Chapter 1

Luke Anderson trudged up the worn wooden stairs along the inside wall of his parents’ rustic barn to the door of his apartment, his faithful canine shadow padding slowly behind him. The scents of saddle leather, sweet hay, and horse sweat mingled with the tangy smell from the fresh pine sawdust clinging to his lined denim jacket. Every muscle in his body ached. It had been a long day at the pulp mill, and all he could think about was a shower, food, and a quiet evening in his art studio.

As soon as he stepped into the vaulted loft, he relaxed. No matter how hard a day he’d had, this was his safe space, where he could be himself. He hung his jacket on the bent hook by the door while Timber waited patiently, then led the nine-year-old Aussie-Bernese cross between haphazard groups of canvases leaning against every available surface—some blank, but most filled with images of flowers, landscapes, and other natural beauty from around the Peace Country that he’d captured in oil, watercolour, and charcoal. When he reached the kitchen, the dog sat expectantly, looking up at him with one adoring blue eye and one brown one.

Luke set his thermal lunch kit on the scarred wooden counter top and ruffled Timber’s thick mane. “You beat me up those stairs, Tim-bear. That deserves a medal. Or at least a biscuit.”

The dog’s tail thumped so hard against a crate of half-finished pots near the small kitchen table that the topmost one wobbled and threatened to leap to its own death.

Luke caught it in the nick of time and gave Timber a mock glare. “That’s coming out of your treat budget.”

The dog licked his hand apologetically.

The drawer where Luke kept Timber’s treats stuck, as always, and Luke gave it the requisite one-two hip bump to get it open. He snagged a fist-sized dog cookie, shaped like a bone and smelling faintly of peanut butter and something less appetizing.

Timber sat automatically, head cocked, drool already streaming from his lips in slow, dignified rivulets. Luke held the treat above Timber’s nose.

“Gentle,” he warned.

Timber, old pro that he was, accepted the biscuit with surgeon-level care. He crunched it once, twice, then glanced up at Luke, hopeful.

“Nope, that’s it. You’ll get fat, and then what’ll you do when the coyotes come around, huh?”

The dog whuffed, then wandered over to the faded rug under the kitchen table and lay down.

Luke turned his attention to emptying his lunch kit and noticed a covered plate beside it. The note read Hope you had a great day. Mom. Luke lifted the lid to inspect the contents and smiled as the savoury aromas hit him. He kept telling his mother she didn’t need to fuss over him so much, but he wasn’t one to turn up his nose at roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy, either.

“And only ten days after Christmas.”

Let it never be said that Brenda Anderson was a slacker in the kitchen.

Rolling up the sleeves of his dusty plaid flannel shirt, he washed his hands up to the elbows and splashed cool water on his face from the single-basin kitchen sink. Then he grabbed the plate and sat down at his small kitchen table, pushing art supplies and sketches of rose petals and peonies out of the potential splash zone before digging in.

As per usual, his mother’s cooking could end all wars—or at least pause them for a solid nap and a second helping of dessert. Luke charged through his portion with the ferocity of a famished bear, then leaned back, letting the silence of the loft settle over him like a heavy quilt.

He gazed through the window above the sink at the ragged tops of the trees beyond the house across the yard, his thoughts wandering. In the half-melted dusk, the snow-dusted spruce and poplars looked like skeletons of themselves. Kind of like he’d felt recently. His job was… not exactly mind-numbing, because a lapse of attention while working the wood chipper could have disastrous results. But definitely not how he’d hoped to be earning a living by now.

Rubbing his tender shoulder—the result of a near-miss on the line a couple days ago—he glanced at the pencil sketch of a rose in full bloom visible on the open page of his sketchbook at the other end of the table. He’d been fascinated with flowers ever since his college days, but especially roses—a fact he was sure embarrassed his father, even if Paul usually kept his opinions to himself. But even though he’d left his dreams of a career in the arts behind in a dumpster fire of disappointment, he was still determined to capture the essence of a bloom he considered one of God’s most perfect designs. But he always missed something, which was why he kept trying again.

His latest sketch still didn’t do the subject he’d used justice—a subject that now lay in faded, dried remnants in the midst of the creative mess on his table. He’d need to order another rose bouquet.

