Brandon's Bride
Page 7
"I … I grew up as a single child, Victoria, from the stoic, British upper class. I'm better at math than most mathematicians. In school, I was the chap who enjoyed algebra. People like me … well, I wasn't generally invited to play in other people's circles."
"You play with Randy nice enough."
"He's Randy."
"You volunteered to help him with his homework. You did the dishes. You helped Randy with his homework again on Sunday night. I don't know, Ferringer, but so far you seem appallingly well-adjusted and just all around nice to me." She shrugged. "But that's just my opinion."
"Oh." He looked away. He was blushing, definitely blushing. The more he tried not to, the darker he grew. He wasn't accustomed to being characterized as the nice guy. C.J. was nice. Maggie was sweet. Brandon was … smart. This nice business, however, felt good.
"How's Randy's math?" he asked.
Victoria grimaced and shrugged. "I wish I had your mathematical mind. Well, with a bit of luck, we may both pass grade school yet."
"And the foals? Have you started training?"
"Not yet. We're still in the getting them accustomed to people phase. I may start them both on a lunge line soon, see how that goes. That's about it for Randy and me. Frankly, your last four days have been more exciting than ours."
"Routine's not a bad thing."
"Funny comment, coming from you."
His lips twisted wryly. "I suppose it is."
She leaned forward abruptly. It caught him off guard and he didn't know what to do. He was unbearably aware of her scent—apple shampoo and alfalfa, spring air and horses. Her face was clear tonight, no smudges of dust to mar her pale, perfect complexion. And her eyes bore into his, frank, honest, clear. That was the thing about Victoria. Her gaze was always direct, never coy, never manipulative, never sly.
She stared him straight in the eye, and Brandon felt it like a one-two punch. He sucked in his belly, stopped breathing and thought she looked so beautiful and so pure and he was standing there covered with sixteen hours of mud and sweat.
"I'm filthy," he exclaimed without thinking.
She laughed. "I like you tired and worn-out, Ferringer. It makes you blunt."
"I need to shower. I can't figure out how to raise my arm to turn the damn thing on."
Her smile grew. "So maybe you need a little help?"
"Maybe." He was breathless, staring into her cornflower blue eyes.
She moved slowly, each motion deliberate, her gaze never looking away. She lifted her arm—he saw her breasts, high, nicely rounded, shift and press closer. She reached above his shoulder—he felt the soft, worn cotton of her sweatshirt brush against his cheek. She leaned over—he watched her lips approach, part slightly and moisten.
She turned on the shower behind him, and fringes of spray dusted his hair. He stood there unmoving. This close, there was no denying it. The spark between them was real, deep, earnest. He was thinking back to that moment in her kitchen four nights ago, when he'd almost kissed her simply because it seemed so right.
And now her lips were parted, and once more he felt the pull.
He wanted to hear his name on her lips: Ferringer. No one called him Ferringer, but he liked the way she said it, as if it were a challenge.
"Why do we keep doing this?" she whispered.
"I have no idea."
"Ferringer…" she whispered.
He came undone.
He yanked her against his body, hard. One moment for her to protest, then his lips were upon hers. Fierce. Raw. Yearning.
Victoria dug her fingers into his scalp and held on for dear life. She was a big girl and she knew better, but at this minute she didn't care. She'd been thinking about Brandon Ferringer for four long nights, staring at his cabin window, watching the light go out and imagining him stripping down to smooth, rippling bare skin and lean hard muscle. She'd been picturing him crawling between worn cotton sheets buck naked. She'd been contemplating the feel of those sheets sliding over his long, sinewy form and Lord, she was tired of being sensible.
He thrust his leg between hers, suckled on her lower lip, and she thought of singing hallelujah! and ripping the flannel from his back.
His cheeks rasped against hers, roughened by twenty-four hours of beard and the great outdoors. His tongue snaked over her lips, delving boldly in the corner, then sneaking its way back up, until she groaned, parted her lips and angled her neck for more. He plunged in and consumed her.
