He tried to keep his voice even. Casual. “You’re staying?” he asked in what he hoped was a conversational voice.
“Maybe.” She hedged the question before admitting on a sigh, “Yes. Yes, I decided to stay. But what was I thinking? I don’t have any money!”
Her wailed words did not make sense to him. “I guess I’m confused,” he admitted. “Wouldn’t it cost more to live in Dallas than it would here in Juliet?”
“Yes, but Granny Bert offered to sell me the Big House. And for one crazy moment, I thought it might could work. But even pulling strings, Nick Vilardi says it will cost over fifty thousand dollars to remodel.” She angled toward Brash with wide, shell-stocked eyes. “Where on earth would I get fifty thousand dollars?” she demanded.
He did not answer immediately. He seemed intent on crossing the railroad track, taking the ramp across the highway, and driving west out of town. They passed the convenience store and the entrance to The Sisters ISD. Brash did not speak until he turned onto the farm-to-market road. Even then, his voice held a cautious note. “Didn’t your husband have life insurance?”
Madison could not restrain the whimper that leaked from within her weary heart. “Yes. But he borrowed against it.” She refused to acknowledge why and how he spent the money. Her voice was low as she made the painful admission. “It took every penny that was left to get out-from-under my mortgage in Dallas. I sold at a loss.”
Just for a moment, she allowed herself to mourn the beautiful house on Willow Circle: two stories, triple garage, in-ground pool, upgraded everything. And, for the past two years, an empty bed. She mustn’t forget the empty bed. That bed made it so much easier to leave the house behind.
“I’m sorry, Maddy.” When Brash offered his hand along with the heartfelt sentiment, Madison latched on to both.
She was hardly surprised when he curved left, onto the white rock road that led beneath a sprawling metal sign. Familiar icons—cattle, cotton, horses and oil derricks—danced across the plate metal arch supporting the words ‘deCordova Ranch, est. 1918’.
The same true-to-life images repeated in the fields themselves. A lone oil well stood in the distance, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun; on one side of the road, cattle and horses grazed in pastures thick with winter oats; on the other side, row after row of dormant fields held the promise of cotton yet-to-come. Madison stared at the empty fields as they zipped past, until the horizontal lines made her dizzy.
“Where are you taking me, Brash?” she belatedly thought to ask.
He flashed her a smile, the one that made her heart melt in high school. Truth be known, her heart was feeling rather soft and pudgy right about now, as well. “A little late to ask, don’t you think?” he teased.
“That’s the problem. I can’t think right now. My mind is a mess.”
“Give me a few minutes. I think I have the cure.”
He gently withdrew his hand from hers so that he could use both hands on the steering wheel. He took a fork in the road to the right. The path was rough and bumpy, but Brash dodged the holes best he could and knew when to accelerate, when to slow down. A few more twists and turns through empty cotton fields, a curvy path along a wooded tree-line, and soon they were topping a knoll and coming to an abrupt stop.
Madison stifled a gasp as she saw nothing but river and sky beyond the windshield. They perched high upon a red bank of the Brazos River, angled as if teetering on its brink.
“Whenever I need to think, this is where I come,” Brash confided. “It makes me feel like I’m flying.”
“I feel like I’m falling!” She laughed, but the sound came out in a nervous warble.
“Just take a couple of deep breaths and look around you. We’re perfectly safe. And further from the edge than you think.” He grinned as he placed his hand over hers in reassurance. He transferred his gaze to the scene around them, his tone sobering. “This has always been my special place. Sitting here, looking out over the sky and the river, it helps me feel grounded. It clears my mind and helps me put things in perspective.”
Trying to be brave, Madison drew in an unsteady breath. She did as he suggested, surveying the magnificent scenery before her and praying they did not fall. Just in case, she clung to the security of his strong hand.
After several minutes without tipping forward into the river, Madison began to relax and loosened her death-grip on his hand. Instead of moving away, Brash turned his palm over and wove his fingers through hers. Very casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he pulled their joined hands over to rest on his knee.
“Okay, so maybe it’s not so bad,” she admitted. She pretended to be talking about the steep red dirt banks edging the muddy waters below. She also pretended not to notice how her pulse raced at his touch.
“Told you so,” he said with a satisfied smirk.
A comfortable silence settled between them. Madison rested her head against the back of the seat and studied a ripple in the water as it worked its way downstream. If only her troubles could float away as easily.
“Uh-oh. What happened? Why the sudden frown?” Brash asked. His thumb made slow, lazy circles over her fingers.
“I was trying your technique of clearing my head. It didn’t work.”
“Maybe you didn’t do it right. See that big limb right there, beginning to pull away from the bank and bob up and down in the water?”
She followed the line of his pointed finger. “I see it.”
“Okay, so imagine one of your problems on it. What’s something that’s worrying you right now?”
“One thing, or twenty-seven?”
“Start with one.”
“I’m trying to be both mother and father to my fifteen-year-old twins. I’m afraid I’ll mess up.” She admitted the last on a raw whisper.
