by Alicia Scott
And the computer for Randy. A brand-new pickup truck.
He stood at the kitchen counter, and though he knew he shouldn't, he dreamed of fixing her life. He could make it better. He had the money.
He could give her anything she wanted.
Except all Victoria truly wanted was a man who would stay.
She came into the kitchen with the jeans he'd worn beneath his fire pants, his underwear and his jersey knit shirt. They were still hot to the touch. He took them from her without meeting her gaze and put them on in the kitchen. His feet were bare. He studied his toes for a long time. Two of his toenails were black—bruised from all the hiking. He had blisters. His feet didn't fit him anymore. They were the callused, scarred feet of an outdoorsman, not a Wharton finance major, not a Wall Street investor.
He couldn't imagine them in wing tips, only hiking boots. And he couldn't imagine slick Max Ferringer's son wearing hiking boots. Coleton Smith's son, on the other hand…
"You're a million miles away," Victoria said quietly.
He pulled his gaze to the refrigerator. His heart was still beating too hard in his chest. He felt outside himself and hated it.
"Randy will be home soon," he said. "I should unpack."
"That's not what you're thinking."
"It's been a long five days, Victoria, that's all."
"Brandon, I don't believe you."
Abruptly he was angry. Not at her, but she was around so she became the target. He turned toward her roughly, his face harsh, his eyes cornered.
"What do you want from me? What is it I'm supposed to be saying here?"
Her eyes warmed up. "Oh, I don't know. 'I had a nice night' would be a good start."
"Fine. I had a nice night."
"Hey, if you're scared, then talk about feeling scared, because I'll understand it. I'm standing here feeling just a little bit terrified myself!"
"I can't. I can't!" He threw his hands in the air and turned away. The world was humming, closing in on him. There were too many thoughts in his head. He couldn't control them. He couldn't control how he felt. He needed distance, iron control and impenetrable walls. He stood in Victoria's kitchen and wanted to pull her into his arms and bury his face in her hair.
"I need space!" He headed for the front door.
And Victoria blazed to life, hightailing it after him. "No! No more walking away every time I get close. I hate this dance. You got something on your mind, then let's get it out. Let's get it all out on the table!"
Brandon opened the door.
"Damn you, Ferringer! What is going on here?"
He turned halfway, and the look on his face froze her. "This is what I do best," he said coldly. "This is it, Victoria. This is the real me."
He walked out the door and slammed it behind him.
She stood there, too stunned to move and too hurt to breathe. And then the rage and understanding galvanized her to life.
"That is not you, Brandon Ferringer. That is your father, and it is not your fault!"
She went running for her clothes, yanked them on savagely and gave pursuit.
* * *
She caught up with Brandon just as he reached the end of the bumpy driveway. He was walking fast, long, lean strides eating up the miles, but he'd had to stop and put on his boots, which had bought her some time. Besides, she was in good shape. She sprinted over the bumps, closed the gap between them and arrived with a heaving gasp.
"Go away!" He turned left and headed up the road.
"Like hell!"
The road headed up in a series of curves before it descended into town. His longer legs did better on the steep grades, but she wasn't letting him go.
"We need to talk about this."
"Victoria, there is nothing to talk about."
"Oh, bloody hell, Brandon! You are much too honest, much too good of a guy to suddenly be acting like such a jerk!"
He stopped abruptly, his eyes dangerously dark. "I never promised you anything."
"Nope."
"I never pretended any false emotions."
"Oh, yes, you did. You're pretending not to care, and that's false, Ferringer. We both know it's false."
His jaw was clenched, his hands knotted at his sides. His voice dropped to a guttural low. "I am not what you need! I am not the right man for you!"
"Why, Brandon, why?"
"I failed my wife!" cool, reserved Brandon Ferringer roared. "I loved her, she loved me, and I was a horrible husband. I put my job first. I put money first. I bought her everything and gave her nothing. I abandoned her, Victoria. I bloody well abandoned her even though I came home every night. I was my father!"