From far away, she heard someone moan. Then a soft sigh, a needy gasp. She was rubbing her pelvis shamelessly against his hard thigh, feeling his hands smooth over her lithe build. He palmed her bottom, and she bracketed his collarbone hard enough to welt his skin.
It wasn't enough. She should've realized that with this man, it would never be enough. His hands were rough, callused, bold. They would feel divine against her naked skin, squeezing her nipples, slipping between her thighs. Oh, Lord…
Suddenly her eyes were wide-open. She was watching him kiss her, seeing the need, the genuine desire, and she was thinking of hot torrid nights in the back of Ronald's truck, the way their hormones burned like wildfire and the way reality splashed her as a bucket of ice water nine months later. Cause and effect. Thinking with her heart instead of her head.
Oh, Vic, what are you doing?
She planted her hands on Brandon's shoulders, stiffened her spine and pushed him away.
"Easy partner."
Brandon stood stock-still, his breathing labored in the silence, his fingers still curled around her waist. She couldn't bring herself to move. His eyes had darkened to almost midnight blue. They glittered, storm-tossed and hungry in his lean, angular face.
He released his grip so abruptly, she almost fell. He backed away from her, raking his hands through the waves of his sun-streaked hair. Then suddenly, the dark, passionate, needy Brandon Ferringer was gone. Two blinks of an eye, and the Brit retrieved his reserve and shuttered up.
"You're right," he said stiffly.
"I am?" Her fingers lingered on her lips, which were bruised and swollen. Holy smokes. It didn't feel so great to be right. It felt lonely. Already, Brandon was stalking away, putting more space between them.
She drew another deep breath. Her brain cleared further, the world coming into sharper focus. Her horses blew gently in the barn. The air smelled like alfalfa and horseflesh. A cat purred from on top of the horse blankets.
"I guess I should be going in now," she said. Her hands were shaking, so she stuck them in her back pockets.
Brandon just nodded, his features tight.
"Oh for heaven's sake," she burst out abruptly. "We can't walk on pins and needles around each other. We need to talk about this."
"Oh, no we don't." Brandon shook his head vigorously. "I'm an Englishman. I don't need to talk about anything. You have a son to raise. I have … I have… You have a son to raise. I'll leave you alone."
"But dammit, I don't want you to leave me alone. Ferringer," she took a step forward, then halted when he froze. "Ferringer, I'm too honest for my own good and we both know it, so let me just get this out. You're staying in a cabin fifty feet from my bedroom, you're the best-looking man Beaverville has seen, and I haven't had sex since Moses walked the earth. I'm a little bit attracted to you."
"My cabin is fifty feet from your bedroom?" Good old Wall Street Man sounded like he was strangling on his own tongue. Apparently, he'd never contemplated that before.
"Oh, yeah," she assured him matter-of-factly. "And I'm guessing you sleep buck naked. But if you do wear clothes, don't tell me. A healthy fantasy life is all I got left."
Brandon's face grew ever darker. "You're trying to kill me! Don't you realize that all I can think about now is what you wear to bed!"
"I figured we might as well be in the same boat."
"I don't want to be in any boat. I want to fight fires, do my investigation and find another damn mountain to climb!"
"Do your investigation?"
"Kind of messes with your mind, doesn't it?"
"Victoria, so help me God—"
"Oh, Ferringer, I don't know what to do any more than you do. I certainly didn't plan on being this attracted to my new tenant. I honestly haven't felt this way since I met Ronald, and as pathetic as this sounds now, there was a time I thought the sun rose and set on that man." Her tone calmed. She took a deep breath, and the spark abruptly left her face. "I'm just … I'm just not ready for this. I can't afford to make that mistake again."
"Then turn around and walk away, Victoria. Because I'm tired and I've had a long day and I … I want you."
Oh, my. Her lips formed the words soundlessly. She hesitated for a second, still living dangerously, then her resolve broke and she beat a hasty retreat. She was determined to be smart this time. Dammit, she was twenty-seven, practical and a single mother. She was a darn pillar of the community!
