The Ashtons - Cole, Abigail & Megan by authors_sort Read Free Book Online

“Dixie—”
    She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk about it.”
    When she walked away she was moving fast, not strolling, her back straight and stiff. And Cole just stood there and let her go, feeling as if the earth had shifted under him.
    She couldn’t talk about it? That didn’t sound like Dixie. Maybe she meant she couldn’t talk about it with him…but that wasn’t what she’d said. It wasn’t what he’d felt radiating from her with the kind of buried intensity he knew only too well.
    He was the one who stuffed things into compartments,banged the lid shut and sat on it to keep them there. Dixie had always possessed a terrifying honesty, with herself as well as others. She lifted lids and peeked inside. She didn’t turn away from painful truths.
    At least, that’s how he remembered her.
    Cole stood there a few moments longer, frowning at the path she’d vanished down. Then he went looking for his sister.

Chapter Four
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    A t ten o’clock that night, Dixie stood on a drop cloth in the center of her temporary living room, slashing color across a canvas. The light was lousy for painting, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t really painting. She was venting. No one but her would ever see this.
    Red roiled with brown in a muddy whirlpool at the lower right, while a mountain of black and gray reared over a pale green center like a granite wave about to crash. It was lousy art, she thought, stepping back to look it over. But damn satisfying.
    The knock on her door brought a frown to her face. On the couch, Hulk lifted his head, lazily contemplating the possibility of company. To Hulk, companymeant someone who could be cozened into rubbing his jaw or chin. To Dixie, it meant conversation.
    She didn’t want to talk. She considered not answering, but it probably wouldn’t work. Scowling, she snapped, “Just a minute,” then poked her brush into the wire loop that held it in the cleaner. She grabbed a rag and wiped some of the paint from her fingers as she headed to the door.
    Cole stood on her stoop with a frown to match her own—and a small leather tote in one hand, like an overnight case.
    She eyed that tote, eyebrows raised. “Not exactly subtle, Cole.”
    “It doesn’t hold my shaving gear. No full-court press tonight. No moves, no passes, no fouls. May I come in?”
    She studied his face. It didn’t tell her much. “Why not?” she said at last, and stepped back.
    “I did some research,” he said as he entered. “Nothing you haven’t already read, probably, but…” Words and feet both drifted to a stop as he saw her easel in the center of the room. And what sat on the easel.
    In spite of her mood, his expression tickled her.
    “Interesting,” he said after a moment in a careful voice. “I thought you didn’t do that kind of abstract art.”
    She chuckled. “That isn’t art, it’s therapy. My version of smashing crockery.”
    “That would be why it looks like crap, then.”
    “Probably. I’ll scrape the canvas and reprime itlater.” She cocked her head to one side. “You aren’t here to inspect my visual therapy.”
    “No, I…” Hulk had abandoned the couch and was rubbing against Cole’s leg, making like a chain saw. Cole bent and rubbed behind his ears. “Hello, monster.”
    Dixie ambled over to retrieve her brush, which needed to be washed. She’d made the canvas about as ugly as it needed to be. Might as well shut down for the night and find out what Cole was up to.
    In the tiny kitchen, she turned on the tap and worked soap into the soft bristles. “Hulk appreciates company, no matter what the hour. I’m not in the mood.”
    “Tough.” He’d set the mysterious tote on the coffee table. “You probably know all this,” he said gruffly, taking out a fat folder, “but I wasn’t sure how far your denial extended, so I thought I’d pass it on.”
    She put down her brush and returned to the living area, curious. He handed her the folder. Inside, she found