Wild Man Creek

Fourteen




Colin had planned from the beginning to visit Shiloh Tahoma’s Sedona gallery first. It wasn’t quite what he expected—it surpassed his expectations. It was a bit off the beaten tourist track for one thing. The sign posted above the shop said, simply, Art. On the glass door, stenciled in gold, it said, The Navajo. Colin stood on the sidewalk for a long while, just looking in the front window at the paintings displayed—Native American men in traditional costume, braids or flowing hair, Native women alone and with children, natural settings, chiseled faces, exquisite shadows, stunning renditions.

Colin had looked the artist up online and felt he was somewhat familiar with his work, but up close and personal these paintings were magnificent. Colin didn’t want to go inside. He felt like an imposter, a fraud. This artist was beyond his wildest imaginings.

“May I help you with something?”

In the shop’s doorway stood a beautiful Native woman with traditional long, straight black hair and high cheekbones. “I…ah… I’m here to see Mr. Tahoma.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“I think so. I’m Colin Riordan.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “Come in. He’s in the back. I’ll take you.”

Colin had only a moment to glance through the storefront on their way to the rear of the gallery; there were many more items than just the incredible oils—there were trinkets, dream catchers, mobiles, photographs, postcards, books, stacks of prints, painted rocks, turquoise. Lots of turquoise. There was a glass case that appeared to hold silver jewelry.

But he passed all that as he followed the young woman. The storefront was actually small, but they came to a very large back room. It was a workroom, paintings in progress everywhere. There was a kitchenette, table and chairs, bathroom, lots of shelves and cabinets.

“Dad, Mr. Riordan is here.”

Dad? Colin wondered.

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.”

Colin was left standing in the studio while Shiloh Tahoma left by the rear door. A little confused as to what purpose this would serve, he found himself slowly leaving through the front. Samantha was standing in the gallery talking to a man who might be a customer, a neighbor or a friend. She paused in conversation to look at Colin; she tilted her head and smiled. “Your father,” Colin said. “He wants to show me a place. To paint, I think.”

Samantha smiled and let her chin fall in an accepting manner. Then she went back to her conversation.

By the time Colin got behind the wheel of his Jeep, Shiloh was beside him in his SUV, waiting. Colin followed the Navajo for about thirty minutes out of town, into the desert, into the red rocks of Sedona, up a mountain road and finally the artist pulled over. For the entire time he was driving Colin wondered what this was all about. Would there be a test of some kind? Did the man want to see what he could do? What were the Native’s expectations of him?

But when the SUV stopped right along a deserted cliff with an amazing view, Shiloh got out and lifted up his hatch. When Colin got out, as well, Shiloh said, “We have a couple of hours of good light at best. Get out your gear and let’s just slap some paint around.”

“So you can see what I can do?”

“I imagine I’ll see what you can do when I look at your work later. I just hate to waste good light.”

Seriously? Colin thought. We just sip some coffee, drive into the desert, slap around some paint?

But he had looked up Shiloh Tacoma on Google and knew he was a respected Native American artist who also sometimes taught at the university. He might be a bit weird, but still—he was at the top of his game. So Colin went along. He pulled out an easel, his paints, a palette, a collection of brushes, some turpentine, some rags. He set up and with charcoal, outlined his brand-new, completely unplanned and uninspired painting. And he decided he’d just throw it all out there and pretend. He outlined the monstrous red rocks, but he didn’t fill them in. Instead, he left the charcoal outline and drew a very large mountain lion lying on a lower shelf of rock. And that was what he went after with paint a half hour after starting.

“I usually paint alone, but I think we have a few things in common.”

“Like what?” Colin asked.

The Navajo shrugged. “We’ve had our hard times and we both used art to help us get stable again. Mine weren’t like yours. I never crashed anything. But the mother of my daughters died. It was very difficult.”

Colin looked over at him; the man continued to paint and didn’t gaze back. “I’m sorry,” Colin said.

“Thank you. I have a good woman in my life now. My daughters like her very much. It takes away the sting. I’m not very wise about these things, but I think if you paint and draw when life gets hard, it means you’re an artist in your soul.” He shrugged. “Maybe I just made that up. What’s your goal for your art?” he asked.

Colin chuckled. “To get decent at it.”

“I see. To make money?”

“I have a pension from the Army. Not much, but enough. I just would like to be good. What’s the point in giving it so much time if you’re not good at it?”

“Are you accustomed to being very good at everything you do?” Shiloh asked.

“Generally. I suppose.”

“You must think you’re good or you wouldn’t have called me.”

