Rosa's Land: Western Justice - book 1 Read Free Page B

several other half-finished paintings of the same still life.
    His face was distorted, which was unusual for him. Usually his expression was pleasant, and some insisted that he had a baby face, an epithet that he despised. He always admired his brothers and his father who had stern, tanned features. Indeed his own was as innocent as a cherub. His lips twisted in a disgusted expression.
I might as well give it up! Can’t do anything right!
    Taking a deep breath, he shook his head with disgust then wheeled and stomped noisily across the room, threw himself into a horsehide-covered chair, and glared out the window. Raindrops were running down the glass. Ordinarily he would have found this interesting, as he did all aspects of weather, but he was so upset at his own failure that he did not notice.
    “What’s the matter with me?” he muttered aloud. “I can’t even paint a F OR R ENT sign and do a decent job of it!” He closed his eyes then leaned back, resting his head on the rough leather. The sound of the rain falling on the roof and on the outside windows made a sibilant whisper that ordinarily would have soothed his nerves, but he could not force himself into a good mood.
    He had heard of writers having times when they just couldn’t write, and they called those periods “writer’s block.” Faye had never believed for a moment that such a thing existed. In an argument once with a writer, he had exclaimed, “Writer’s block? Nonsense! You never heard of a carpenter having carpenter’s block, did you? Of course you haven’t! When a carpenter has a job to do, he just
does
it! And you never heard of dishwasher’s block, have you? If a woman has dishes to wash, she just plunges in and washes the blamed things!”
    With an abrupt motion, Faye rose and walked to the window. For a moment he stood watching the raindrops run down. He was fascinated by unusual things, and he watched as two drops that were at least a foot apart at the top of the window began their journey downward. They darted to the right and to the left, and then suddenly both of them moved toward each other. They joined and made one drop. For a moment Faye forgot his agitation and thought,
Just like a marriage. These two drops went hither and yon. Finally they found each other and came together. Now that’s the kind of romance I’d like to have!
    A lightning bolt scraped its way across the darkness of a cloud and reached down and touched earth. He waited and counted the seconds, for he had heard you could tell how far away the bolt hit by counting the seconds between a flash of lightning and the resulting thunder. He counted, “One, two, three,” and then he heard the rumbling.
A little closer than a mile away
.
    He leaned forward, put his head against the glass, and closed his eyes.
Maybe there is such a thing as painter’s block
. The thought disturbed him, for he had always been able to do any task he put his mind to as far as painting or other intellectual subjects were concerned. Even as a small boy he had been able to stick with the books that his mother provided, even when they were difficult. He had begun with crayons and graduated to charcoal and then finally paints and oils. His willingness to stick with a job, he understood, was due to his mother’s careful teaching, for she had lovingly and patiently curbed his natural instinct to quit when a thing got difficult.
    A sudden blinding bolt of lightning startled him, and he opened his eyes and watched as an ominous black cloud blotted out most of the sky. The woods that stretched out to the west of the house were suddenly lost in a deluge. The rain fell in fat drops making slanting lines. His painter’s eye noted that, and he resolved that the next time he painted a scene having rain he would be sure that the drops were slanted, not straight down. Usually he rather liked storms, finding them a dynamic setting, but as another fork of crooked lightning clawed the earth, he suddenly realized