And what did cowboys wear to bed, anyway? Plaid? Fringed chaps? Woody from Toy Story onesies?

Nothing?

Suzanne blinked at the bizarre thoughts coming at her from left field. What the hell? She was obviously way more tired than she thought.

Or had breathed in a little too much paint thinner.

Go to bed, Suzanne. She looked longingly at the shower and sighed. It wasn’t the first time she’d gone to bed without a shower. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time at this cottage. But the water had better be back on by morning or she’d be hunting Joshua Grady down even if it meant saddling up a horse and going all cowgirl on his ass.

…

The water was back on the next morning, a fact that became immediately evident as a bleary-eyed Suzanne padded from her bedroom at just after six thirty, making a beeline for her coffee machine. About the same time she registered her feet were wet, the noise from the running faucet over the kitchen sink pierced her consciousness.

Suzanne glanced down, spying the water that was almost lapping her bedroom door, realizing that the entire flagstone central living area was one huge puddle.

Oh no, dear God no. What the fuck, Saint Cistern?

Galvanized into action, Suzanne dashed to the sink, splashing through a half inch of water. Making a dive for the faucet, she turned it off hard and pulled the plug. She must not have turned it off last night in her frantic on/off twisting as she’d pleaded silently to the universe to deliver water.

Shit. Damn. Fuck.

The water drained out of the sink with a final insulting gurgle, and Suzanne turned slowly to survey the damage. She wasn’t sure when the water had come back on, but the puddle was widespread, making its way almost into her bedroom and all the way to the front door, soaking into the big old rug decorating the flagstone and…

Jesus Christ! Her paintings!

“No. Oh no, no, no,” she whispered as she splashed through more water, her heart racing, bile rising in her throat. “Please don’t be ruined.”

Shit! Maybe this was some kind of divine retribution? Had the Gods of Art sent a flood to destroy her work? The sick feeling in her gut intensified the closer she got. She might have been conflicted over how she felt about the paintings but right now, they meant everything.

A bitter tang of relief swept her system as Suzanne realized the puddle hadn’t yet encroached on her paintings. In another fifteen minutes, it’d have been a different story.

Snatching them up from where they were leaning against the wall, she lay two on the long kitchen countertop and the other two propped on the worn leather couches, little islands of high ground in the sea of water that had pretty much covered most of the massive living area.

Atlas Grady, enjoying the elevation of the easel, was obviously safe.

Suzanne took a second to let relief wash through her. Her legs shook, and she sat on the arm of one of the couches for a moment as the adrenaline ebbed.