Chapter 4- The Art of Lying.

Professor Dollen was a complete jerk.

I had reached that conclusion within approximately sixty seconds of meeting him.

He walked into our first Foundations of Painting class, placed his leather portfolio on the desk, surveyed the room as though at least half of us had personally offended him by enrolling, and proceeded to shatter several dreams before introducing himself.

“You are either gifted enough to belong here, or you are occupying space that would be better given to someone who is.”

A few people frowned.

I sat a little straighter.

Interesting.

“Technique can be taught,” he continued. “Color theory can be studied. Composition can be refined. I can teach you what your materials are capable of doing. What I cannot give you is the instinct to create something worth looking at.”

Ouch.

That one visibly wounded several people.

Professor Dollen wasn't finished.

“If you're expecting me to teach you how to become an artist, you've chosen the wrong discipline. I can teach you how to use a brush. I cannot teach you what to do with it.”

There it was.

The dramatic little speech that would eventually become legendary among his students.

Two people dropped the course before the end of the week.

By our third class, several more had either transferred into another section or begun seriously reconsidering their majors.

Professor Dollen's foundation course was notoriously unforgiving.

For many students, it was terrifying.

For me?

It was fascinating.

A trial of instinct.

Technique.

Observation.

And perhaps a little stubbornness.

I wanted to know precisely how talented I was when someone refused to flatter me.

As it turned out, I was very talented.

Unfortunately, none of Professor Dollen's assignments had ever required me to demonstrate proficiency in the particular art form I needed now.

Lying.

And apparently...

today I was about to discover whether I possessed any natural talent for that, too.

Sawyer waited patiently for me to stop crying.

And I mean patiently.

The man remained there while I sobbed with such complete lack of dignity that, under different circumstances, I might have hugged him simply for not looking uncomfortable.

I was crying uncontrollably.

And the poor man had understandably reached the wrong conclusion.

He thought I was distraught over the accident.

Over the Mustang.

Over the smoke still curling from beneath its hood and the demolished section of his fence scattered across the pasture.

If only.

The car was certainly contributing to my emotional collapse, but it wasn't the reason I couldn't stop crying.

I was crying because the adrenaline had finally abandoned me.

For hours, I'd been moving too quickly to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened. Drive. Get gas. Destroy the phone. Keep moving. Don't think. Don't stop.

Well, I'd stopped.

Rather spectacularly, actually.

And now I had an entirely different problem kneeling in front of me.

Sawyer.

Because eventually, the very patient, very handsome stranger was going to start asking perfectly reasonable questions.

Where had I come from?

Was there someone he could call?

What was my last name?

Questions normal people answered without first calculating the potential consequences.

I couldn't.

Eventually, my breathing steadied.

I wiped beneath my eyes with the heels of my hands and discovered Sawyer was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Being unbearably patient.

And suddenly, Professor Dollen's voice returned to me.

What I cannot give you is the instinct to create something worth looking at.

Well...

I needed to create something now.

Not on canvas.

A story.

Something believable enough that Sawyer would look exactly where I wanted him to look—and never notice everything I was carefully keeping outside the frame.

He tilted his head slightly.

“You doin' okay?”

No.

“Much better.”

Lie number one.

It came remarkably easily.

Perhaps I had underestimated myself.

Professor Dollen would have been proud.

Eventually, my breathing steadied.

Sawyer was still there. And I almost wished he'd leave.

Because the longer he remained, the more questions he was inevitably going to ask. And the more questions he asked, the more elaborate my imaginary canvas would have to become.

“I'm Chloe.”

Lie number two.

The name came to me instinctively.

Chloe.

My beloved French bulldog. And just like that, my eyes began to sting again.

Oh, God.

I'd left Chloe.

I swallowed the emotion before it could become another embarrassing performance.

“Chloe Anderson,” I added.

Anderson was Seraphine's last name.

Perfect.

