”
Any attempt to compose herself would be useless now. So she didn’t even try. Instead she pushed away from the fence and walked toward Miles. “I want to see what you’ve done.”
Miles stepped around the easel, planting himself in her way. “No peeking.”
“But—”
“No.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Not until it’s finished.”
“How long will that be?”
“A lot longer if you don’t stand still.”
She laughed again as she looked up into his eyes. Miles stood so close. It would be easy for him to lean in and kiss her. She wished he would do it. Whenever she dreamed of him, he always kissed her. If only he would do it for real.
Instead of kissing her, he turned her around and gave her a gentle push back toward the fence. “Go on. I need to work while the light’s right.”
Oh, the frustration! She wasn’t a child. Young, yes, but not a child.
She arrived back at the fence and turned around.
“Move a little to your right. That’s it.”
You see so much, Miles, with those artist’s eyes of yours. Why can’t you see how much I love you?
He smiled as he picked up his paintbrush. “Perfect. Now stay put.”
Somehow she would make him see more than the expression she wore. Somehow she would make him see into her heart.