"Brandon Ferringer," Victoria said bluntly, "you are not your father, so get over it."
He clenched his teeth. A vein pounded dangerously in his forehead, and for a moment she thought it might explode. But beneath the raw, savage anger, she saw something else. A small, desperate flare of hope. The tiny kernel of strength inside Brandon Ferringer that kept him trying even though his mother had told him he was a failure and his wife had made him feel like a failure and it seemed that all road signs pointed toward his father as the only kind of man he'd ever become.
"I'm no good, Victoria," he said fiercely. "I look at your ranch, and I don't see me working next to you or me helping Randy. I see all the things I should buy you. I don't dream of us. I dream of giving you everything so you'll have to want me."
"Well, I won't let you buy me a new ranch, so you're safe."
"Why do I care so much about the damn money? I've been trying to lose it and yet all my investments turn to gold. I have millions and none of it does any good—"
"Money is security. Money is control. And you need security and control, Ferringer. It's everything you didn't have growing up."
He recoiled. She seized the upper hand.
"Don't you see? You could've gotten rid of the money, Brandon. You could've given it away to a charity, started a fund in your wife's name. But you kept it. Invested it, did whatever, then punished yourself with the success. Because you don't really want to give it away. You need the security. And yet you can't stand the thought of money because it makes you feel guilty, so you're caught in this horrible cycle where whatever you do is wrong. You're punishing yourself, over and over again. How many times are you going to punish yourself for your wife's being killed by a mugger?"
"I don't think it was a mugger, Victoria," he stated matter-of-factly. "My wife was researching my father right before she was shot. I think she asked too many questions. I don't think she was killed because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think she was killed because she married Maximillian Ferringer's son."
"Oh, my God!" Victoria closed her eyes, and it was so clear to her. Everything was so clear to her. "Brandon, let it go. Just let it go. Even if her death was connected to your father, it is not your fault. If you had been with her, if you had known she was in danger, you would've done anything for her. You would've thrown yourself in front of that bullet if anyone had given you the choice, because that is the kind of man you are. You are nothing like your father. Look at what you did for Barbara when she twisted her ankle. Look at what you did for me when my barn was on fire. Look at what you did for Randy when he needed help on his homework. Ferringer, you are one of the finest damn men I know, and everyone sees that but you."
"I don't call my mother, I neglect my sister and C.J.—"
"Then change."
"I hate staying in one place. I have to hike, I have to move—"
"Then it's a good thing we have a lot of mountains around here."
"Victoria." He shut his eyes and his voice was raw. "I am so damn scared."
"I know," she whispered. "Me, too, Brandon, me, too."
His eyes opened, and there was something in his gaze she'd never seen before. Need, gratitude, honest appreciation. No more stoic Brandon, no more impenetrable Brandon. This man was real.
And she loved him with all her heart.
The sound of a car engine cut through the still air behind her. She was too busy looking at him, too busy wanting to kiss him to pay attention. Abruptly the engine grew loud, as if the car was speeding up. She saw Brandon frown, looking puzzled, then his eyes widened.
"Look out!" he yelled and pushed her savagely.
She went tumbling to the side, looking up just in time to see Brandon leaping, as well. Everything was happening too fast, though. The big old Buick crested over the hill, clipped Brandon squarely and went sailing over the edge.
There was a loud crash and then the afternoon was silent once more.
* * *
Victoria scrambled to her feet. Her hands stung, but she barely noticed the gravel embedded in her palms. Brandon. She had to find Brandon. She ran to the edge of the road, where the grass had once bordered the fields, and found him sprawled on the ground.
"Ferringer!" She slid to a halt beside him, lost her footing on the trampled grass and fell hard on her butt. She snaked over to him, checking his pale face frantically.
He groaned, then his eyes fluttered open.
"Are you hurt? Where does it hurt? Brandon—"
"Quiet, quiet," he muttered and clutched his head.