“Okay, put your insecurities right up there on that log.” He leaned in toward her, his eyes trained on the log. He visually boosted the imaginary load onto the wood, flinching when the limb bobbed for a moment, almost as if it bore the actual weight of her troubles. Madison darted her gaze between his animated facial expressions and the scene down on the river, fascinated at how he played out his part. He smiled when the log balanced itself in the current and began to drift downstream.
“See? Now watch. There your insecurities go, floating south.”
They watched the log as it slowly inched down the river.
“Uh-oh,” Madison said at one point. “It’s beginning to stall. And it’s turning sideways, right there in the middle of the stream.”
“Let it go, Maddy.” He said the words as if she had some control over the course of the drifting log. “Just like the log, parenthood hits a few snags now and then. You have to go with the flow. And you’re doing great.” His voice was steady and reassuring. Calming. “You’re a good mom, Maddy, a good parent. A good provider. Have faith in yourself. And, look. The log is moving again, floating on down the river.”
He released her hand to point, but they were still connecting on a completely different level. Maddy offered a nervous, hopeful smile in answer to his more confident one. Maybe he was right, maybe she worried too much about her parenting skills.
Brash’s voice was still soft and steady. “Next problem.”
“I live with my grandmother. My teenage daughter and I share a bed. How are you going to fit that on a little bitty ole log?” she challenged.
“Okay, okay.” He studied the water for a moment before opening the car door. “This requires a closer look,” he explained. The engine had cooled enough for him to hoist himself onto the hood of the patrol car. Peering back through the windshield, he beckoned her to join him.
Madison reluctantly crawled from the car and allowed him to help her onto the hood beside him. This was only one of the crazy things she had done this week.
She was barely settled when he bumped his shoulder against hers. He pointed upward this time, to the sky. “There. See that cloud? That big, puffy white one
? Imagine it’s your bed. A big, fat, fluffy mattress.”
“Hmm. It’s drifting.” The cloud floated effortlessly across the expanse of blue until, incredibly, it began to separate. “It’s splitting into two.” There was a touch of awe in her voice. She turned to him with an astonished smile. “How’d you do that?”
“Faith, my dear.” His exaggerated tone held the perfect pitch of sage wisdom. He immediately switched to nonchalance. “So soon you’ll have separate beds. Next problem.”
Madison grinned, getting into the spirit of the game. She would hit him with something hard this time. “Today I realized just how much I would love to remodel the Big House. But it’s going to cost a minimum of fifty thousand dollars. That kind of obstacle is not just going to float away on a breeze, you know.”
“Look down there at the river, Maddy. Can you see the rocky bottom from here?”
“No. The water’s too muddy. And too deep.”
“But the bottom’s down there, you just can’t see it as plainly as you would like. In this exact spot, the water is deep and cloudy, but move along a little way. It gets clearer, more shallow. Sometimes you have to travel upriver, sometimes down, but eventually you can see the bottom. It’s the same way with your money troubles. You might not have everything all at once, but give it time. Eventually you’ll be standing on solid ground again.”
A silly grin spread across Maddy’s face. She was clearly impressed. “You’re pretty good at this, you know it?”
“I’ve had plenty of practice. I come here often enough with my own troubles.”
“So let me return the favor. What problem can I carry away for you, kind sir? I see a nice steady current coming down the river. Let me toss your latest problem right into the water and let it travel off downstream, never to worry you again.” She giggled as she emulated tossing something into the river.
“My current problem, eh?” He seemed to contemplate the matter, his blue eyes twinkling as he looked over at her.
Maddy’s gaze collided with his, triggering an instant spark. The look in his eyes changed, just like the rhythm of her heartbeat. She tried to hear his lowly spoken words over the clamor.
“Well,” he drawled thoughtfully, his attention dropping to her mouth. “It seems there’s a pretty lady who’s back in town, but she has a rather low opinion of me. Any ideas on how to solve that little problem?”
“Maybe her opinion’s not as low as you think,” Maddy murmured, her own eyes slipping down to watch the slight smile skip along his generous lips. An hour ago, it was Nick Vilardi who made her pulse race. Thirty minutes ago, she decided she wasn’t ready for a relationship with any man. But right now, she craved the feel of Brash’s lips upon hers. It was a familiar ache, born twenty-something years ago, but it had never been this strong, this viable. She drew in an unsteady breath and whispered, “Maybe you should let that worry float away on a cloud.”
For one crazy, heart-stalling moment, she thought he would kiss her. She wouldn’t be foolish enough to stop him this time. She even leaned forward, encouraging him with her silent invitation.
As he began to move, the police radio squawked. The beauty of the moment was shattered. As Maddy blinked in confusion, Brash muttered a complaint and slid off the car to answer the call.
After a brief conversation with the dispatcher, he poked his head out of the car. “I’m sorry, Maddy, but I have to get back. There’s a problem in town.”
Madison hopped down from the hood and returned to the front seat, where Brash had pushed the door open from the inside.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he apologized as she tucked her long legs inside the car. His eyes registered true regret.
“I completely understand,” she insisted. “You told me you had plans for the evening, yet you took time out of your schedule to bring me out here and make me feel better.” She smiled. “Thank you for that.”