“I wondered how far from good I was, but it was the woman in my life who insisted I find out if there’s any worth in my paintings. She thinks they’re brilliant, but she’s biased.” He laughed and shook his head. “She’s gardening on a large scale—special fruits and vegetables, the rare kind that fancy restaurants buy in limited quantities for garnish—odd peppers, heirloom tomatoes, white asparagus, beets the size of cherry tomatoes…. I guess she’s an artist, too.”

Shiloh looked at him, lifted his chin and smiled. “You believe in each other. That’s nice.”

Then they were silent for a long time, painting. It was by far the strangest time Colin had ever spent. Then, almost two hours into the exercise, Shiloh put down his brush, looked at Colin’s painting and said, “Nice. I’ll see your other work now. I assume it’s in the Jeep?”

“It is,” Colin said. “Crated and covered. I’d prefer to set it up in your studio with decent lighting.”

“We’ll get to that,” he said. “Open up a couple for me. Your favorites.”

For a moment Colin felt the enormous pressure of finding his best, but he dismissed that immediately. He thought this whole audition could be a waste of time. He might get some encouragement, but it was doubtful he’d get anything more. “Three,” Colin said. “Here? Now?”

“Here,” he said. “Now.”

Colin’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. He was a bit confused.

“Quickly,” Shiloh said. “Before we lose the light. Need help?”

“Please. Open this one,” he said, passing a large canvas draped in protective cloth. Colin used a box cutter to remove a cardboard crate from another. He intended to show Shiloh the buck, the herd and the eagle.

When all three were open, two large canvases leaned against the rear bumper while one stood up in the back of the Jeep.

For the first time since he’d met the man, Shiloh smiled and his eyes were warm. “Splendid. Now we’ll have dinner at my home and talk.”



Kelly made gourmet pizza for Denny and he raved about it; he said it was heaven. Then while Denny helped Jack serve a dinner Preacher had made earlier in the day, Kelly fixed a special menu for Preacher, Paige and the two little ones. For the appetizer, she prepared the same tray she had originally made for Colin and Jillian—her sampler.

“I have to learn how to make these stuffed grape leaves. And the stuffed mushrooms,” Preacher said, inhaling the food. “Do you think anyone at Jack’s would eat them?”

“They’ll eat anything that’s good, John,” his wife said.

Their first course was cream of pumpkin soup, then salad, then chicken Parmesan with anchovies, black olives and asparagus tips. For dessert, her special lemon cake with coffee. He raved through the meal, then finally sat back in his chair and rubbed his belly. “Oh, my God,” he said most reverently. “I think I’m beginning to see the problem with full-time work in a diner. As the cook, I almost never sit down to a full meal. I taste all day. I’m never stuffed and never hungry. I just ate like a pig!”

“I can’t wait to see what you make for me tomorrow night,” Kelly said.

“Well, I’m torn between a Thanksgiving dinner or a Christmas dinner, my true specialties,” he said. “Thanksgiving is turkey with all the trimmings, Christmas is duck. I have a couple of ducks in the freezer from January. They’d be better fresh, but you’d get the idea.”

“Duck!” Kelly said. “How will you prepare it?”

Preacher straightened proudly. “I’ve made a few adjustments in a recipe I found—it’s awesome. Be surprised.”

“I can’t wait!”

“One of these visits, we’ll have to have a cook-off,” he said.

“We will do that one day, whether here or in San Francisco. Chefs in mutual admiration entertain each other that way.”

The next day Preacher made ribs, corn, beans, coleslaw and corn bread for the bar crowd’s dinner while he prepared his special duck dinner for Kelly and Jillian. He planned to feed them in the kitchen at his workstation. When Kelly and Jillian arrived at Jack’s, they sat at the bar to enjoy a glass of wine while Preacher put the finishing touches on his dinner.

“This cooking competition has Preacher all wound up,” Jack told them. “I’ve never seen him more excited. He told me to try to keep you busy for another twenty minutes.”

“Jack,” Kelly said in a whisper. “Are you capable of sneaking me a sampler of his rib dinner?”

Jack leaned close and whispered back, “No. No way he’d let me do that. He told me not to let you have anything to spoil your taste buds before dinner. He even asked for this particular wine for you. I think he’s been researching again. Eat his duck then ask him for a sample. He’ll let you taste the ribs after you’ve had his dinner.”

She smiled. “That’s exactly what I would have done! God, I love the way he runs this place.” To Jack’s flummoxed expression she amended, “I meant the two of you, of course.”

