Rainy Day Dreams: 2 by Virginia Smith, Lori Copeland Page B

so that the person lying in bed could gaze on it with an unhindered view. And no wonder. It was stunning.
    Tall birch trees lined a glassy stream and stretched limbs heavy with golden-green leaves across the water like slender, elegant ladies reaching for their lovers on the far shore. Sunlight streamed through the foliage, tinged with green as it poured onto the stream’s shiny surface in bright, verdant pools. Leaves floated lazily on an invisible current in a carefree journey toward an aimless end. Tall grasses in hues ranging from bright gold to vibrant green to rich maroon clustered along the bank, soaking up stray rays of the sun that peeked between misty white clouds and flowed through the living canopy above.
    Kathryn inched closer. With an effort, she pulled herself from the grips of the painting to examine the details with an artist’s eye. An exquisitely light touch had created the feather-soft look of the golden leaves, and an expert hand had blended gold to green. Bolder strokes gave the slender tree trunks the impression of strength, of permanence, though the details of peeling bark and a peek of living white wood beneath had been wrought with intricate care. And the light on the water! How had the painter managed to capture the exact hue, the feeling of movement, without physical evidence of a rippled surface? It was astounding. The work of a true artist. Why, even Monsieur’s landscapes, while perhaps technically superior in the aspect of scope, did not portray the depth of feeling of this piece.
    Something on the floor caught her eye. A piece of wood. With the toe of her boot she lifted the draped bed covering for a better look. It was the corner of a crate. A narrow, rectangular crate. She recognized it instantly as the one with which Jason had taken such care during the short journey from the ship. And no wonder, if it housed this masterpiece.
    She stepped closer to the painting and searched for the artist’s signature. There, in the bottom left corner. Peering closely at green letters that blended to near invisibility with the watery reflection of the leaves, she made out a set of initials. JEG.
    Jason E. Gates.
    Why, that rude man she had determined to avoid for the duration of her stay in Seattle was an accomplished artist!

     
    Jason trudged up the hill in the company of a handful of millworkers. The muscles along the backs of his thighs, unaccustomed to such a steep grade, protested with burning twinges. His shoulders, too, were stiff and sore after a day of lifting heavy logs and stackingcut timber. It had been close to six weeks since he left the mill in Michigan, and his body would take a while to re-accustom itself to the work. He’d like nothing better than a hot supper and to stretch out in bed for a good night’s sleep.
    The second, at least, wouldn’t happen for a while yet. He and the others planned to grab a bite to eat at Evangeline’s and then head over to the blockhouse to work until the sun set.
    Will, the daytime foreman, caught up to him. “Now that you’ve had a chance to see our outfit in action, what do you think?”
    “You run a smooth mill operation. Everybody knows their job, and they work hard at it.”
    He’d done as much observing as working, and kept a careful eye out for areas where the process could benefit from improvement. To his surprise, he hadn’t found any. In fact, he’d been impressed by the number of logs they managed to mill in the span of a single day. The crew worked together like they’d been doing it for years, and by talking to some of them throughout the day, he knew they had been.
    Will snorted. “They were showing off for the new boss. We have a few who’ll take advantage of a chance to slack off. But for the most part, we’ve got a good group of men.”
    At the top of the hill a few men bid farewell and veered off to the left where a row of small cabins and shacks lined the street. Most turned right in the direction of a handful of