"Victoria." She was almost out of the barn, but that one word stopped her. She closed her eyes, knowing she was weak.
Ferringer stood in the middle of the aisle, looking grim, looking fierce, looking frustrated.
"I loved my wife," he said abruptly, his face unreadable. "I loved her. There hasn't been anyone since. Four years, Victoria. Don't push me too hard."
She swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry."
"And your bedroom is just across the way…" His eyes closed. She watched his fists clench, and the thrill that shot through her was nothing short of primal.
"Yeah, Ferringer. I know. Lord, I know."
She gave up on composure and fled.
In the stables, moment followed moment. Finally, Brandon pulled himself into the shower and let the cold spray sting his face.
As he toweled off and slipped into a pair of sweats in the privacy of his cabin, he told himself it was for the best. He and Victoria were ill-suited in so many ways it defied the imagination. She and Randy needed a good husband and father.
Brandon wasn't qualified for either position.
He was a loner. He was a hiker. He would be a good hotshot—he would figure out this team thing—and he would talk to Bud Irving. And in September, mission accomplished, he would find some new mountain to climb until some night he could go to sleep without dreaming of Julia, or Max, or his mother's voice telling him he was just like his father.
Saturday, he would pay a visit to Bud Irving. That's what he'd come to Beaverville for and that's what he would do.
But he never got the chance.
* * *
"Hell, rich Brit, are you all right?"
Brandon opened his eyes slowly. The bright, cloudless sky hit him hard enough to hurt. He winced, squinting, and groggily made out two of his teammates, the woman, Barbara, and the small, wiry man everyone called Woody.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" Woody held up his hand, but it swam before the blue, blue sky, and Brandon thought he was going to be sick.
"Oh, he's not doing well." Barbara was taking his pulse, her gaze on Woody. Barbara evidently didn't like Brandon much. She hadn't forgiven him for running ahead on the escape route and leaving them all behind. Now, however, she looked concerned. Then it occurred to Brandon that he was flat on his back on the ground in the middle of the day and he had no idea how he'd gotten there. Surely a hotshot shouldn't be lying around. If Coleton saw him…
He struggled to sit up, and both his teammates grabbed him. The world spun again. He went pale as a sheet.
"Easy, easy, easy," Woody was saying. Far away, Brandon could hear yelling. Natasha was running toward them.
"What the hell happened?"
Henry was after her. "God, I've never seen anyone fall like that. Is he all right?"
Barbara was holding him up. He tried to say he was fine, never better, but his lips wouldn't move. Vaguely, he remembered working up the slope. It was Friday. They were practicing building fire lines. He'd been digging down to mineral soil. A tree was above him. And then the air had been split by a giant cracking sound and someone had screamed. Barbara had screamed.
He'd looked up. He'd seen green. He'd jumped and the world went…
"We gotta get him back to command central." Woody took charge. "Ferringer, tell me if this hurts."
Brandon said no to everything until Woody got to the back of his head. The lump just above the indent of his spine had already swollen to the size of an egg and hurt like bloody hell. They clustered closer, debating the options, and as if in a fog, he watched their lips chatter, chatter, chatter.
It was unseemly, these people hovering over him. He should be keeping a stiff upper lip, set an example for little C.J. and Maggie. Otherwise they might realize he missed their father, too, and then they would cry. He was the oldest. He must set the example. Max had left him first. Maybe it was all his fault, after all. He was the oldest. Must be responsible.
Don't cry. There's a good chap, don't cry. Never show fear.
All these people were still clustered over him.
"Go ahead," he said thickly. "I just … need another moment. I'll … be … in a minute."
"Nope," Barbara said firmly. "One person fries, we all fry. Come on, guys."
Suddenly arms were around his waist, helping him up. He was leaning on Woody's shoulder. The guy wasn't that big and had been working all day. He shouldn't have to bear such weight. But they were all there, passing him around like a rag doll as they limped to command central.
One person fries, we all fry.
He heard his father laughing in the back of his head. It's only about you, it's only about you! Max was screaming.
