by Gina Wilkins
The talkative salesman went on to describe his family history in lengthy detail. Sharing a smile over the table, Bailey and Mae feigned interest.
Actually, Bailey was relieved that the conversation no longer centered on her own history.
BAILEY PUT A HAND to the back of her neck, tilted her head and winced as her muscles clenched. For the past hour and a half, she’d been hunched over a laptop computer that she’d borrowed from Dean’s office, working on her résumé.
Lacking a desk or table in the cottage, she’d been sitting cross-legged on the bed, the computer in front of her—not exactly an ergonomically desirable position, she admitted. She decided she’d better take a break before her entire body locked in protest.
She pushed the computer aside without turning it off and swung her bare legs over the edge of the bed. She was wearing a loose-fitting knit shorts-set again, her favorite lounging and sleeping apparel. The new carpeting was thick and soft beneath her bare feet. She dug in her toes and stretched luxuriously, shaking the stiffness out of her arms.
Her eyes still closed, she bent to touch her toes. Something tickled her right foot. She opened her eyes to find a large brown spider sitting on top of her foot, inches from her nose.
Bailey let out a scream that should have shattered all the windows in the cottage. A second later, she was standing in the middle of the bed, trembling, and the spider was cowering in one corner of the bedroom.
“Bailey! What is it? What frightened you?”
The deep voice from the doorway was the most welcome sound she’d ever heard.
“Bran!” she gasped, still breathless from her shock. “It’s a spider. It’s huge and it was on my foot. Oh, ugh, I hate spiders.”
He’d looked poised for battle when she’d spotted him in the doorway. Now he relaxed, looking at her in disbelief. “A spider? You let out a scream like that over a spider?”
“I told you, I hate spiders,” she answered defensively. “And it’s a big one. It’s over there. In that corner.”
Bran followed the direction of her pointing, unsteady finger. “That’s a grass spider. They’re harmless.”
“I don’t care. I want it out of here. Please, would you kill it or something?”
“No.”
She stared at him, trying to read his suddenly expressionless face. “You won’t do anything?”
“It won’t hurt you, Bailey. Besides, it’s gone now. Look for yourself.”
Cautiously, she glanced toward the corner. It was empty. There was no sign of the eight-legged intruder.
Resentfully, she turned back to the two-legged one. “Now we don’t know where it is. It could be lurking somewhere just waiting for me to walk barefoot across the floor again.”
“I’m sure that spider is trying to get as far away from you as physically possible,” Bran contended. “It had to be more frightened than you were. Has anyone ever mentioned that you have a bloodcurdling scream?”
Bailey blushed. “Yes. Dean has told me I could wake the dead with it.”
Bran cleared his throat. “Very likely.”
“Sorry, it’s just that when I saw the thing on my foot, I—hey, wait a minute. What are you doing in my bedroom? Darn it, you’ve done it again. Waltzed right in without knocking or anything.”
“When I heard you scream, I thought you needed help. I didn’t think there was time to wait for an invitation.”
“You’re telling me I left the front door unlocked again?” She thought she’d locked it, but she’d been carefully carrying Dean’s computer when she’d entered, which must have distracted her. She really was going to have to be more cautious, she reminded herself.
Bran tilted his head. “Are you going to stand up there all night?”
Her blush deepened. She must look like a fool, standing in the middle of the bed with her tousled hair and bare feet. Bran, on the other hand, looked as elegant and immaculate as ever. She did wonder, however, if he owned any clothing other than that dark shirt and suit.
She climbed carefully off the bed, keeping one eye out for spiders. “I was just going to have a cola,” she said with hastily reclaimed dignity. “Can I get you anything?”
“No. Thank you.”
She moved toward him. He remained in the doorway, blocking her path out of the room. She paused only inches from where he stood, and looked up at him uncertainly. He was watching her with that shuttered, inscrutable expression, his dark eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that took her breath away.
She thought she saw a quick flare of desire cross his face, and she felt an answering flame ignite somewhere deep inside her. Bran backed away before she could be entirely sure of what had passed between them.
She took her time in the kitchenette, pouring a diet soda over ice. She needed that moment to regain her composure. When she turned around, Bran wasn’t in the sitting room where she’d expected him to be. Frowning, she went in search of him.
He was in the bedroom, standing beside the bed. Hands in his pockets, he studied the glowing screen of the portable computer, a puzzled expression on his face. “What is this?”
“I’m working on my résumé. I thought I’d start sending it out next week.”
“I was talking about this device. What do you call it?”
“Haven’t you ever seen a laptop computer before? Or is this one called a notebook? I can’t remember all the terms, the technology changes so quickly.”
Bran shook his head. “What does it do?”
She wondered if he was putting her on. “Everything a bigger computer does. C’mon, Bran, you must have used a computer before. Everyone born in this century has surely been exposed to one at some point or another.”
He lifted his head, looking rather offended by her skepticism. “Never mind.” He turned away from the computer before she could decide whether she should apologize—or figure out why.
His attention zeroed in on the slim brown covered book lying on top of the chest of drawers. “Where did you find this?” he asked without touching the book.
