If Lane had better judgment, she would politely decline Miguel’s offer to lead her precious son to vicious swamp monsters. Then she would pick up her son and run. But Miguel wouldn’t endanger her son, would he?

Leaving no time for her to have second thoughts, Noah pulled her around the side of Miguel’s house. Lane’s mouth fell open. Instead of a pen of hungry alligators, she was surprised to find another large barn-like building with a pitched roof and rectangular skylights cut into it. Open double-sliding doors revealed a half dozen or so sculptures carved out of huge chunks of wood.

“You have alligators in there?” Noah wrinkled his nose in disbelief.

Miguel pulled the door back farther and the same smell that lingered on him spilled out. A whirring noise echoed from the large fans mounted into the long wall at the back of the barn as they spun to purge the fumes of what Lane figured out was turpentine. Miguel pointed in the direction near the front. Dead branches sprouted from the trunk of an old tree. The exposed roots had been carved into blades of grass and the larger roots had been chiseled and shaped into alligators. The face of one peeked through the reeds. The tail of another wrapped around the base of the trunk and morphed into a full-size alligator.

“Alligators!” Noah darted toward the sculpture with the boldness only a dinosaur-loving four-year-old could possess.

“Look, but don’t touch, Noah.” Lane left her son admiring the alligators while she took in the creativity and skill displayed in the other sculptures.

In the base of another tree trunk, Miguel had sculpted a large wave cresting over a jetty of rocks. The age rings in the tree added to the appearance of depth. Next to it the trunk was left in a more natural state with its bark still intact. It held an eagle perched above its nest with her wings spread wide. All of it was carved from the same tree trunk. It was incredible.

“You made this?” She turned to find Miguel standing by the door, the basket of muffins at his feet. He gave her a small nod. “They’re beautiful, Miguel. You’re very talented.”

“What’s this?” Noah picked up a tool.

“Noah, don’t touch.” Lane took the tool with a sharp v-shaped edge from her son and placed it next to a stack of painted canvases leaning against a trestle table. “Do you paint too?”

“Not anymore.” Miguel shifted back and forth and rubbed his arm. Then he stepped a few feet forward and repeated the pattern again. The third time he did it, Lane knew Miguel needed his space.

“Come on, Noah. It’s time to go.” Lane was grateful he didn’t fuss about their sudden departure. She took hold of his hand and began escorting him out of the studio-barn. “Noah, what do you say?”