If I was going to invent an identity on the side of a West Virginia road with a probable concussion, at least I was intelligent enough to borrow information I could remember.

“Chloe Anderson,” Sawyer repeated.

I nodded.

“Hello, Chloe Anderson.”

Something about the way he said it made me feel strangely guilty.

“I'm genuinely sorry about your fence.” I glanced toward the wreckage. “I became distracted trying to retrieve the map from my passenger seat.”

He stared at me.

Apparently waiting for more.

Wonderful.

“I told you, I didn't really know where I was going.” I paused.

Careful, Mia.

Think.

“I enjoy exploring.”

His eyes moved toward the Mustang.

Then back to me.

“With a map, huh?”

A muffled laugh escaped him.

“Didn't think folks still used those things.”

Crap.

There went the composition.

“I ordinarily wouldn't.”

I needed something.

Quickly.

“I stopped at a gas station earlier and accidentally left my bag in the car.”

Sawyer waited.

“It was gone when I came back.”

His expression immediately changed.

“Oh, shit.”

“Precisely.”

That was better.

“My phone was inside.”

I paused.

“My wallet.”

Another pause.

“Everything.”

I was beginning to admire my own performance.

“Except twenty-four dollars I happened to have in my pocket.”

Sawyer said nothing.

Was he believing me?

He certainly wasn't making this easy.

“And now,” I added, glancing miserably at the car, “I no longer appear to have a functioning car.”

“Come on,” he said.

I blinked.

“Come on where?”

“My house.”

I stared at him.

Sawyer noticed my hesitation immediately.

“I've got a phone. You can call somebody.”

“Somebody?”

The word came out with considerably more irritation than the situation warranted.

He raised an eyebrow. “I mean... Chloe Anderson's got family, don't she?”

Right.

Chloe Anderson.

My fictional alter ego required relatives.

“Of course.” I arranged my face into something suitably tragic. “I actually don't have much family.”

Concern immediately settled across his features.

Oh, dear God. Please forgive me. 

“I have a sister,” I added quickly. “It's essentially just the two of us.”

May God really forgive me.

“And where's this sister?”

Excellent question.

“She travels quite extensively.” I examined his expression before continuing. “I believe she's in Maine at the moment.”

“Maine?”

“Yes.”

Why had I selected Maine?

“She has an RV.”

Sawyer stared at me.

“A rather ridiculous one,” I added.

Silence.

He was evaluating me.

I could see it.

Professor Dollen would've hated this composition.

Too many unnecessary details.

“Does Chloe have a home?”

There it was.

He was absolutely seeing through me.

My amusement disappeared.

“I did.”

That answer required no invention.

Sawyer's expression changed.

“But my husband cheated on me.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“And now I don't.”

Truth.

Finally.

And somehow, that was the hardest answer I'd given him.

Sawyer studied my face for several seconds.

I took a slow breath.

Thank you for being my knight in shining armor, cowboy, but this was where our brief acquaintance needed to conclude.

Except...

How exactly did I intend to leave?

My car was destroyed. 

And the money I had could not repair it.

And unless Pleasant Valley had developed an exceptionally sophisticated public transportation system in the last ten minutes, I wasn't going anywhere.

“Come on,” Sawyer said again.

I looked at him carefully.

Whatever came out of his mouth next was going to determine my next move.

“You got anything in the car you need to pull out?”

“No. They took everything.”

His brow furrowed.

Really furrowed.

“Your clothes too?”

“Mhm.”

I pressed my lips together immediately.

Opening my mouth seemed increasingly dangerous.

“I'll take you up to my place,” he said. “Then I'll call my buddy. He can come take a look at your car.”

“I don't have the money to pay for his services.”

Sawyer stood. “He owes me a favor.”

That was apparently the end of the discussion.

He extended one large hand toward me.

I looked at it before reluctantly placing mine in his.

He pulled me effortlessly to my feet.

“Okay. Just give me a moment to retrieve a few things.”

