Page 5 of Horned to be Wild (Harmony Glen #7)

CHAPTER FIVE

L ila’s heart raced as Torin put the goat figure on his workbench and pulled the chair closer. She had to fight the urge to grab the tiny goat and hold it close, as if that would somehow undo the damage she’d caused.

“Sit here,” he ordered, and she scrambled ungracefully into the too-tall chair.

He looked at her, then shook his head before grabbing an empty apple crate from against the wall and putting it under her feet so they weren’t dangling a foot above the ground.

“You’re very small.”

The words came out gruffly, and she bit back a smile. His comment was a pleasant change from Jeremy’s constant complaints about her size.

“Not for a human,” she said truthfully. “You’re just very tall.”

He snorted, a huff of sound that she suspected was laughter, and the last of her anxiety disappeared.

“How are we going to fix it?”

He tensed at the word we , but he reached for a bottle of wood glue before she could amend her question.

“We are going to insert glue in the cracks, then clamp it together.”

“Cracks?” she whispered, suddenly afraid that she’d done even more damage than she realized.

“In addition to the large one on her neck, there’s another hairline crack at the base of her tail.” Her expression must have given her away because his voice softened. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Will the repairs be visible afterwards?”

“Possibly, but I should be able to disguise it.”

She started to nod, then hesitated, remembering a pottery exhibit she’d seen the previous year.

“What if you didn’t try and hide it?” she asked slowly. “Have you ever heard of Kintsugi?”

“The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold?” He ducked his head, his tail flicking nervously at her surprised look. “I read about it.”

“Why don’t we do something similar? Instead of trying to hide the cracks, why not make them a feature? So that the damage makes it more beautiful?”

“I don’t have any gold.”

“It doesn’t have to be gold. Could we use something else?”

“Perhaps.” He looked at the goat, his head tilted. “I could use some walnut wood shavings mixed with the glue to fill the cracks. That would make the line stand out but still complement the color of the rest of the piece.”

“I think that would be beautiful,” she said enthusiastically, and his tail flicked again.

“It will take me a few minutes to prepare the mixture,” he said.

“I can help.”

He looked as though he was about to refuse, then gave an abrupt nod and handed her a small plane.

She watched closely as he shaved the first piece of wood from the small block of walnut, then tried to emulate his movements.

She didn’t succeed quite as well and her shavings were thicker, but he didn’t comment, instead adding them to a small bowl and crushing them further with the back of a spoon.

She passed him the bottle of glue and watched as he added it to the mix, using a toothpick to combine them.

“Now what?”

“Now we apply the mixture to the cracks.” He picked up the toothpick and started to apply the paste, then paused and handed it to her. “You try.”

She reached for it eagerly, but the paste was thicker than she expected and she wasn’t quite sure how to apply it to the narrow groove.

“Here.” He moved to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her and guiding her hands. “Let me show you.”

She froze, overwhelmingly aware of the heat of his body behind her and the strength of his arms around her.

His scent washed over her again and she felt a rush of liquid heat between her thighs.

She didn’t move as he gently guided the toothpick along the crack in the goat’s neck, then filled the crack at the base of the tail.

“Good,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in her ear and sending another wave of longing through her.

Her heart was beating so loudly she suspected he could hear it.

He didn’t move but she could sense his own tension and wondered if he was as affected as she was.

Then he stepped back, and she immediately missed the warmth of his touch.

He returned with a set of small clamps and carefully applied them to the goat’s neck, then to her tail, and she sighed with relief.

“She’ll be fine now, won’t she?”

“Yes. The statue will be fine.”

He set the piece aside and she wondered if she should get up, if this was her cue to leave, even though she didn’t want to. But he turned back to her, holding out a small piece of sandpaper, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Now what?” she asked.

“We can start on the stag’s antlers. I never quite finished him.” He hesitated, then said, “If you want to stay.”

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “I’d like that.”

He gave her a quick nod, and she thought she saw a flash of relief in those dark amber eyes.

They spent a comfortable hour together, working on the stag.

When she was done smoothing the antlers, she traced a finger along the fine, detailed carving and looked up to find him watching her, his eyes intent.

He cleared his throat and glanced at the pie.