Immediately she froze. He'd probably hit his head pretty hard on landing. He'd had a concussion not that long ago. Oh, God, what if he'd done serious damage?
Brandon struggled to sit up.
"Lie down," she ordered.
He sat up anyway and shook his head.
"Stubborn mule." She held up her hand. "How many fingers!"
"Two," he whispered.
She scowled. He was right. She tracked a finger in front of his gaze. He could follow it. So far so good.
"Name and date."
"Victoria, I'm just a little bruised and battered, not senile. You take as many tumbles as I have lately, you get to be good at it. Tuck and roll, every hotshot knows how."
She wasn't convinced and felt all his limbs anyway.
"Are you okay?" he demanded.
"Fine, fine. Nice shove." She reached his leg. He winced.
"A car hits, pretty squarely," he murmured. "Help me stand."
Victoria didn't think that was a good idea, but having grown up with six brothers, she knew it was inevitable. She wrapped an arm around his waist and helped him up. He winced, took a few practice steps and shook his leg.
"Oh, yes, that'll get me in the morning," he muttered. "And the driver?"
Victoria's eyes widened. She'd forgotten about the driver. Immediately, they both glanced down the embankment. The car had sailed clear over, landing in a ridge of trees. They could see the front end, crumpled like an accordion. The windshield held a web of spidery cracks. Someone was slumped over the wheel.
"Stay here," Brandon said.
"No way—"
Brandon caught her arm with surprising strength for a man who'd just been tossed like a beanbag. "Victoria, that car didn't accidentally go over that embankment. It was aiming right at us."
"Why?"
But his gaze told her why. Because of him. Because he was Max's son and he'd been asking questions.
"Wait," she demanded fiercely. "Wait for the cops, dammit. Someone probably heard it, someone will phone it in."
A groan came from the car.
"He could be seriously hurt. I don't want him too injured. I want him to be able to answer questions!"
Brandon slid down the embankment. Victoria shook her head, gritted her teeth and slid after him.
The car door swung open as they reached the bottom. A hand appeared, groping for the door, and they both halted. Moments later, a large man staggered out. His face was weathered, his hair thinning. He wore a cheap gray suit Victoria associated with salespeople, and he was a good thirty pounds overweight.
He was waving a bag of fat-free pretzels as if it was a pom-pom. He shook his head once, then twice, then seemed to realize it was pretzels he was holding.
He scowled and threw the bag to the ground.
"Are you all right?" Brandon asked warily, edging in front of Victoria. The man wasn't what he'd expected. Maybe he'd been taking Maggie's secret agent theories too seriously. If someone was trying to kill him, he'd assumed it would be a professional.
This man looked like a used-up shoe salesman, one step away from a heart attack.
The man finally stopped swaying. His small, black eyes zeroed in on Brandon.
"There have been damn presidents easier to kill," the man muttered.
He pulled out a gun.
"Victoria, down," Brandon yelled. Gunfire cracked. He could swear he heard the whistle of the bullet. As if in a horrible dream, he stared at his chest.
Nothing.
In front of him, the driver pitched forward. A red stain bloomed across his back.
"Oh, my God," Victoria whispered. "What is going on, Brandon? What is going on?"
Chapter 11
« ^ »
Brandon, Victoria and Sheriff Meese clustered in Brandon's cabin, their voices hushed. Randy was in the stables doing his chores, and though he would learn of the incident sooner or later, they didn't want him to overhear their discussion of all its frightening implications.
"Of course it has something to do with Max!" Brandon stated angrily. He wadded up another shirt and threw it in his duffel bag.
"But it's been twenty-five years," Victoria argued. She glanced at her father for support. He shook his head.
"He's right, Victoria. It's the only thing that makes sense."
"Where will you go?" Victoria asked. Brandon was leaving, and while she could understand why, she wasn't happy. After spending a night engaged in wild sex with a man, she preferred to have him hang around. Silly her.
"Hotel. In town. I can't go far. I have obligations."
