Page 23 of The CEO and the Mountain Man

“You sure about that?” Miguel asked, examining him. “You’re not hurt?”

River’s permanent smirk somehow widened into a broad smile. “I can’t wait to get my dad on this.”

Chapter 7

Clark

Icannot believe they got me on that rope thing yesterday. I totally screamed like a little girl. Come to think of it, we’d been joined by that big family, and I don’t remember their littlest screaming as much as I did.

No wonder River demanded the ten dollars he’d bet me.

I didn’t mind paying when I saw how much fun he was having. So far, every day had felt like a fragile win. I was grateful for it, but I needed something a bit more solid.

And today, I was pretty sure I knocked it out of the park.

As it happened, our youth activities coordinator had an artist friend in Denver who would come out to the ranch for a couple of days each month, and she was here today. It was also raining outside, so the outdoor activities were suspended. Good ambiance, painting with new friends…River was gonna love it.

Honestly, Monica and I had always been baffled by his talent. I mean … she and I had always crushed it at Pictionary, but somewhere along the line our son had graduated from finger painting to watercolors to portraiture in oils.

When we divorced, Monica made sure River always had higher-end materials; I’d chosen my condo across from theArt Institute to have as a touchstone, since that was where he wanted to go to school.

Before Monica died, he would text me pictures of the projects he’d worked on in his mom’s living room. Additionally, he and I’d spent several Saturdays at the Institute, idling through the different galleries, and he’d point out his favorite pieces, and I’d share what I remembered learning about the artists in my one art history class.

Then Monica died, and I hadn’t seen him pick up a paintbrush or heard him talk of inspiration like it was breathing since. Today would be the day he rekindled his love of art.

Or so I thought.

“Why the fuck would I want to go to an art class, Dad?”

River’s face was red, and I was pretty sure the folks in the cabin next door could hear him yelling, even through the rain.

“I don’t know, Riv!” I yelled back, equally angry. “Maybe because you’re anartist?”

The look he gave me was so complicated and full of pain, I felt like one of my internal organs was being ripped out through my chest.

“No, I’mnot,” he said, his voice dropping so low it sounded like an ache.

“How can you say that? I saw the piece you painted for your mother. Why won’t you let me hang it where others can see it? Why is it so hard for you?”

“I don’t know, Dad,” he shot back, his voice elevating all over again. “Did it ever occur to you that paintinghurtsnow?”

In my industry, I was known as a sharp businessman. It would have been nice if even an ounce of that savvy had somehow crossed over into my gifts as a father.

“Painful how?” I asked, still clueless. “Like, your wrist? Has it been sore since the accident? Do we need to have a doctor check it out?”

He looked at me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet.

“No.” Taking his fist, he pounded it against his chest. “In here. It hurts inhere. And I don’t want to look at a paintbrush ever again.”

I was genuinely the stupidest father in the history of fatherhood.

Thank God I hadn’t told him that I’d packed some of his painting supplies in with everything else. I hadn’t yet taken them out of my suitcase, and I prayed he never saw them.

I understood that grief and inspiration played with each other in weird ways, but how had I not realized that the act of painting had become so excruciating? How had I not seen that?

Because, of course, it would. His mother never got to see the painting he had made for her.

Once, after she was settled into her new house, and it seemed like her relationship with River had found its stride again, she’d mentioned that all her pictures of him were digital. She could go to the local pharmacy and print out a few on photo stock, but it wasn’t the same.