I turned toward the Mustang.

Then stopped.

Crap.

Hadn't I just told him everything had been stolen?

I could practically feel Sawyer's eyes on my back.

I opened the driver's door first and collected the few things scattered across the floor.

My wallet—which I very discreetly slipped into the front pocket of my overalls before Sawyer could get a good look at it.

The stupid map responsible for this entire catastrophe.

And my leather case of brushes.

Then I popped the trunk.

Miraculously, it still opened.

I retrieved a small canvas tote bag buried among the ancient remnants of my former life and placed the brushes and map inside.

The gown stayed hidden.

So did the Valentino sandals.

Those would require an explanation I had absolutely no intention of providing.

When I turned around, Sawyer was watching me.

Closely.

Too closely.

I smiled.

He did not.

Wonderful.

I was losing my audience.

Then he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled.

The sound sliced cleanly through the open pasture.

I frowned.

A moment later, something moved in the distance.

Something large.

Very large.

It came toward us at an easy run, its body powerful and graceful, its dark mane shifting with every stride.

My eyes widened.

The animal slowed as it approached Sawyer.

“A horse,” I murmured.

Apparently, I'd said that aloud.

Sawyer glanced at me.

“Yes, ma'am. I believe that's a horse.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

Humiliating.

“This here's Dallas.”

Dallas.

Of course his horse was named Dallas.

Sawyer placed one boot into the stirrup and mounted him with such effortless skill that my jaw nearly dropped.

There was no awkward climbing.

No struggle.

One fluid movement and suddenly he was sitting atop an enormous animal as though the two of them had been assembled together.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's go.”

“Okay.”

I didn't move.

Sawyer extended his hand toward me.

“I'll help you up.”

Absolutely not.

I stared at his hand.

Then at Dallas.

Then back at Sawyer.

“Chloe?”

“Ahem.” I cleared my throat and met his eyes. “Would it be possible for me to simply follow you?”

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

“You ever been on a horse before?”

I declined to answer.

My silence apparently answered for me.

His grin widened.

“Dallas ain't gonna hurt you.”

That was very easy for the man already sitting on Dallas to say.

Sawyer motioned for me to come closer.

I remained exactly where I was.

“Chloe, I don't think you're gonna want to walk through the herd.”

“The herd?”

“Cattle.”

I stared at him.

“Cattle?”

“Yes, ma'am. Cows.”

Oh, brother.

“There are several hundred of them between here and the house. Little creek too. Couple more horses on the other side.”

“Are you serious?”

The question came out more sharply than intended.

Sawyer laughed again.

“You can walk if that's what you choose.”

I looked across the pasture.

Then at Dallas.

Then toward the pasture again.

“I have never been on a horse before.”

“I gathered that.”

His amusement was beginning to offend me.

“I'll make sure you don't fall.”

I took one cautious step.

Then another.

Then a third.

Dallas turned his enormous head slightly in my direction.

I stopped.

“Dallas,” I said carefully, “I would greatly appreciate your cooperation.”

Sawyer's mouth twitched.

“Please be nice to me.”

“Darlin', he's a horse, not a senator. You don't gotta negotiate with him.”

I looked up at Sawyer.

“I've had considerably more experience negotiating with senators.”

That made him laugh.

Before I could reconsider every decision that had brought me to this precise moment, Sawyer leaned down, caught me securely, and pulled me upward.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Oh, my God.”

“Open your eyes.”

“No.”

Another laugh rumbled from him.

“Open 'em, Chloe.”

Very slowly, I did.

I was sitting on a horse.

An actual horse.

Several feet above the ground.

My entire body went rigid.

Then Sawyer's arm came firmly around my waist.

The contact startled me almost as much as the animal beneath me.

“I've got you.”

His voice was close now.

Very close.

With his other hand, he gathered the reins and guided Dallas forward.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Every movement beneath me felt foreign. Powerful. Unpredictable.