“In that box,” she replied, nodding toward the corner. “Aunt Mae found it in the attic of the inn and asked me to look through the books in it. So far, I’ve only glanced at the ones on top. They look old, but I haven’t seen anything of particular value.”
Bran seemed fascinated by the little brown book. His hand lifted, as though to pick it up, then fell to his side. “This looks like a child’s storybook,” he commented with a touch of gruffness.
“It is. Bedtime stories. I’ve been reading them—or trying to. The pages are in poor condition. I found your name in there.”
He looked quickly around at her. “My name?”
She nodded. “It’s a story about Prince Bran of Ireland. He sailed the southern seas and returned home a hundred years later, still a handsome young man. Do you know the tale?”
“Yes, my mother liked it,” he answered slowly. “She’d heard it as a child from her own mother.”
“Is that where you got your name?”
“Yes.”
He looked again at the book, and Bailey wondered at the expression in his eyes. Sadness? Nostalgia? Longing?
“You’re welcome to look at it, if you like,” she urged, wishing she could understand this mysterious, complex man.
But he’d already turned away from the book, his expression closed again. “I should go,” he said.
“Don’t go yet,” Bailey protested automatically. “Can’t you stay and talk for a few minutes?”
He eyed her warily. “What do you want to talk about?”
“About you,” she answered, exasperated. “Bran, I know nothing about you. Why did you come by tonight? Where are you staying? What’s going on between you and Anna?”
He surprised her with a faint smile. “You really are the curious sort, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. Compulsively,” she admitted frankly. “And, to be quite honest, you are driving me crazy.”
His smile dee
pened. “Am I?”
Oh, heavens, when he smiled…
Bailey resisted an impulse to fan her warm face with her free hand. “I wish you would tell me something about yourself.”
His smile faded. “There’s little to tell.”
“Somehow, I find that very hard to believe.”
“There are many things about me that you would probably find very hard to believe.”
It was enough to drive a sober woman to drink. Bailey took a calming gulp of her soda, then abruptly set the glass on the dresser. “You,” she said as calmly as she could manage, “are the most frustrating, uncooperative, secretive, annoying man I have ever met.”
He didn’t smile, though his eyes warmed with what looked like private amusement. He moved closer to her, his voice lowering to a sexy growl. “And you are the most inquisitive, most generous and most intriguing woman I have ever known,” he replied. “You also have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen.”
She promptly went scarlet. “You’re only trying to distract me,” she said, suddenly self-conscious of wearing her shorts.
“I’m being completely truthful,” he countered. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Not about my legs,” she protested.
“Would you prefer that I talk about your beautiful blue eyes? Or your lovely, warm smile? Or your musical voice or slender waist or full, soft—”
“No,” she said in a choked voice, holding up a hand to stop him. “I don’t think you need to mention any of those things.”
Even though she couldn’t help being flattered that he’d noticed.
“We were talking about you,” she reminded him somewhat desperately.
“No,” he said gently, his gaze focused on her hand, which hovered only an inch or so away from his chest. “You were talking about me. I find you much more interesting.”
She suddenly wanted to touch him. To be touched by him. It was foolish, but the urge was almost overwhelming. She lifted her hand toward his face. “Bran, I—”
He jerked out of her reach just as the telephone on the nightstand shattered the intimacy between them with a demanding ring.
Bailey stood with her hand suspended in midair, wondering why Bran had acted as though her touch would burn him. Why he was still looking at her as though she was dangerous.
The telephone rang again, insistently.
“You should answer that,” Bran said after a moment.
She nodded and moved to pick up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hi, Bailey, it’s Dean. How are you?”
“Dean,” she repeated, her eyes still focused on Bran. “I’m fine. Are you and Anna enjoying your vacation?”
“Yes, we’re having a wonderful time. Anna sends her love.”
“Give my love to her.”
“I must go,” Bran murmured, just loudly enough for Bailey to hear. “Please don’t mention me.”
She nodded numbly, watching as he turned and disappeared through the bedroom door and into the other room.
“Bailey?” Dean urged.
She turned her attention back to the call, managing to carry on a reasonably coherent conversation with her brother. She kept her promise to Bran; she didn’t mention him to Dean. She wasn’t sure exactly what she would have said about him, anyway.
The call didn’t last long. Dean had simply wanted to check in with her, to ask if she was comfortable in the cottage, to make sure she was all right. When she hung up, she walked into the sitting room, only to find it empty. The front door was securely locked.
Bran had left as silently as he’d arrived.
Bailey sank wearily onto the couch, suddenly feeling very much alone.
THE SILENCE was absolute. Not even the faintest whisper of sound disturbed it.
The grayness was cold. Sterile. Empty.
Ian stood alone in the middle of nowhere, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched in misery.
The isolation was the worst part of his existence. The constant uncertainty of when—if ever—he would leave this place again.
When—if ever—he would see Bailey again.