“Would you like a piece?” he asked.

“I’d love one. And some coffee?”

“I don’t have coffee, but I could make some tea.”

“Tea sounds perfect. Do you want some help?”

“No. Stay there. I’ll take care of it.”

She took the opportunity to look around some more as he prepared the tea.

Fantastical beasts lined the shelves—dragons with scales so fine they seemed to ripple, wolves with fur she could almost feel, birds caught in mid-flight.

Delicate landscapes emerged from flat panels, so detailed she could count the leaves on tiny trees.

Several larger figures—some human, some not—were poised on small pedestals, their expressions ranging from joy to sorrow to contemplation.

At the other end of his main workstation, a half-finished woodland flower, each petal curved with impossible delicacy, was waiting for the final touches that would bring it to life.

She gave him a curious look when he returned with the tea. “Have you always carved?”

“Since I was a child,” he said, his voice turning guarded.

She waited, hoping for more, but he was concentrating on cutting the pie. “What drew you to it?”

After a long pause, he finally answered her. “At first it was just an… escape. But then I discovered that the wood speaks to me. Each piece has its own story, its own grain and character. You don’t force it. You find what’s already waiting inside.”

“That’s exactly how I feel about painting,” she said eagerly. “It’s not about imposing your will on the medium, but discovering what wants to emerge.”

His gaze flickered to her face, something she couldn’t read in his expression. “Most people don’t understand that.”

“My ex certainly didn’t. He thought art was about technical proficiency and nothing more.” She hesitated for a moment. “Would you like to see some of my work? You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she added hastily. “In fact I probably shouldn’t have?—”

“I’d love to,” he interrupted, his big hand covering hers for a much too brief second, and she gave him a relieved smile.

But as soon as she opened her digital portfolio and handed him her phone, the vulnerability returned. She watched his face as he scrolled through the image, suddenly realizing how important it was to her that he understood her work.

He frowned down at the screen, amber eyes narrowing as he studied each piece. The silence stretched, and anxiety began to build in her chest. What was he thinking? Was he trying to find something polite to say?

Then he stopped on a particular image—an abstract watercolor of light filtering through trees onto a forest stream. “You were trying to capture the movement of light through water,” he said thoughtfully. “The feeling of being there, not just the image.”

“Yes, exactly.” A weight seemed to lift off of her shoulders. He did understand. “My ex didn’t get that at all. He said it was a waste of time to try and capture the intangible. He wanted to know why there weren’t any actual trees in the picture.”

“Then he is a fool,” he growled, and she grinned at him.

“That was my conclusion as well, although it took me too long to admit it.”

“Why?” he asked as he handed back her phone and slid a slice of pie in her direction.

“I suppose I always want to think the best of people. To believe that they mean well.”

“That hasn’t been my experience.” His tail flicked, and she could tell the subject made him uncomfortable, so she decided to change the subject.

“I hope you like the pie.”

He picked up his plate and she watched in astonishment as the huge slice disappeared in three quick bites.

“Did you enjoy that?” she asked, amused and impressed by his appetite.

“Very much.”

He started to get up, presumably to cut another piece, but she beat him to it, returning to the workbench with another, even larger piece.

“You don’t have to wait on me,” he muttered, but he attacked the pie with gusto, and she grinned, feeling an unexpected sense of accomplishment.

They ate in comfortable silence, and he had a third slice before he finally seemed to be satisfied.

“I suppose I should be going,” she said reluctantly when he finished.

He opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything and rose to accompany her to the door.

They stood there silently for a moment and she was acutely aware of his presence—the substantial warmth radiating from his body, the earthy scent of wood shavings mingled with that musky, masculine aroma that made her pulse quicken.

“Thank you for letting me help. And for showing me your work. For seeing mine.”

Once again he seemed as if he were about to say something, then changed his mind. She swallowed an unexpected lump in her throat and turned to go.

“Wait a minute,” he said suddenly. “It’s starting to get dark. I’ll walk you home. I guess we’ll walk you home,” he added, shaking his head as Mabel gamboled over to join them.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s not an inconvenience,” he growled, and she smiled up at him, delighted that their time together wasn’t over yet.