"Are you putting your crew at risk?"
Brandon froze, a T-shirt suspended in midair. "I don't know."
"Too risky to go after you with your team," Sheriff Meese said. "Who wants to chase you into a fire?"
"They've tampered with my equipment. At this point, we must assume the chain saw and tree weren't accidents."
"But access to equipment is easy to come by. Just inspect yours regularly. At this point, they're being less subtle."
Brandon smiled grimly. "You know, that almost makes sense until you realize we have no idea who they are, what they want and why they are shooting each other." He shoved the T-shirt into his duffel bag and zipped it up sharply.
That quickly, that easily, he was ready to go. One bag, no hassles. He was that kind of man. He wouldn't meet Victoria's gaze, and the bag sat on the bed between them like an incriminating piece of evidence. Her eyes were beginning to burn. She swiped at them fiercely.
"I can't put you and Randy in danger," he stated forcefully.
"I know."
"Victoria, if I could handle it differently…"
"I know."
Sheriff Meese cleared his throat.
"Deputy James followed the tracks of the shooter to the road. The man came in on foot and apparently left that way. Weapon's a Remington twelve-gauge rifle, most common hunting gun around. We probably got more of them than people in Beaverville. It's gonna take some time."
"I see."
"Probably should have you under police protection until then, you know. I can have Deputy James monitor your hotel."
"I'd rather have him here," Brandon said. "Just in case."
"No need, son. I'll be staying here."
Victoria thinned her lips and looked away. She was frustrated. She wanted to help. She wanted to feel connected to this man and his challenges. Instead she was being shut out. It hurt. It scared her.
She was afraid that once Brandon walked out that door, he would never come back. He hadn't made any promises…
"None of this makes any sense," she muttered.
"Being shot at rarely does," Brandon said grimly. His eyes held a gleam, but it wasn't pleasant.
"Whatev
er your father did was twenty-five years ago! Ashley Jacobs's disappearance was even longer ago than that, nearly forty years ago. Why does it matter anymore?"
"What if Ashley Jacobs isn't dead and after all these years someone is trying to protect her?"
"Far-fetched," Victoria snapped.
"What if my father isn't dead? What if he's been alive all these years and someone's trying to cover it up?"
"Far-fetched," Sheriff Meese intoned.
Brandon's gaze went from daughter to father to daughter. "One night forty years ago," he said quietly, "something happened. Three people have now disappeared and are presumed dead. There are a lot of loose ends. A lot of them. And I've been tugging at the bloody strings—"
"Brandon, there's no way to find out—"
"Oh, yes, there is."
And then Victoria knew where he was going. "No!"
"Yes." He swung his bag over his shoulder. She grabbed his hand, her fingers digging in fiercely.
"Dammit, Bud Irving shot at you last time. He's got dogs, he's got guns. Ferringer, please."
For one minute, he wavered. She could see the war in his eyes, the confusion, the frustration, even a glimmer of fear. Then his jaw tightened, and she knew she'd lost. He was going to handle this alone. He was going to retreat behind his stoic facade where she wouldn't be allowed to reach him.
"Don't do this," she whispered. "Brandon, please."
He covered her hand with his. He drew it away.
"I have to do this, Victoria. It's not about you, it's not about us. It's about me."
He headed for the door.
"For God's sake—" she turned to her father "—do something!"
"Let us handle it," Sheriff Meese said to Brandon, moving to intercept him. "I'll go speak to Bud. He's less likely to shoot me."
Brandon brushed by his shoulder. "But he's more likely to talk to me. I'm Max Ferringer's son."
"Bud might be the one shooting at you."
"Shooting at me, or shooting at the shooter to save my life?" Brandon's lips twisted. "You see the possibilities? Quite a puzzle, isn't it?"
He gave one last nod and disappeared out the door, his duffel bag over his shoulder.
Victoria closed her eyes. "Dad. Oh, Dad, he's going to do something rash."