Of course, he preferred to study wild Alberta roses. Store-bought flowers were too perfect, too pristine . . . but always readily available, in season and out, whether they should be or not. He’d unlocked some of their authenticity through careful neglect, but a bloom that was the result of hundreds of years of human intervention could only become so imperfect as it faded. Real roses—the ones that grew in profusion along ditches and abandoned farmyards, pink and unique and alive—kept their secrets. But those were only available for a few short weeks each year. And definitely not in early January.

He made a mental note to call Pearl’s Petals tomorrow. Maybe Maddie Kennedy would even be the one to take his order. His pulse quickened. He’d take any excuse to talk to the fiery redhead who managed the local flower shop, even if she barely knew he existed. He’d dropped in at the shop only last week to give her a late Christmas card, and her response had been kind but polite. And why wouldn’t it be? She’d been two years ahead of him in high school—the same age as Luke’s brother, Heath—and in the eight years since he’d graduated, they’d only really connected a few times. He doubted a hand-drawn card would communicate his desire for more, but the gesture had been as much risk as he was willing to take.

A soft head bumped his leg, and he looked down to see Timber looking up at him with his soulful eyes. He scratched the dog behind his perky ears.

“You always know when I need a pick-me-up, don’t you, boy?”

Timber leaned into his hand, then, apparently satisfied, returned to his rug at Luke’s feet.

Sighing, Luke picked up the old rose stem on the table and scooped the crumbling petals onto his plate, tipping them into the garbage bin at the end of the counter before stacking his dishes in the sink. He’d clean them later… probably. In the meantime, he had work to do.

After a quick shower, he dressed in comfortable clothing and tossed his towel across the back of the wooden spindle dining chair. It was at least two decades older than he was—a cast-off he’d salvaged from the local Put-n-Take. He propped his phone against a paint-speckled mug on his work table, set to stream the hockey game. The apartment filled with the low hum of the commentator’s voices and the clacking of sticks on the puck, echoing hollow off the beams and insulation above. After blowing some tufts of dog hair from his work area, he grabbed a handful of clay and rolled it between his palms for a few minutes until it was ready to work. Muscle memory took charge as he patiently formed the first petal, then the second. Peace settled over him. The rhythm of his work soothed the day’s callouses and aching muscles.

Half an hour later, he’d translated his rose sketch into a clay sculpture, ready for the kiln. Settling back on his stool, he surveyed his work. Not bad. Not perfect, but not bad. Claudia Wu, his college landlady and perpetual encourager of him returning to his fine arts career, would probably say it was spectacular. But she did have a tendency to gush, which was why he could never give her opinion too much credence.

Thinking of Claudia, he remembered that she’d sent him an email earlier that day. Recalling the subject line he’d seen in the phone notification made him start sweating a little—”Great news!!! Promise you’ll read this, Luke.” He was pretty sure he knew what the message would be about—some new opportunity Claudia had rustled up for him and his “art career”. As flattered as he was that she was still looking out for him all these years after he’d lived in her and Ethan’s basement, her exuberance always felt like oversized shoes he’d never grow into.

Sighing, he dug out his laptop, shoving aside several notes reminding him to invoice clients and promising himself he’d finally get to that this weekend. The ancient device whirred to life, screen smeared with thumbprints and a fleck of dried glaze. Luke clicked open the email and braced himself for Claudia’s signature high-octane encouragement that would inevitably make him feel like an unwilling contestant being pushed onstage for a talent show he never signed up for.

Claudia’s message was pure Claudia—an explosion of exclamation points and emojis. She’d been in touch with an old friend from art school who now ran a “really up-and-coming gallery in Calgary” and was “DYING to see your new work.” The friend, one “Fiona,” apparently remembered Luke’s series of wood-fired porcelain wildflowers from his one and only year in his BFA program. When she heard he was still making, she “NEEEEDED” to arrange a showing.

Luke leaned away from the screen, arms crossed, and waited for the surge of pride that never came. If anything, the news made his palms sweat and mouth dry up. He closed the laptop and stared at the lump of clay.

Opportunity knocked. And all he could think about was how loud it was.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced at the clock. He had time for one more bloom tonight. Soon, he was lost in his work, the anxiety melting away.

He’d just finished his second petal when Timber lifted his head, stared at the door, and gave a soft bark.