He tried to say no, and Barbara looked at him with concern.
"My father," he croaked.
"Shh," she said.
Then she wasn't Barbara anymore. She was Victoria, whom he'd kissed and wanted to kiss again. She was leaning over him in his cabin, putting a cold washcloth on his head and telling him it would be all right, everything would be all right.
He wanted to draw her into his arms and knew he shouldn't. He wanted to hold her close and bury his head against the sweet, apple fragrance of her hair. He wanted to cry but he had no idea why. Swallow it down, swallow it down. Be a man.
Must set the example. Must be responsible.
"Trust me," Victoria whispered. "Just trust me."
I can't. I can't.
"I'm sorry," he croaked. "So sorry." But then he was talking to Julia, who stood so far away while the world turned black.
Chapter 5
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"I think he's dead."
"He's not dead, Randy. He just bumped his head … violently." A diffuse brain injury, Doc Matthews had diagnosed. In other words, Brandon Ferringer had a concussion.
"His face looks ugly."
"Well, those tree limbs aren't kind."
"He isn't breathing much."
"He's just resting, Randy. Listen, honey, according the doctor, we need to wake him up every hour and ask him his name and the day of the week. You know, I think you might be just the man for that job."
"Oh keeewl!" Randy clapped his hands, making Brandon, lying on the bed, wince. "He's alive!" Randy screeched.
Brandon opened his eyes and pinned Victoria with a long-suffering stare. She merely smiled, but when he wagged his finger, she dutifully approached his bed. The first time, she couldn't hear him, so she bent lower. Then she made out his words.
"I … will … get you for that."
"Death threats, huh? Yeah, you'll be all right, Ferringer."
Propped against the counter, Charlie began to chuckle. "Told you his head was too hard to be felled by one measly bump." Charlie approached, the three of them crowding around the bed and making Brandon feel like he should be delivering his last will and testament.
"So how are you, buddy?" Charlie asked seriously. "Got a headache, dizziness, nausea?"
"Shoul
dn't have drank so much Scotch," Brandon mumbled. "Head. Ow."
"Actually it was a tree. A big tree."
Brandon looked at Charlie blankly. He felt like he'd been asleep a long time, and his head was filled with shadowy, tortured images he couldn't place. He'd been running after Julia. He had a clear memory of calling his wife's name. He looked at Victoria, and she immediately glanced away.
Slowly, he raised a hand and touched his face. His cheeks burned. His jaw was covered with myriad scratches. His fingertips zigzagged from scab to scab until they reached the fiery, pounding lump at the back of his head. He already knew better than to touch. He let his hand fall and tried to focus on seeing only one of everything. No use. He groaned.
"Yeah," Charlie joked weakly. "But wait till you see the other guy."
"A tree," Brandon whispered hoarsely. "I was attacked by a tree?"
"Keeewl." Randy looked impressed.
"Looks like someone started cutting down a dead oak," Charlie explained. "But for some reason, they didn't finish. The oak was barely sitting on its trunk, then you came around, pounding at the ground, and over she went. Coleton's livid, man. Ripping through the crew like a fox in the henhouse. So far, everyone insists they didn't go near the tree, but he doesn't take no for an answer real well. Coleton's been decent about this. Called the doctor for you himself, and one way or another, he'll figure out who downed that tree."
"Am I … am I off the crew?"
"No, man. Your team brought you back, everyone working together and making Coleton happy. For a New Yorker, you got their loyalty fast enough."
Brandon grimaced. He wasn't convinced it had anything to do with him.
"The doctor says that with a little R and R, you'll be as good as new. Luckily, you chose Friday to wrestle with the oak, so you got all weekend. On Monday, Coleton and the doc will check you out. If you're all right, you're back in. If not … there is a list of alternates."
"I'll be all right," Brandon said. The throbbing picked up in his temples, however, forcing him to clutch his head.
"Oh, for God's sake," Victoria said, sighing, "you're growing a doorknob out the back of your skull. Don't be so stubborn."