A Lasting Impression

gone, and she’d mentioned Andrew Stanton only twice in their exchange of letters, and then only in passing. He’d tried to read between the lines of those mentions, wondering if Stanton had managed to make an impression on her or not.
    As fine a man as Stanton was, Sutton prayed he hadn’t.
    Because after having only her letters to look forward to, he’d decided that he’d been a fool to leave her the way he did. Yes, she’d needed time, he knew, to learn her own heart. But he’d had time to learn his too, and his heart wanted her.
    Now if he could only find a way to provide for her. If love were enough, he was convinced he had a lifetime of that to lavish upon her. But she was worthy of far more, and he wanted to give her everything she deserved.
    He rested a hand on the artist’s case he’d made for her in recent weeks. Nothing fancy. Just something she could store her canvases in as she trekked back and forth to paint. He hadn’t worked with wood like that in years, and he’d enjoyed every minute of it. Just as he enjoyed anticipating the look on her face when he gave it to her.
    The train whistle blew, signaling their approach into Nashville. But it couldn’t come fast enough for him.

    Satchel slung over her shoulder, and easel and white umbrella tucked under her arm, Claire started back down the ridge with the still-wet canvas in her grip. Perhaps it was the sun’s brilliance overhead or the unexpected hint of spring, but she couldn’t deny the sense of possibility filling her.
    Or the fact that she was perspiring beneath her chemise.
    At the foot of the ridge she paused and took off her coat, then lifted her hair from her neck. Oh, the breeze felt heavenly. And this after it had snowed only days earlier. Tennessee weather . . .
    Since she’d gone to bed so late last night, staying up to write, she’d thought she might sleep later than she had. But she’d awakened at a quarter past seven, refreshed and eager to paint. Wishing she had a glass of Cordina’s sweet iced lemonade, she heard something that sounded almost as refreshing.
    Shouldering her load again, she gripped the canvas by its edge and started across the meadow for the creek.
    Atop the ridge that morning, she’d stood staring out over the meadow at the Belmont estate and had felt her gaze being drawn to the hill in the distance where Sutton’s family home had once stood. It was then she’d finally realized what view she wanted to capture and she’d painted it. An umbrella had helped to diffuse the bright sunlight and show the paint’s true colors, but she looked forward to painting the view again, until she got it right.
    She glanced down at the canvas, mindful to keep the winter grasses from brushing the oils still tacky to the touch. And with growing certainty, she heard the response inside her gaining strength. I’ll paint as if I’m painting only for You.
    She expected Sutton would receive her letter in a few days, and she prayed her plea would spur him to come home. She pictured him again at the LeVert reception, speaking with Andrew Stanton, and while she thought she understood the motivation behind what he’d done, she still wanted to shake the man senseless.
    Yet she could hardly wait to be with him again.
    Seeing the slab of limestone jutting out from the hillside, she felt as if she were seeing an old friend. She set the canvas in a protected cleft of the rock and deposited her belongings beside it. Then she knelt by the creek and dipped her hand in. The icy chill felt like a touch of heaven, and she drank until she’d slaked her thirst.
    On a whim, she removed her boots and stockings and slid her feet in. She leaned back, face tilted toward the sun, and let out a sigh—one that felt as if it had been building inside her for months, if not years. As she lay there, her mother’s face came to mind. She wished she still had her mother’s locket watch, yet even without it, she could still picture her maman ’s smile.
    Knowing the day was slipping by and that work awaited, Claire rose and reached for her boots and stockings but paused when she saw the deep pool of water downstream. She glanced behind her, then around. The spot was secluded. She was alone.
    By the time she reached the edge of the creek, she’d unbuttoned the front of her dress. Laying it aside, next came her crinoline and underskirts, until she stood in only her chemise and pantalets. She waded in, sucking in a breath as the water swirled around