She loved Paris—who didn’t?—and Florence and New York, and she knew it would be good for her to work less and paint more—sometimes she actually ached to pick up a brush—but she wasn’t an heiress or a trust fund baby. She had responsibilities, right here in Painted Pony Creek—she had friends, her art, a business, a cat. She couldn’t just go haring off to another city or another country at a whim.

As she brushed and flossed and rinsed, she thought about Painted Pony Creek.

It certainly wasn’t cosmopolitan, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was, as she’d told Eli earlier, home.

The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful, too—snowcapped mountains, stands of timber reaching as far as the eye could see, shimmering lakes brimming with fish, four distinct seasons, and canyons and valleys. When it came to landscapes fit to paint, Montana had everything and more.

The drawbacks? Painted Pony Creek was a small town—ironically, one of its charms—and that meant there wasn’t a lot to do.

Oh, there were events—the big rodeo, the Fourth of July blowout and barbecue at the town park, classic car shows and the like—but, at least at the Creek, no museums or galleries, no film or art festivals.

Unless....

Unless someone, like Brynne, decided to start something—not a museum or a gallery, and not a film festival, since folks in rural Montana probably wouldn’t go for subtitles and intellectual angst, but a celebration of various arts and crafts, well, that just might fly.

There were lots of artists in the state—producing everything from chainsaw sculpture to exquisite landscapes in oils. There were wood-carvers and potters, quilters, doll makers—the list was practically endless.

Something quickened within Brynne as she thought of the possibilities.

The city park was huge, with plenty of room for booths, a stage featuring local bands, like The GateCrashers—the group Carly sang with—and concessions galore.

With adequate promotion, such a gathering would draw visitors from all over the region. Bailey’s, Sully’s Bar and Grill, and the various fast-food places around the Creek would be jumping, and the bed-and-breakfasts, the new hotel and even Russ Schafer’s motel off the old highway would be booked to capacity.

Oh, yes. An art festival could give the whole community a boost, financially and otherwise.

Unless, of course, it fizzled.

Putting something like that together would be a job of gargantuan proportions; Brynne would need permits, some kind of liability insurance, and a virtual army of volunteers. They would have to attract and vet artists, musicians, food-service people.

And the publicity? Well, she didn’t even want to think about that, not at eleven thirty at night, with a twelve-hour workday behind her.

The whole idea was probably a crazy tangent, and nothing more.