“Nope.”

“He gave it all to you?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

His arm left from my shoulder but only so his hand could slide into the hair under my cap as his other hand moved around my waist.

“She got everything else, his house in town, car –”

“The land is better,” I announced, even though I had no idea what kind of house his father had or what kind of car. It could be a mansion and a Maserati, the land still would have been better.

Max grinned down at me and agreed, “Yeah.” Then he continued, his eyes going over my shoulder, his expression moving far away. “She was pissed, though she never gave a shit about this place. She did know what it was worth.”

I pressed my lips together to stop myself from asking questions.

Max didn’t need me to ask questions and he looked back to me. “She’d sell it off, Dad knew that, even said it in his will, explainin’ things. So he gave it to me.”

“Did he make it a condition you never sell it?”

Max shook his head. “Just knew I’d never sell,” his eyes went back over my shoulder, “and I never will.”

“I wouldn’t either,” I whispered and then bit the inside of my lip to remind myself to stop talking, mainly because Max looked back at me and his face had gotten soft, but his eyes had gone intense and his look struck me deep but in a good, warm, happy way.

“Been in my family since 1892,” he told me.

My eyes grew wide and I asked, “Really?”

He grinned again and said, “Yeah, Duchess.”

I opened my mouth to speak, put an end to this intimate tête-à-tête which I was enjoying too much and I knew I shouldn’t let myself, when we both heard, “Max!”

Max let me go with one arm but the hand at my neck slid around my shoulders as he moved to my side and looked up the trail.

“Hey Cotton,” Max said to a man who looked like he should be called Cotton.

Cotton looked like Santa Claus, lots of white hair and a thick, full white beard that was a bit overlong, and one mustn’t forget the big jolly belly which Cotton definitely had. But he wasn’t wearing a red suit, he was wearing a pair of jeans, a huge parka and snow boots.

“Heya,” Cotton said, eyes on me, ten feet away but I could see his nose and cheeks were red, just like Santa’s.

“Hello.”

“Cotton, this is –” Max started but Cotton talked over him.

“Yeah, Nina, I know.”

“What –” I began but Max gave me a squeeze.

“Trudy’s Cotton’s granddaughter,” Max explained.

“Oh,” I muttered.

“Small town,” Cotton noted, stopping close, “we talk. Get used to it.”

“Oh…” I said slowly and finished, “kay,” uncertain I’d be around long enough to get used to it but I decided against sharing that with Cotton.

“Give me your camera, I’ll take a picture of you both,” Cotton dipped his head to my camera.

I got stiff. A picture of me and Max on Max’s bluff? I didn’t think so. And I didn’t think so mainly because the very thought of having a photo of Max and me, together on his beautiful bluff, made me want it so badly I could taste it in my mouth and I knew that was wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Um… that’s okay, I took some shots.”

“Duchess –” Max said but Cotton interrupted him.

“Give me your camera, girl.”

“Really, that’s okay,” I said.

“Nina, this is Jimmy Cotton,” Max told me under his breath, my body froze and I stared.

When I could again speak, I whispered, “No kidding?”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Max said back on a chuckle.

I stared at Santa Man.

Jimmy Cotton, the great American photographer. I’d seen three of his exhibitions, one at the Smithsonian, one at the Victoria and Albert and one at The Met. He was a national treasure and his pictures were revered, including by me. I bought one of his calendars every year and had one of his Smithsonian posters framed and in my hallway at home.

He was also a recluse, never came to showings, never did interviews, famously eschewed the world that adored him. I didn’t think I’d ever seen a picture of him, not even when he was young. I knew he lived in the Colorado Rockies, most of his photos were of the mountains, but I obviously had no idea he lived here.

“I’m… I’m… so pleased to meet you,” I stuttered, feeling stupid and shy, both at the same time. “I saw your exhibitions at the Smithsonian and the one at the Victoria and Albert and –”

“V&A?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes, it was spectacular. I was… it was amazing,” I replied.

“Got a few of those they showed at the V&A up at my place. I’ll go through my barn, wrap one up, bring it over to Max’s.”

My mouth fell open, I felt it but I couldn’t do anything about it.

Max started chuckling and gave my arm a squeeze. “Give him your camera, honey.”

Automatically, my hand holding the camera lifted up, Jimmy Cotton came forward, took my stupid, little, digital camera in his artisan’s hand and took several steps back. I was so stunned that Jimmy Cotton was holding my camera, I didn’t fight against Max curling me so my front was tucked into his side, his arm tight around my shoulders, fingers shifting my hair around to bunch at my neck under his hand, forcing my cheek to his shoulder, his other hand going around my waist.

“Smile,” Jimmy Cotton, the Jimmy Cotton, called from behind my camera and I smiled with all the happiness I felt that none other than Jimmy Cotton was taking my picture (not to mention, it felt good standing like that in Max’s arms).

“That’ll be a good one,” Jimmy Cotton muttered, fiddling with my camera before he stepped forward and handed it back to me.

I took it thinking maybe I could die right there on the spot and do it happily, considering Jimmy Cotton just took my photo. Though that would mean I wouldn’t have the chance to get his photo printed and hermetically sealed.

“You hear about Dodd?” Cotton asked Max and Max kept the arm around my shoulders, hand curled around my neck but his other hand dropped away.

“Yeah.”

“Thought the sun shone brighter when I woke up this mornin’,” Cotton mumbled and I let out a little, surprised giggle.

“He was an ass,” Cotton told me.

“I’m beginning to get that picture,” I said back.