After her first encounter with Dean, Anna had learned to come and go from this place almost at will. Ian had been trying ever since to duplicate that feat, with no success. He seemed to be whisked back and forth by some unseen force with a purpose of its own. One moment he would be here, the next there. Sometimes Bailey could see him, other times she couldn’t.
He hated it.
If he closed his eyes, he could picture her, looking at him with such lively curiosity and honest compassion, and an attraction she probably thought she concealed. He could still see her hand, reaching out to touch him. He’d been so tempted to let her…
How would she feel if she knew she had almost touched a dead man?
He opened his eyes and slammed his right fist into his left palm, wishing there was something more solid upon which to take out his frustrations.
The silence was unbroken.
5
December 23, 1902
Two days until Christmas. The children are so excited. The decorations we’ve hung around the inn are lovely. I must confess, the holiday spirit has overtaken me, as well.
I hope the twins will like their gifts. I bought Ian a set of toy soldiers and a bag of marbles. I found Mary Anna the most beautiful dark-haired doll, which has two dresses and a little crib. Mary Anna so loves playing with her “babies.” She will adore this one.
My favorite of their gifts is the storybook I discovered in a bookstore in Hot Springs. It is a book of bedtime stories, some of the same ones my own mother read to me. It includes the story of Prince Bran, my childhood hero. I think Ian will like it.
Gaylon has become more persistent m his courting. He seems to be genuinely fond of me. He wants a wife and a mother for young Charles. He shows great interest in the inn. He says he has grown tired of farming and would like the challenge of running a business. There are many days when I would not mind turning over the responsibilities to him.
He kissed me quite passionately last evening. I didn’t try to stop him. His embraces were not unpleasant, though I could not respond with the same enthusiasm I once felt for such things. The thought of being intimate with Gaylon embarrasses me, but it doesn’t repulse me. He doesn’t seem to mind that I am not the intensely passionate type—at least, not with him. He cannot know, of course, how different it once was for me.
I worry so about Ian. He’s such a complex child. He’s still very loving to me and to Mary Anna, but he’s becoming so mistrustful of people outside our family. Gaylon, for instance. How I wish Ian would give poor Gaylon a chance.
Ian is being difficult. He refuses to accept GayIon’s presence in our lives. He doesn’t like Charles. He won’t even talk about the situation. I’m trying to be patient with him. I know this must be confusing for a six-year-old boy. But he will simply have to accept that I know what is best for us. Gaylon is being very tolerant. He says Ian will come around, given time. I hope that he is right.
I am doing the best that I can, for all of us.
BAILEY FOUND MARK sitting in one of the rockers lining the inn’s front porch late the next afternoon. He looked perfectly at home there, rocking and humming and waving at the early arrivals for dinner as though he were the official host of the place.
Smiling, Bailey took a seat in the rocker next to him. “Hanging out?” she asked.
“Yeah. I like sitting here. I was the one who told Dean he should line the porch with rockers for his guests. They’ve had a lot of use. It’s rare that I find them empty like this.”
“I know. There’s almost always someone out here, rocking. Good idea, Mark.”
He shrugged. “Dean would have thought of it on his own, eventually. I really just wanted a place to sit and rock, myself. My apartment doesn’t have a front porch.”
Bailey drew a deep breath of crisp late-October air. “It’s cool this afternoon, isn’t it? Hard to believe it wi
ll be winter soon.”
“Yeah. It doesn’t usually get really cold here until late December or January, but it can get pretty nippy in November.”
Having exhausted the weather as a conversational topic, Bailey moved on. “How are things at the newspaper?”
“Biggest story this week has been the busted water line on Main Street yesterday. A guy running a backhoe hit it and darn near flooded city hall.”
“That is exciting,” Bailey murmured with a smile.
“You bet. They even brought out the fire truck.”
“Why did they need the fire truck?”
“They didn’t, but it has to be started up every now and then. Keeps the battery from going dead.”
Bailey laughed, knowing Mark was exaggerating, but enjoying his nonsense, anyway.
“Oh, yeah, and Mr. Carmette reported a trespasser. Said it looked as though the guy had been camping out on his property.”
“Mr. Carmette?”
Mark nodded. “Lives on the other side of these woods, down the road about a half mile from here. He caught a glimpse of the guy late last night—said he was big and had dark hair, but that was the only description he could give. He ran into the house and got his rifle, but the man was gone by the time he got back out. He called Chief Peavy and raised hell. Mr. Carmette does not like hav ing his privacy violated.”
“Obviously not,” Bailey murmured, frowning.
She couldn’t help wondering about the dark-haired man who’d been spotted twice now late at night. Could it possibly have been Bran that Casey and the angry Mr. Carmette had seen?
She wouldn’t have described Bran’s whipcord build as big, but he was tall, which could mean the same to some. He was dark-haired. And he had been so evasive about where he was staying.
She really was going to have to get some answers about Bran soon. Before someone else started asking questions.
She changed the subject deliberately. Something about Mark’s clear green eyes told her that his mild manner concealed a sharp perceptiveness that could prove inconvenient if he sensed that she was troubled about something. “Are you staying for dinner?”