I instinctively reached for Sawyer's forearm around my waist.

He didn't comment.

Thank God.

Dallas carried us down the hill.

And then—

I forgot to be afraid.

The land opened beneath us.

An enormous green pasture stretched across the valley, dotted with hundreds of cattle. Beyond them, rolling mountains rose against the morning sky, layers of green disappearing into the distance.

A narrow creek caught the sunlight as it wound through the property.

Horses grazed beyond it.

There were no buildings crowding the horizon.

No horns.

No sirens.

No skyscrapers.

Just land.

Sky.

Mountains.

An impossible amount of space.

My breath caught.

For several seconds, I forgot why I was here.

I forgot that my name wasn't Chloe Anderson.

I even forgot about the destroyed Mustang behind us.

All I could do was stare.

“My God,” I whispered.

Sawyer's arm remained securely around my waist.

“Welcome to Pleasant Valley, Chloe.”

For once, I had nothing clever to say.

I simply allowed myself to enjoy it.

Dallas moved beneath us with an easy, rhythmic stride, and once I stopped anticipating my imminent death with every step he took, I discovered something rather unexpected.

I liked it.

Actually...

I loved it.

The gentle sway of his enormous body. The cold breeze against my face. The faint sound of water somewhere ahead of us.

Even the peculiar comfort of Sawyer's arm secured around my waist.

Especially that part, perhaps.

I immediately dismissed the thought.

The farther we traveled, the more the landscape unfolded before me. Cattle grazed lazily across the pasture, entirely unconcerned with my catastrophic arrival. Some lifted their heads as we passed, chewing slowly while staring at me with what I considered an unnecessary degree of judgment.

I stared back.

“I've had a difficult morning,” I informed one of them.

Sawyer chuckled behind me.

“You talk to animals a lot?”

“Only when they appear judgmental.”

“That one's probably judgin' your ridin'.”

I turned my head slightly.

“That was remarkably unkind.”

“Wasn't me. It was the cow.”

A laugh escaped me.

And it startled me.

Not because I hadn't laughed that morning. I had.

Hysterically.

Possibly concussed.

This was different.

For the first time since leaving New York, laughter didn't feel like something being ripped out of me.

It simply felt good.

I relaxed a little more against Sawyer and watched the pasture roll past us.

Then my attention returned to the cattle.

There really were a lot of them. And my smile slowly disappeared.

I glanced over my shoulder toward the hill we'd descended, although the Mustang and destroyed fence were no longer visible.

“Sawyer?”

“Yeah?”

“The fence.”

“What about it?”

I turned as much as his arm around my waist allowed.

“I destroyed it.”

“I'm aware.”

“Yes, thank you. I vividly remember that portion of the morning.”

I looked toward the cattle again.

“What's preventing all of them from escaping?”

For some reason, Sawyer found that amusing.

“They ain't gonna make a run for freedom just because you knocked down one section of fence.”

“That is not particularly reassuring.”

“They'll be all right for a little while.”

“A little while?”

My posture straightened.

“Sawyer, there are over one hundred cows behind us.”

“Cattle.”

I frowned.

“Is there a meaningful distinction at this particular moment?”

His chest moved against my back with another quiet laugh.

“To me there is.”

Of course there was.

“Well, your cattle are currently being contained by a fence that I have rather effectively demolished.”

“I'll fix it.”

My stomach tightened.

There it was again.

Money.

“I meant what I said earlier. I'll pay for the damage.”

“We'll worry about that later.”

“No. We should worry about it now.”

“Chloe—”

“I damaged your property. I'm responsible for repairing it.”

He went quiet.

I could almost feel him thinking behind me.

Finally, he said, “All right.”

I blinked.

That had been suspiciously easy.

“All right?”

“Yep.”

Something about his tone made me uneasy. “What exactly does all right mean?”

“It means you can pay me for the fence.”

I swallowed.

Wonderful.

The little money I had suddenly felt considerably less impressive.