“Mick came up to the house this mornin’, luckily Nina’s got jetlag and she could tell him she was awake and in bed with me when the deed was done.”

Cotton’s face got hard and he asked, “What in the sam hill is Mickey doin’, askin’ you for an alibi?”

I was stuck on Max telling Jimmy Cotton (of all people) I was in bed with him but Max didn’t seem to feel my displeasure which I was pretty certain was so extreme it should be felt and he spoke to Cotton.

“Not a secret we don’t get along.”

“Not a secret you ain’t the type of man to do that kind of thing.”

“Cotton –” Max started.

“Especially you,” Cotton went on.

“Jimmy –”

“Especially with Dodd,” Cotton continued then looked at me. “Max had far more reason ten years ago to pull a trigger and take out that jackass, dang nab it,” he looked back at Max, “and Mickey knows it.”

“He’s just doin’ his job,” Max said but I was intrigued at what Cotton said. I’d heard the words “ten years ago” recently and just now and that seemed an interesting coincidence.

Unfortunately, Cotton was miffed and I couldn’t get a word in to ask him to explain.

“Got a lot of nerve, showin’ at your place.”

“I wasn’t his first visit.”

“And won’t be his last,” Cotton looked at me, “Dodd wasn’t much liked by anyone. Hell, Mickey could have come to visit me.”

“You don’t own a gun, Cotton, you’re a pacifist, non-violent, remember?” Max reminded him.

“Ever a man to test the mettle of pacifism and non-violence, it was Curtis Dodd,” Cotton shot back.

Max chuckled, I waited for more information to be shared but both men settled into silence.

It was either ask, when I told myself I didn’t want to know, or keep silent. It took a lot of effort, I really wanted to know about ten years ago, Max and Curtis Dodd, but I kept silent.

“Welp, you two young ‘uns don’t need an old man spoilin’ the mood, I’ll just be gettin’ on.”

“You aren’t spoiling the mood,” I told him quickly and he smiled at me.

“Any talk spoils that,” he said, dipping his head to the vista behind me. “That, you experience in silence or, better yet, with someone that means somethin’ to you.” For some reason, his eyes slid to Max when he said his last before he looked back to me and concluded, “Therefore, I best be gettin’ on.”

I didn’t share that I barely knew Max therefore he didn’t mean anything to me (at least I was telling myself that) but Cotton was on the move and Max had bid him good-bye.

“It was an honor to meet you, Cotton,” I called after him, he stopped and turned back.

Then he asked the bizarre question, “Yeah? Why?”

“Because…” I felt funny under his strangely intense scrutiny and finished lamely, “you’re Jimmy Cotton.”

“Just a man.”

“A man with a way with a camera.”

“Lotsa those,” Cotton said dismissively, clearly not one who enjoyed praise from an inexpert like me but probably, I was guessing, from anyone.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly but loud enough for him to hear. “I’ve been to my fair share of exhibitions, only yours made my heart hurt because my system couldn’t process the beauty that met my eyes.”

Max went still at my side and Cotton pulled in such a deep breath, his chest puffed out.

“So,” I kept talking softly, “you’re not just a man with a camera. Not to me. You’re Jimmy Cotton, your photographs gave me that, I loved it, I’m grateful and because of that, I’m honored to meet you.”

He watched me for several moments, the old man cantankerous look he’d perfected slipping, his face getting soft. He tipped his chin up at me, gave a short wave, turned, climbing, and he rounded the bluff.

I watched him go and I suspected Max did too.

I watched longer because I felt Max’s arm give me a squeeze to get my attention.

“Ready to go back?” he asked when I looked up at him.

“No,” I blurted, his eyebrows came up in question and then I blew out a sigh before suggesting, “Can we ride around on the snowmobile for awhile?”

He grinned then offered, “You want me to teach you how to drive?”

I shook my head fast and his grin turned to a smile.

“Baby steps,” I said to him.

“You got it, Duchess,” he replied, walked me to the snowmobile, we got on and Max drove me around for a good, long while and, I had to admit, I enjoyed every, single moment.

***

I rinsed the lunch plates in Max’s kitchen sink and told myself it was high time that I got back to being a smart, sane, rational person again.

We’d driven around in the mountains on his snowmobile for awhile, Max showing me more views, a few more of his favorite places, all of them beautiful, none of them quite as spectacular as the bluff. I took some photos, even one of Max I told myself I shouldn’t take and hoped he didn’t notice I was taking it. He was gazing over a valley, his handsome profile relaxed and, well… handsome. Too handsome not to capture on film with that valley spread out behind him, so I did and I did it quickly, prepared to pretend I was only taking a photo of the valley.

Then we rode back and I put together a late lunch while Max put away the snowmobile then came in and built a fire in the grate in the living room.

We ate the shrimp, avocado and mayo sandwiches on white I made, me at my stool, Max standing at the counter in front of me, both of us silent. Max, seemingly comfortably so, me, not at all.

When he finished eating, I offered, “If you’ll fire up the computer while I clean up the kitchen, I’ll change your password.”

“Sounds good,” he muttered, sucking back a swig of cola and rounding the bar. I felt him get close to me as he went and was in the act of turning to him when I felt his hand curl around my neck, palm at my throat then his lips were at my hair at the top of my head. His fingers gave my neck a squeeze, he let go and without a word he walked away.

I sat there immobilized, uncertain what to make of Max’s casual ability to be affectionate in pretty much every way, verbally, physically, with his face, his eyes. I knew how it made me feel, which was a dangerous feeling and I knew it would be dangerously easy to get used to it, I just didn’t know what to make of it.