Page 19 of Horned to be Wild (Harmony Glen #7)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T he morning of the Harmony Glen Art Fair dawned with a crystal clarity that seemed almost deliberately crafted for the occasion.

Torin stood in his workshop, carefully wrapping his final pieces in soft cloth, while Lila bustled around happily organizing her paintings and display stands.

Every few minutes she would pause, dart over to press a quick kiss to his shoulder or arm, then resume her preparations.

“Are you nervous?” she asked, glancing over at him.

He considered the question, surprised to find that the gnawing anxiety he’d expected was instead a quiet, steady resolve. “No,” he answered truthfully. “Just ready.”

The decision to display his work had come gradually. Ever since he’d finally accepted that Lila loved him, something fundamental had shifted within him. The heart that had found love despite all odds could surely weather public scrutiny.

They loaded their artwork into his truck, Mabel watching with what looked suspiciously like pride from her pen. The old truck rumbled down the forest path towards town, Lila’s hand resting comfortably on his thigh, her presence a warm, reassuring anchor.

The Town Square bustled with activity as locals and vendors finished their preparations for the Harvest Festival. Pumpkins were piled everywhere, and the scent of fried food already filled the air.

Across the street, the white tents for the Art Fair lined the boardwalk, colorful banners fluttering in the gentle breeze. Artists and craftspeople from Harmony Glen and surrounding towns busied themselves with last-minute adjustments to their displays.

“We’re here,” he announced unnecessarily as he parked. He took a deep breath, steadying himself before reaching for her hand. “Together.”

Her fingers interlaced with his. “Always.”

Their booths stood side by side near the center of the fair.

Her space quickly bloomed with vibrant color as she arranged her paintings—landscapes that captured the mystical quality of the woods around their home, abstract pieces that somehow conveyed emotion through color alone, and a series of small portraits of local residents, including a particularly striking one of Mabel looking mischievously regal.

His booth was much more restrained. Each piece—animals caught in mid-motion, mythological figures with expressive faces, intricate forest scenes where every leaf seemed poised to rustle in the breeze—sat on simple wooden pedestals he’d crafted specifically for the occasion.

The polished wood gleamed softly against the white background of the tent.

He unwrapped the most special piece last—a rendering of two figures sitting on a porch, one small and delicate, the other large and horned, their hands almost touching between them.

The detail was extraordinary, from the grain of the wooden porch boards to the subtle expression of wonder on the smaller figure’s face.

“That’s us,” she whispered, coming to stand next to him. “The night we had wine on my porch.”

He nodded, placing it at the center of his display. “The moment I started to believe this might be possible.”

“You’re not going to sell it are you?”

“Of course not, but I… I wanted people to see it.”

That realization still surprised him, but he was proud both of the piece and what it represented. He stepped back, surveying his work now laid bare for all to see. The placard at the front of his booth read simply: “Torin Stonehand, Woodcarver.”

Not anonymous. Not hidden. Just himself.

As the fair opened and people began to wander through, he fought the urge to retreat behind his booth or busy himself with unnecessary adjustments. Instead, he stood tall, meeting the eyes of those who approached.

The first few visitors were hesitant, clearly surprised to see him, but as they actually looked at his carvings, their expressions transformed from curiosity to genuine appreciation.

“This detail is incredible,” murmured Mrs. Gable, running her fingers lightly over a carving of a fox. “The door frames are amazing enough but I had no idea of the range of your talent.”

An elderly orc spent nearly twenty minutes examining a complex forest scene. “You’ve captured the way light filters through leaves better than any photograph could,” he said finally. “I can almost see them fluttering in the breeze.”

As the morning progressed, a small crowd gathered around his booth. Questions came, tentative at first, then with increasing enthusiasm. Where did he find his inspiration? How long had he been carving? What woods did he prefer to work with?

He answered each question carefully, gradually growing more confident. He found himself explaining the way cherry wood warmed under his hands differently than oak, how he sometimes felt the shape waiting within a piece of wood before he began carving.