Seconds later, the barn’s side door thundered shut, followed by a heavy tread up the stairs. There was only one person in the hemisphere who sounded like an escaped bull on a stairwell. Sure enough, a second later Uncle Pat filled the narrow entryway, mouth already open to launch words like buckshot.

“Luke! Just the man I wanted to see. Thought that was your truck outside. You busy tonight?” Beneath his open parka, Pat’s checked shirt was rolled to his elbows and tucked into his jeans. He took off his ball cap, revealing thinning hair that used to be strawberry blond, but had faded to a ghost of its former shade. Everything about him said “Good ol’ Alberta boy.”

When Timber saw who it was, he hauled himself to his feet and went over to greet Pat—and to remind the visitor he was in Timber’s territory. The man gave the dog an obligatory pat, and Timber soon returned to bed.

“Hey, Pat. Didn’t know you were coming.” With a regretful look at his work, Luke stuck the lump of clay into a plastic bag and spun his stool to face his uncle. Normally, one of his parents would mention if Pat was making a trip up north, so it must have been somewhat impromptu. “How’s my favourite uncle?”

Pat guffawed. “Your only uncle?” He took three steps in and commandeered the lone chair, tossing Luke’s damp towel on top of the pile of dishes in the sink. Spinning the chair around, he straddled it, arms draped over the back, like he was about to teach a remedial shop class to the wayward. “Had to come up to Grande Prairie for a business meeting and thought I’d drive a little further and drop in for the night. Had lunch with Heath. He’s doing well.”

At the mention of his charming brother, Luke nodded, hands clenching his knees. “Heath’s always doing well.”

Pat peered at Luke’s work table in curiosity. “Whatcha working on there?”

Luke’s face warmed, and he shifted on his stool to block Pat’s view. “Just exploring some new ideas. Did you eat? Mom made roast beef, and I bet she’s got some left.”

Pat waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, yeah. Brenda got me all fed up.” He patted his belly, smirking. Then his eyes narrowed mischievously. “Speaking of eating, I’ve got a job you might be hungry for.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

Luke withheld a sigh, not wanting to give Pat the satisfaction. Here we go again. “I’m already working two jobs, if you count my art,” he said dryly.

“Yeah, but this one pays real money,” Pat shot back, grinning. “And you get to use those fancy hands of yours. I’ve got a contract in Canmore—some new lodge, all reclaimed timber and local artisans, blah blah, the usual tourist bait. But beneath all that, the walls are good ol’ gyprock, and that means a whole lotta work for me and my crew. And I want you on it.”

Luke raised an eyebrow. “You want me to tape and mud for you again. Thanks, but no thanks.”

During Luke’s short-lived college education, he’d paid the bills by working for Pat’s Calgary-based interior finishing company. He’d hated the work—breathing in plaster dust all day, constantly on stilts and straining his body into unnatural positions, all to have his precision efforts covered by paint or wallpaper—but Pat had insisted Luke was the best taper and mudder he’d ever seen. And ever since, he’d occasionally tried to persuade Luke to come back. The job in the rustic tourist town at the edge of the Alberta foothills, smack between Calgary and Banff, was quite the score. But it was also eight hours away from Peace Crossing . . . and Maddie.

Pat looked unimpressed. “C’mon, kid. This isn’t just taping and mudding. The architect wants ‘artistic flourishes.’” Pat reached into his interior coat pocket and pulled out a wrinkled manila envelope, then unceremoniously dumped a stack of architectural sketches onto the cluttered table. “Look at this junk,” he said, stabbing a finger at a rendering that featured a high-ceilinged entryway, faux-finish columns, and some kind of ornate mural climbing up the main stairwell. “What even is that, a bunch of ferns? A herd of snails?”

Luke squinted at the page. It was an oversized spiral of leaves and wildflowers, rendered with a kind of overblown West Coast opulence. “Guess you could call it a swag.”

“Right, a swag. Or what happens when an interior designer snorts too much Pinterest. The point is, they want someone who can make this look real. You’ve got the eye for detail. Heck, you used to hand-carve cornices for fun.” Pat gave him a look—half-pleading, half-daring—like he already knew the answer, but was determined to be disappointed anyway.

Luke picked at a lump of clay under his thumbnail. “What makes you think I want to jump back on the merry-go-round? I’ve got shifts at the mill, plus some commissions on the go. Besides,” Luke said, gesturing vaguely at his half-sculpted flower, “my own stuff kind of takes priority these days.”