“I will.”

“Good.”

He guided Dallas toward the creek as though the matter had been settled.

It had not.

“And precisely how much does a fence cost?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you destroyed.”

I closed my eyes.

Naturally.

“I'll need an estimate.”

That earned me another laugh.

“What?”

“Nothin'.”

“You're laughing at me.”

“A little.”

“I fail to see what is amusing.”

“Most folks who drive through my fence don't ask me for an estimate before they've even gotten off the horse.”

“I prefer to understand my financial obligations.”

“Do you?”

The question was innocent.

Entirely innocent.

Yet my entire body stiffened.

Because Chloe Anderson currently had twenty-four dollars.

Mia Sterling could have replaced his entire fence before lunch.

Sawyer couldn't know that.

“Yes,” I said carefully. “I do.”

“Well, then we'll figure it out.”

I nodded.

Fine.

I'd find a way.

I didn't know how yet, but I would.

The fence wasn't his responsibility.

Neither was my car.

Neither was I.

And I had no intention of becoming some helpless stranger who appeared on his property, destroyed his fence, accepted his hospitality, and disappeared without making things right.

“I'll pay you,” I repeated.

Sawyer was quiet for a moment.

Then, behind me, I heard the unmistakable amusement in his voice.

“I'll remember you said that.”

For some inexplicable reason, the words sounded less like reassurance...

and considerably more like a warning.

I glanced back at him.

Sawyer was smiling.

I narrowed my eyes.

I had the distinct impression I'd just agreed to something whose consequences I did not yet fully appreciate.

As Dallas carried us closer to our destination, Sawyer's home gradually came into full view. And I found myself studying it with considerably more interest than I intended.

It was an older ranch house, but undeniably charming.

A green metal roof stretched above a wide porch that seemed almost disproportionately large for the house itself. The exterior was wrapped entirely in logs, weathered just enough to suggest they had endured decades of West Virginia seasons without losing their character.

It wasn't polished.

It wasn't meticulously landscaped.

It certainly wasn't anything an architect in Manhattan would describe as contemporary. But it was beautiful in an entirely different way.

Authentic.

Lived in.

The sort of place that seemed to belong precisely where it stood.

A smaller fence surrounded part of the property, and several chickens wandered freely behind it, pecking at the ground with tremendous purpose.

I stared at them.

Actual chickens.

Of course.

Why wouldn't there be chickens?

At this point, I half expected a goat to emerge from behind the house and introduce itself.

Sawyer guided Dallas toward a large enclosed pen beside the property.

Dallas entered without the slightest hesitation.

“This is your house?” I asked.

Sawyer turned his head toward me.

“Nope. This here's the exercise pen.”

Then a mischievous smile appeared beneath his beard.

He pointed toward the ranch house.

“That's my house right there.”

I narrowed my eyes.

Then he gestured behind me.

“And that's Dallas's.”

Smart-ass.

The insult remained safely inside my head.

Instead, I turned to see what he was pointing toward.

And gasped.

A barn.

An actual barn.

It was enormous.

Deep red siding. White trim. Large double doors. A high roof that seemed impossibly tall from where I sat.

I'd seen barns before, obviously.

In paintings.

One in particular.

Photographs.

From highways.

Perhaps even from the carefully climate-controlled interior of a vehicle.

But I'd never stood directly in front of one.

Certainly not while sitting on a horse.

I opened my mouth.

Then reconsidered.

No.

Absolutely not.

Sawyer already knew I'd never ridden a horse. I'd identified Dallas aloud as though I'd recently discovered the species. And the man had managed to make sport of nearly everything I'd said since meeting him.

I refused to provide additional material.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You made a face.”

“I did not.”

“You sure did.”

“I was observing the architecture.”

“The barn?”

“Yes, Sawyer. The barn.”

He chuckled.

“Never seen one before, have you?”

I turned my head slowly.

The man had a mouth on him.

I'd learned that in, what?