“It’s like the wood tells me what it wants to become,” he explained to a wide-eyed child. “I just help it along.”

Throughout it all, he felt Lila’s presence beside him, her own booth equally busy but her awareness of his milestone apparent in every proud glance she sent his way.

Around midday, he noticed a sharply dressed woman lingering at Lila’s booth.

Unlike the casual browsers, she examined each painting with methodical attention, occasionally making notes in a small leather-bound notebook.

Her tailored suit and precise movements screamed “city,” triggering a familiar twinge of anxiety in his chest.

He tried to focus on his own customers, but his ears strained to catch snippets of the conversation happening next door.

“…remarkable use of light…”

“…unique perspective on rural subjects…”

“…would fit beautifully in our spring showcase…”

The woman introduced herself to Lila as Suzanna Vargas, owner of a prestigious gallery in Manhattan. His hands tightened on the edge of his table as he heard her discussing the possibility of featuring Lila’s work in an upcoming exhibition.

“It would mean coming to the city for the opening, of course,” Suzanna said. “And ideally staying for a few weeks to meet potential buyers and critics. You have a unique perspective, Ms. Monroe, and I believe that people would be intrigued by your background and inspiration.”

The old fear clawed at his throat—the city, taking someone he loved away again. He glanced at Lila and saw the undisguised excitement in her eyes, the way she leaned forward slightly as she listened to the gallery owner’s proposal.

This was her dream. Recognition of her talent, a chance to share her art with a wider audience. Everything she deserved.

The familiar impulse to withdraw, to protect himself from inevitable loss, rose within him. But now there was a new voice in his head, a stronger one. Loving Lila meant wanting her happiness. It meant supporting her dreams as fiercely as she had supported his.

Before he could second-guess himself, he went to join her, putting his hand gently on the small of her back.

“You should go,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the effort it took. “Show them what you can do.”

She looked up at him, frowning, then her face softened as if she understood what this moment cost him.

“Torin—”

“Your work deserves to be seen,” he continued. “And you deserve this opportunity.”

Suzanna Vargas raised an eyebrow, clearly reassessing the situation as she observed their exchange. “Mr. Stonehand, isn’t it? I was just admiring your work earlier. The craftsmanship is exceptional.”

He nodded his thanks, but kept his focus on Lila. “We can figure out the details,” he told her. “If you want this, we’ll make it work.”

He recognized the truth in his words as he spoke. Their love wasn’t a cage that confined them to one place or one way of being. It was a foundation strong enough to support them both. And if they had to part temporarily, they would always return to each other.

Her eyes shone with unshed tears as she reached up to touch his face. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of conversations and sales. To his astonishment, nearly all of his pieces sold, many at prices that made him blink in surprise. People didn’t just appreciate his work; they valued it enough to make it part of their homes, their lives.

As the fair wound down and the golden light of late afternoon shimmered on the lake, he found himself in a quiet moment at his now nearly empty booth. Next to him, Lila was deep in conversation with another customer, her hands moving animatedly as she explained her technique.

She caught his eye and smiled, a radiant expression that held not just happiness but love.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t fear what lay ahead.

Whatever came next—Lila’s exhibition in the city, his own growing recognition as an artist, their life together in Harmony Glen—they would face it side by side, their love not a limitation but an endless source of strength.

He smiled back at her, letting his own happiness show. Around them, the last few customers wandered between the tents, admiring the art and crafts created by their neighbors. Snippets of conversation drifted by on the breeze:

“Did you see Torin Stonehand’s work? Absolutely extraordinary…”

“I had no idea he was so talented…”

“The way those two look at each other…”

The validation was sweet, but it paled in comparison to the woman standing beside him, her hair glinting in the sun like the fire that burned within her. He would carve her likeness a thousand times over, but none of his creations could match the brilliance of her spirit.

“I love you,” she mouthed, the words clear despite the chatter of the crowd.

“I love you too.”

The future stretched before him, full of possibility and promise. He could face anything with her at his side. Anything at all.