Stretching her arms, Suzanne dropped her head from side to side to ease the kinks from her neck and shoulders. Standing in one spot for hours, her arm outstretched, was not good for the human skeleton. It caused all kinds of muscular aches and posture problems and, back home, she had a weekly massage session.

Suzanne doubted there’d be a masseuse in Credence. Maybe, if she kept up this pace of output, she could drive to Denver every week and get one?

But for now, most of all, she needed sleep.

Picking up the brushes she’d used over the course of the day, she cleaned them thoroughly and packed everything away, ready for whatever demands her muse would make in the morning. Inserting the plug into the kitchen sink, she poured olive oil over her hands and proceeded to remove the caked-on paint. It was much kinder on the skin and far less toxic than chemical removers. No doubt she had paint in her hair and probably on her face, as was often the case, but she’d save them for the shower.

Absently turning on the faucet to wash away the oil, Suzanne waited for the water to spill out and fill the bottom of the sink. And waited.

She got nothing.

Hmm. Trying again, she turned it off and then on again. Still nothing. One more time for the win didn’t change the outcome, either, as she pushed her face close to the faucet, waiting for that first drip, trying to peer up to see if it was planning on arriving any time soon or if there was some kind of weird blockage. There didn’t seem to be a blockage, and not even turning the faucet all the way on managed to produce a single trickle.

“No, please no.” She swore under her breath. She needed a freaking shower, damn it. Please don’t let the water be off.

Grady hadn’t mentioned sudden cessation of water supply as a possibility. She knew they were out in the middle of nowhere, but still, this kind of thing didn’t happen in New York. Not without warning anyway.

Damn the man.

Did he think his only responsibility as her landlord was to stand there all tall and brooding? With or without his shirt? “Shit.” She thumped her hand against the metal of the drainer in frustration.

Heading to her bedroom, she sent up a swift prayer to the patron saint of plumbers—was there a patron saint of plumbers?—to please, please, please let it just be the sink. Not the shower.

Please, Saint…Cistern? Not the shower.

Striding into her bathroom, Suzanne opened the shower screen and reached in to turn on the faucet. Nothing. Freaking nada. She turned both hot and cold faucets on all the way, hoping it would make a difference. Still nothing.

“Double shit.”

Turning them off with an annoyed twist, she reached for her phone in the pocket of her smock. Almost eleven thirty. Grimacing at the time, she sighed. She couldn’t wake Grady now and demand he come and fix it. It was too late, and didn’t cowboys get up at the crack of dawn to do all the macho cow stuff? He probably went to bed at sundown.