“Did it work?”
“Magically.”
“Told you,” he said again, his smile smug. He put the car in reverse and retraced their tracks across the pasture. Despite their latest botched kiss attempt, the silence between them was comfortable. Brash broke it by saying, “So you never did tell me the whole story about the television people. Why are they in town?”
Madison relayed the story as they traveled back into Juliet. After Brash’s insightful assessment of her financial situation, fifty thousand dollars no longer sounded quite as scary; it was still impossible, but somehow less frightening.
“Where do you want me to drop you off?” he asked.
Madison almost had to think about it. “My car is at New Beginnings,” she remembered. “Hopefully all the hoopla will have died down by now.”
“Oh, things should be rather peaceful at the café,” he predicted. He pursed his lips ruefully. “That’s because, according to dispatch, most of the town is at The Bumble Bee Hotel, once again swarming around the television van and its occupants. They can’t even get out, for fear of being attacked by eager fans.”
In response, Madison bit her lip and stifled a helpless laugh.
It was past dusk when as he pulled up at the café. Brash shoved the gear into park and jumped out to open Madison’s door. He walked her the few steps to her own car door, where he held it open as she slid in behind the wheel.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue earlier. And thank you for the very insightful exercise in getting my head on straight.”
“Your head’s always been on straight, Maddy. That’s one of things I’ve always admired about you.” He smiled down at her with the compliment.
“Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way,” she admitted, tugging on her neck as if to make sure it was secure.
Brash placed his large hand over hers, letting his thumb trail over her cheek. “Things have a way of working out for the best, you know.”
“I know,” she acknowledged softly.
“And Maddy?”
“Yeah?”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping with an intimate promise. “One of these days, I am going to kiss you.”
She was woefully out of practice, but she offered him what she hoped was a flirty smile. “I think I might just hold you to that, Chief.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nick Vilardi shut the door behind him with a firm ‘click’, allowing the stiff smile to die upon his lips. Sometimes it was hard to remember that these aggressive fans paid his salary. No matter the inconvenience, he had to smile and pretend to enjoy the way they clung to his arm or yanked on his clothes.
Not that he didn’t appreciate their enthusiasm. After all, it was what allowed him to make a living doing what he loved most: working with wood and restoring old homes to their former glory. Without the fans, there would be no sponsors, no syndicated show. No career.
It was just that he was a private person. He would be perfectly content to hole up in one of his old houses and not see another soul until the job was completed. Sometimes it was difficult to remember to share his time and attention with others. It was an effort to welcome the cameras and the crowds, to allow them to see his love affair with wood. It was even harder to let them claw at him, constantly pulling and tugging and asking for more; one more smile, one more hug, one more autograph as the camera flashed in his eyes.
Nick shrugged out of his jacket and slung it across the foot of the four-poster bed. It had been a long day, first traveling, then touring the magnificent old mansion only to find a resistant owner—and not even the actual owner, at that!—topped off by the throng of eager fans who stood between him and his bed. His stomach growled in hunger, but he wasn’t sure he was up to fighting the crowds again. Maybe he would take Genesis Baker up on her offer to have dinner delivered to his room.
He took his phone from his pocket and flipped back through the photos he had taken at the Big House, as locals called it. He did not need the digital images to remind him of the stately old mansion; the impressions were burned into his mind, filling his head wit
h grandiose visions of its restored state.
He had to have that house.
No matter what it took, he would find a way to persuade Madison Reynolds to jump on his bandwagon. And if for some reason she didn’t, couldn’t … well, he would find a way to make it work. Even if he had to fund the project himself, he would be the one to restore this house. The thought of someone else doing the work—or worse yet, doing inferior work, like that done here at the Bumble Bee—was unacceptable. Almost physically painful.
The house, he knew, was going to be an obsession with him. One look at its magnificent staircase, at its hand-hewn floors, and he was a goner, instantly in love with the stately old house.
Yet oddly enough, when Nick settled his weary body into the easy chair and closed his eyes, it was not the elaborate curve of a banister that he saw, but the graceful curve of a long, slender neck, and the wide hazel eyes of the widow Madison Reynolds.
CHAPTER NINE
Madison tried going to bed early that night. Granny and the kids had already eaten by the time she got home, so she reheated a plate of Lucy Ngyen’s fried rice, gobbled it down, and announced she was going to bed. She had only been asleep for a short time when her cell phone rang.
Madison was in no mood for pleasantries. “George Gail, you have to stop calling me in the middle of the night!” she hissed by way of greeting.
“It’s 11:52. You were in bed?”
“Yes, I was in bed! Asleep!”
“Oh.”
She heard the air deflating from George Gail’s lungs. She imagined her blue-powdered eyes drooping in disappointment. With an exasperated sigh, Madison attempted to disguise the irritation in her weary voice. “What did you need, George Gail?”
“He left. He got a call and said he had to go out, something about an emergency at the sale barn.”
“I assume you mean Curtis.” With great reluctance, Madison eased out of bed and made her way to the closet. These late-night calls were getting ridiculous.
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