Thirty minutes?

“I have seen barns.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have.”

“Pictures don't count.”

My lips parted.

How the hell—

Sawyer laughed.

I straightened my shoulders with as much dignity as one could reasonably summon while sitting on the back of a horse in paint-splattered overalls.

“I'll have you know that I've traveled extensively.”

“I'm sure you have, darlin'.”

Darling.

The word rolled effortlessly from his mouth, softened by that maddening country accent.

I decided immediately that I disliked it.

The fact that I noticed precisely how it sounded was irrelevant.

Sawyer swung one leg over Dallas and dismounted with the same effortless competence he'd demonstrated earlier.

Then he looked up at me.

I looked down at him.

Far down.

An unfortunate realization occurred to me.

“How exactly am I supposed to get off?”

His grin returned.

“Same way you got on.”

My stomach dropped.

“No.”

He laughed.

“Come on.”

“I would prefer instructions.”

“Slide down. I'll catch you.”

“That is not an instruction. That is an invitation to catastrophe.”

“Chloe.”

“Sawyer.”

His grin widened.

“Trust me.”

That was an extraordinarily ambitious request from a man I'd known for approximately half an hour.

Nevertheless, I carefully moved one leg over Dallas and immediately regretted every decision I'd made since leaving New York.

“Oh, God.”

“I got you.”

“I would strongly prefer that you do.”

“Just slide.”

I did.

And Sawyer caught me.

Both of his hands settled around my waist as my feet reached the ground.

For one strange second, neither of us moved.

I became acutely aware of how close he was.

How enormous his hands felt around my waist. How easily he'd caught me. And how those warm brown eyes were once again fixed directly on mine.

Something unfamiliar fluttered low in my stomach.

Absolutely not.

I stepped backward.

“Thank you.”

Sawyer's mouth curved slightly.

“Anytime.”

I ignored that.

He removed Dallas's tack with practiced movements while I stood nearby holding my canvas tote and attempting to look as though spending my morning beside a barn was an entirely ordinary occurrence.

Once Dallas was settled, Sawyer started toward the house.

I followed.

The chickens immediately became interested in our arrival. One approached considerably closer than I appreciated and that scared me.

I moved away from it.

Sawyer noticed.

“It's a chicken, Chloe.”

“I am perfectly aware of what it is.”

“Don't look like it.”

“I simply don't appreciate being approached without invitation.”

“By a chicken?”

“By anyone.”

He laughed again.

Infuriating man.

We climbed the steps onto the enormous porch.

Up close, the house was even more charming.

There were worn wooden rocking chairs, muddy work boots beside the door, and a battered metal bowl that appeared to have been repurposed for something I couldn't identify.

Nothing matched.

Nothing appeared curated.

And somehow, everything belonged.

Sawyer opened the front door.

I stopped.

Until that moment, everything had been a reaction.

Crash.

Smoke.

Sawyer.

Dallas.

Cattle.

A ranch.

I'd simply followed whatever came next because I hadn't possessed a better alternative.

But this was different.

This required me to make a choice.

Beyond that door was the home of a man whose last name I didn't know.

A stranger.

A cowboy.

A man I'd met by driving through his fence.

And I was about to enter his house under a name that wasn't mine, carrying twenty-four dollars, an antique road map, and enough lies to make Professor Dollen reconsider his definition of artistic talent.

Sawyer looked back at me.

“You comin'?”

I glanced toward the endless pasture behind us.

Somewhere beyond those hills sat my destroyed vehicle.

Beyond that, hundreds of miles away, was a life I wasn't prepared to return to.

I looked at Sawyer again.

“Yes.”

He stepped aside.

“Then come on in, Chloe.”

Chloe.

The name still felt foreign.

Borrowed.

Temporary.

I tightened my fingers around the canvas tote and crossed the threshold.

Mia Sterling disappeared a little further with every step I took.

And Chloe Anderson walked into Sawyer's house.