Pat snorted, either at the idea of art as a real job, or at the possibility Luke might prioritize anything over family. “Sure. The mill is a dream come true. You planning to retire there, or do you just enjoy breathing sawdust more than compound dust? Because my guess is you’re not rich off those”—he waved at the clay roses—”hothouse stone plants. Maybe in Vancouver, but not here, kid.”

Luke braced for the usual lecture, but Pat just eyed him, collecting data.

“Tell you what,” Pat said slowly, “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just think about it. Pays way better than the mill, for starters. And you won’t be stuck doing baseline stuff—I already have a crew for the regular taping. Your part’s custom.” He tapped the drawings. “Artist’s assistant, just-follow-the-plan type of stuff. I told them I had a guy.”

Not the artist. The assistant. Completing someone else’s vision. The deal started making more sense now. He wondered briefly who the artist was, then shook his head. Chances are, they would take one look at his college drop-out status and practically non-existent portfolio and decide he wasn’t even qualified.

And Luke didn’t think they’d be wrong.

“I’m not even sure I want to do drywall again,” Luke said quietly. “And I’m definitely not living in a hotel with six dudes and a collection of power tools in the shower like last time,” he finished, only half joking. While he’d spent most of his year-and-a-half in college renting a basement suite from the Wus, there had been a memorable Reading Week on an out-of-town job he wished he could forget.

Pat’s laugh was gusty and unrepentant. “We’ve upgraded since then. This place has a hot tub, okay? And they’re letting the artist stay in one of the good suites. They might do the same for you.” He gave Luke a shrewd look. “I know you hate selling yourself, but this is a way in. People who like that kind of expensive nonsense know other people. You play your cards right, and who knows? Maybe you get a commission, maybe someone wants a mural in their guest cabin, maybe you don’t end up breaking your back for forty years while your real talents rot.”

The comment about Luke’s “real talents” should have warmed him, but the words stung, mostly because they were right on the money. Luke had been playing safe and small for years, telling people he was “taking a gap year” or “lining things up” for his art career, never admitting to anyone but himself how much he was afraid of failing at something that mattered. Safer to not try at all than to try and wash out. He looked away, uncertain.

Pat stood and began to gather his papers, but not in any hurry. “Think about it. I’m here until tomorrow morning. C’mon up to the house if you want to chat more, or just come grab a beer with me and your dad.” He glanced at Luke’s phone as a team put the puck in the net and the crowd erupted in cheers. “It’s way better watching that on his flat screen TV, you know.”

And then, as if noticing the steady hush of rejection in the air, Pat added, “I can’t force ya, but I sure hope you give this a serious shot.” He clapped a heavy hand on Luke’s shoulder—no small impact, since Pat’s paws could have been classified as blunt-force instruments—and gave him a look that was almost apologetic. “You got real talent, kid. Don’t waste it.”

With that, Pat ambled out, taking his basso-profundo presence with him down the stairs, leaving only a faint drift of piney aftershave. The sound of boots on old planks became footsteps crunching through the snow as Pat beelined to the main house across the expansive parking pad.

Alone with his snoring dog, Luke tried to refocus on his rose project. He shaped the next petal slowly, a dull ache forming in his back and wrists . . . but not masking a different ache beneath.

The practical part of his brain ticked through the offer. Six months’ work, minimum, at a salary probably double what the mill paid, if Pat’s numbers were real. He could come back with enough cash to rent a real studio in Peace Crossing, maybe even take a run at buying that place he’d had an eye on for years. The stone-built house on River Road would be an ideal living space of his own, plus a studio and a storefront in one. It had been empty since the mom-and-pop craft store had been shut down by the big discount store coming to town, and he’d been watching the price drop on the listing every few months since.

But . . . that would mean leaving Peace Crossing for half a year, maybe more. Disappointing what few clients he’d gained. Not talking to Maddie. At all.

And, if it didn’t work out, he’d come home without a job and without the cash to start his art business. Did he really want to take the risk?

He already knew the answer to that. Spinning his stool around, he went back to work on his ceramic flower—a flower that, like the others, would likely never be seen by anyone.

He sure wished he couldn’t say the same about himself.