Courting Catherine

Courting Catherine, by Nora Roberts

The Calhouns # 1

Prologue

Bar Harbor, Maine June 12, 1912

I saw him on the cliffs overlooking Frenchman Bay. He was tall and dark and young. Even from a distance, as I walked with little Ethan's hand in mine, I could see the defiant set of his shoulders. He held the brush as though it were a saber, his palette like a shield. Indeed it seemed to me that he was dueling with his canvas rather than painting on it. So deep was his concentration, so fast and fierce the flicks of his wrist, one would have thought his life depended on what he created there.

Perhaps it did.

I thought it odd, even amusing. My image ofartists had always been one of gentle souls who see things we mortals cannot, and suffer in their quest to create them for us.

Yet I knew, before he turned and looked at me, that I would not see a gentle face.

It seemed that he was the product of an artist himself. A rough sculptor who had shorn away at an oak slab, carving out a high brow, dark hooded eyes, a long straight nose and full sensual mouth. Even the sweep of his hair might have been hewn from some ebony wood.

How he stared at me! Even now I can feel the heat rise to my face and the dampness spring to my palms. The wind was in his hair, sweet and moist from the sea, and ruffled the loose shirt he wore that was splattered and streakedfrom his paint. With the rocks and sky at his back, he looked very proud, very angry, as if he owned this jut of land—or the entire islandand I was the intruder.

He stood in silence for what seemed like forever, his eyes so intense, so fierce somehow that my tongue cleaved to the roof ofmy mouth. Then little Ethan began to babble and tug at my hand. The angry glare in his eyes softened. He smiled. I know a heart does not stop at such moments. And yet...

Ifound myselfstammering, apologizing for the intrusion, lifting Ethan into my arms before my bright and curious little boy could rush forward toward the rocks.

He said, “Wait. ”

And taking up pad and pencil began to sketch as I stood immobile and trembling for reasons I cannot fathom. Ethan stilled and smiled, somehow

as mesmerized by the man as I. I could feel the sun on my back and the wind on my face, could smell the water and the wild roses.

“Your hair should be loose, ” he said, and, putting the pencil aside, walked toward me. “I've painted sunsets that were less dramatic. ” He reached out and touched Ethan's bright red hair. “You share the color with your young brother. ''

“My son. ” Why was my voice so breathless? “He is my son. I'm Mrs. Fergus Calhoun, ” I said while his eyes seemed to devour my face.