Wild Man Creek (Virgin River #14)(79)

A very tall Native man with a long black braid hanging down his back turned from a work in progress, but it wasn’t the usual Native art. It was a wildly colored abstract of a Native mother and child. Colin stared at it openmouthed. He had no experience with abstract art; he had no idea if it would be considered as good, but he loved it. His surprise was complete.

“It’s nice to meet you in person, Colin,” Shiloh said. He wiped off his hands and stretched one toward Colin. “Let’s have coffee and talk.”

“I’m interrupting your work,” Colin apologized.

“It’ll keep. I want to hear about your painting. How do you take your coffee.”

“Just a little milk,” he said. But what he thought was—what’s to talk about? After seeing the paintings in the front of the showroom, he was completely intimidated—this man was a master. And forget about Colin’s wildlife art, what he really wanted to know was why this Navajo was painting in two completely different genres.

But Colin held his tongue and accepted a cup of coffee and a chair at the table in the back room. “Your daughter is a lovely young woman.”

“Thank you. She’s twenty-three, an accomplished artist in her own right though she’s still experimenting a great deal. I have three daughters, aged seventeen, twenty and twenty-three. They all help out here from time to time but it’s Samantha’s true passion. She wants her own gallery one day.”

“This painting,” Colin said, indicating the abstract. “I didn’t see anything like this out front. It’s a completely different approach to Native art. Are you experimenting?”

Shiloh shook his head as he stirred a mug of coffee for Colin. “This is something I love and believe myself to be good at, but because I’m Navajo and can produce competent Native renditions, this is what people who know me, who know my store, want from me. I’m not making complaints—I’m good at Native art and it holds a special place in my heart. It’s the first thing I ever sold and I’m marginally famous in some art circles for it. I’m happy to provide it and I do my best. But the abstract is unique and makes my heart beat a little faster.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows why.”

“The paintings on display in the front of the gallery are so good, I didn’t want to come inside. Remarkable work.”

“Thank you. It pays the bills. I ship my other work like this to Los Angeles.” Shiloh sat down across the table from Colin. “When did you first notice that you could draw?”

Colin took a sip of his coffee. “Six?” he answered. “Something like that. You?”

Shiloh smiled. “About six, I think. When I first showed an inclination, my parents had me painting symbols on artifacts to be sold to tourists visiting the reservation. My family were ranchers. They did whatever they could to make a living, but no one ever considered fine art. That would have been out of their realm of experience.

“And where do you like to paint?” Shiloh asked.

“I like to be on the top of a hill in the natural sun, but I have a sunporch that works. It’s in the house of a woman I’m with. Even though it’s good, I still go outside to paint if the conditions are right. And I prowl around with a camera to get shots of wildlife.”

“Some of the pictures you sent by email interest me—they’re very good.”

“I’ve never shown them to a professional before. After seeing your work, I can’t believe I had the nerve. But after all the painting, I find the animals work best for me.” He grinned almost shyly. “If you’re ever in the market for aircraft, I’m not bad at those. I did a wall mural of a Black Hawk once.”

“And where will you go with this personal best of wildlife art?” Shiloh asked.

“First? I’m going to Africa to shoot the Serengeti—big game. Lions, gazelle, tigers, elephants, et cetera. And the landscape they live in. Then all I intend is to get better.”

Shiloh leaned back in his chair and asked, “How did you get from age six to the Serengeti?”

“Thirty-four years?” Colin asked.

He nodded solemnly. “I hope you won’t take thirty-four years to tell it, but don’t leave out the important things.”

“And how will I know which things are the important things?”

Shiloh smiled lazily. “You’ll know.”

So Colin began. He spent fifteen minutes on his high school art, his Army career and part-time drawing and painting. Then he spent forty minutes on his crash, rehab and temporary residence in Virgin River. And finally, Jillian’s insistence that he try to find out if his work was worth anything. And his reluctant agreement that he should know.

“I assume you have supplies with you?”

“Like painting supplies?” Colin asked.

Shiloh gave a nod. “So you could stop along the way if you found the perfect spot or if something interested you.”

“Yes.”

Shiloh Tahoma stood. “Then let me take you to a favorite place.”

“Do you want to see my work before you waste a lot of time?” Colin asked.

“It won’t be a waste of my time,” he said. “You’re parked on the street?” When Colin nodded, Shiloh said, “I’m in a white SUV. I’ll come around from the back and you can follow me.”