Jillian laughed. “Don’t let her kid you, Jack. Chefs always think they’re running the whole store. They allow that the owners and managers might contribute something, but not anything of particular importance.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of how it sounds around here.”

While Kelly and Jillian made small talk with Jack as they waited for Preacher to be ready, Kelly happened to see a man on the far side of the room, seated in the corner. He was alone as far as she could tell and there was something about him—something either familiar or engaging. She liked his looks, that much she knew. He appeared to be a big guy; his hair was a reddish-blond and he had a bit of stubble on his face. She realized she was strangely attracted to him, even though she didn’t consider herself available for attraction. He was the guy on the Brawny paper towel package. And though she was staring at him, he wasn’t looking her way. He was watching a young girl at the jukebox and he wasn’t smiling.

Just then the girl left the jukebox and came to the bar, boldly inserting herself between Kelly and Jillian. “Got any cool tunes?” she asked with a curl of the lip.

Jack leaned on the bar and looked over at her. “Well, let’s see, Courtney. This is a bar. That means the over-twenty-one crowd. That means what’s in the juke is cool. I guess you’re outta luck.”

She glared at him briefly and then muttered, “Lame.” Then she turned and stomped out the door.

The Brawny man came over to the bar, but he didn’t rudely interrupt anyone’s conversation. Rather, he stood at the end of the bar and waited for Jack. He pulled out a couple of twenties and Jack moved down to get them.

“Let me get you some change, Lief,” Jack said.

“Forget it, Jack. Thanks for dinner. Exceptional. Tell the cook those are the best ribs I’ve ever had.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Jack said.

When the man left, Kelly turned to Jack. “Was it my imagination or was that young girl a real B.I.T.C.H?”

Jack was scowling. “You don’t need any imagination to come up with that.”



All the way back to the house after dinner, Kelly raved about Preacher’s duck, wild rice, creamed onions and asparagus with Hollandaise sauce. She’d also tried his ribs, beans and corn bread. Being a seasoned taster, she hadn’t stuffed herself. “He’s one of those natural cooks,” she told Jillian. “He trained himself and knows exactly what to do, when to do it and how to do it. He has an expert palate. I’m impressed. And his stuff isn’t real fancy, but it’s exactly right for that bar. Exactly.”

“I may never walk again,” Jillian said with a deep moan. She was not an expert taster and had overeaten.

“When we get home, I’m going to get all my stuff together and loaded into the car. I’m heading back to the city early. I want to get my driving done by afternoon.”

“I understand. But it was such a good week. I’m fifteen pounds heavier, but really…” She sighed deeply. “I’ll help you get packed up tonight. Moving around will be good for me.”

They folded Kelly’s clothes together in her bedroom. “Tell me how you met this guy you’ve been seeing,” Jillian asked.

Kelly didn’t have to think. “It was a charity event, a huge thousand-dollar-a-plate event that was held at my restaurant and our chef de cuisine, Durant, was a participant. Luca is not only well-known in the area, but also part owner of the restaurant and he was one of the star chefs. I had already met him, but we became better acquainted, started talking food and menus and voilà—friends. That was almost six months ago and we’ve been in touch since—sometimes we cook together.”

“Chefs,” Jillian said. “Weird. I don’t get together with gardeners and talk vegetables….”

“Yet,” Kelly said with a laugh.

There was a chiming sound from down the hall. It was Jillian’s cell phone. She looked at her watch—it was after nine. “I wonder who’d be calling me.”

She ran down the hall and grabbed up her phone. “Colin?” she said. “Have you learned the iPhone?”

“I have things to tell you!”

“I can barely hear you! Wait, just stand by a minute. Let me see if I can get better reception.” She ran out of her room and up the stairs to the widow’s walk. Getting out the trapdoor created a racket, but she emerged into the star-filled night. “Can you hear me?” she asked him.

“I know where you are,” he said with a laugh. “You’re on the roof.”

“Oh, that’s so much better. Where are you?”

“In my car, headed back to Virgin River.”

“Already? At night?”

“I never went farther than Sedona, Jilly,” he said. “I went to Shiloh Tahoma’s gallery. He calls it a shop or a store, but his oils and prints are on display in the front and it’s every bit a gallery—they’re awesome. Of course, he’s been serious for a long time, since he was just a kid. First thing he said to me was, ‘Let’s go slap some paint around.’ I thought it was a test of some kind, but I think he really wanted to paint for a while. Then he looked at three of my paintings and said, ‘Nice.’ Then he took me to his house and I had dinner with his family—a wife and three daughters. It was just a simple house, but the art in it was unbelievable—the man is a master. And he collects masters. I wish you could have seen it all.”

“When was this? Today?” she asked him.

“Yesterday. Last night. He offered me a bed for the night but I just didn’t want to impose any more than I had. So he told me to come back first thing in the morning and I was at his shop at eight. He had a lot of questions for me—like what did I know about lithographs and prints, that sort of thing. Stuff I remember from art in school and stuff I read about over the years, but barely understood and haven’t worked at. He suggested that when I have more work and can offer prints, he had a guy who could set up a website for me, if I felt like doing that. He sells numbered prints on his site, but never sells his originals that way. To make a long story short, he told me I should talk to dealers, maybe agents, look at some other shops, but he offered to hang my work. And get this, Jilly—I asked him if I was good enough for my work to hang in his gallery and he said, ‘Not quite. But in five or ten years you’re going to be outstanding.’ He said he thought my work would sell, though, and there was an advantage in being first, and he knew it was nothing but luck, me having run into his cousin in Virgin River.”

“And what then? What did you do?”

“I left him all my work and signed a simple three-paragraph contract that said he’d give the work six months and take fifty percent. He said if I checked around I would learn that fifty percent is high, but that I am also unknown and he has bills to pay. He’s so practical, so logical. And he asked me—if I did any painting in Africa, would I send him photos. Then we had lunch, shook hands and I started driving. I’ve been driving for eight hours and I’m still so wired I wonder if I’ll ever sleep. I’ve been driving, doing reruns of this in my head for eight hours, wondering what happened.”

“Colin, are you sure he’ll be fair with your work? What if there’s no money? Or what if he doesn’t give it back?”

“If that happens, Jilly, it will be the most remarkable lesson of my life, and the lesson will be that I don’t know anything about a man who strikes me as the most down-to-earth, honest, ethical man I’ve ever met. It would mean I know nothing about human beings and better never trust another one again.”

“Oh, Colin, you sound so excited!”

“He said it would take him a few days to hang the work—it has to be just right. But he said he’d email me a picture of the shop so I could see where he put them.” He laughed. “Then he showed me how to take pictures with the phone and email them or text them from the phone. The only joke he made—he said it was hard to believe I flew a complicated helicopter in combat and couldn’t use an iPhone.”

She laughed. “Colin, I don’t think it was a joke!”

“It was an experience, all right. Makes me want to paint even more. It doesn’t make me want to fly less, but paint more.” Then his voice quieted some. “Are you all right, Jilly? Is your sister still there?”

“Kelly is leaving early in the morning. Shouldn’t you be stopping for the night?”

“That ship has sailed,” he said. “I’m somewhere between Las Vegas and Reno, out in the middle of the desert. I pass another vehicle about once every ten minutes. There’s nothing on the road and I’m headed home. Talk me home, Jilly.”

Home. She tried not to take that particular word too seriously. She was sure he had only meant back.

“I don’t think my battery will last that long, and I don’t think my news is as exciting as yours, but I’ll tell you what’s going on around here.” So she told him about the meals they’d had and what she was saving for him. She explained that Denny was going to be a little scarce—he was taking Jack’s place at the bar over a long weekend so Jack, Mel and the family could drive up to Oregon and check on Rick and his grandmother. She gave him the farm report—what was blooming, what had buds, what was coming in. Then she talked a little bit about the stars—from the rooftop they were incredible.

And she told him she’d made a bid on the house. “If it works, I think I’m settling down,” she said.

“Farming for a living,” he said.

“If I can. I believe I can.”

“I believe you can,” he said.

He described the black desert south of Reno and every now and then he’d remember another thing he’d learned from the Navajo artist. “I plunked down six hundred dollars on my charge card for one of his new paintings—not one of the traditional paintings but one of his Native abstracts. I’m not sure what he could have sold it for, but I bet thousands. He insisted six hundred was enough—and I know I barely paid for the canvas and paint. Will you hang it in your house for me?”

They had talked for a long time before Jillian’s phone started to beep. “Colin, I’m running out of phone juice,” she said. “Are you all right to drive without me talking you home?”

He laughed a little. “You know what? I can’t remember doing this before. Talking to a woman for over an hour on the phone.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that,” she said. “I know you’ve had a million women!”

“Not like you, Jilly. I was always looking for women who would take me to bed. It never occurred to me to look for a woman who would take me to heart.”



Colin had been back in Virgin River for three days when Jillian got the call from Jack.

“I hope you were serious,” he said. “There’s no counteroffer. It’s yours.”

She beamed. “Oh, I was serious,” she said. “Thank you so much, Jack. I hope you are as happy as I am.”