by Lisa Bingham
The words throbbed with undercurrents, but Jace knew better than to ask for an explanation. Instead, he said, “You’ll know when the time is right.”
His remark seemed to surprise Bronte, and he supposed that she’d been bombarded with advice from well-meaning friends and family members. He’d bet all of them had urged her to sign the papers as quickly as she could and be done with it.
He knew what that could be like. When he’d first announced that he would be the one to assume Barry’s care, there had been more than one person who’d told Jace that he simply wasn’t equipped for the job. Whether he’d wanted their opinion or not, he’d received more than his share of unsolicited advice from people who honestly wanted to help—everything from putting Barry into a group home to experimental treatments, diets, and drugs. He’d even been told to have Barry’s eyeballs read by a soothsayer living on the edge of town—which had been a raging WTF moment during those stressful days. Over and over, he’d been warned he could never completely fulfill the roles of his mother and father where Barry was concerned—and that much was true. But in time, he’d begun to see that Barry didn’t need Jace to be his mother. He needed him to be his big brother. Yeah, Barry might be lacking in a few of the social graces that a female figure might have inspired. But in Jace’s opinion, he’d grown into a pretty great kid.
Sensing that Bronte had shared more about her personal life than she’d ever thought she would, Jace changed the subject.
“How’s Annie?” he asked, filling both of their glasses with milk.
Bronte looked relieved at the new topic. “According to the nurse, her vital signs are a little better. She woke up a couple of times while I was in the room, but I don’t know if she knew I was there. I would have stayed longer, but my kids were getting restless.”
“Why don’t you head back after dinner? You can drop your girls off at my place.”
“Oh, no,” she said hurriedly. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not? I’ll be there with Barry—and Bodey will probably be in and out. P.D. is coming down to the house to look through my mother’s old recipe collection for ideas, so there will be a female presence there as well. We’ve got plenty of television sets, an Xbox, basketball hoop, and”—he paused dramatically—“Wi-Fi.”
Bronte laughed, and he loved the way the brief expression of joy chased away the shadows in her eyes.
“Don’t say that too loudly or Kari will want to live at your place full-time.”
“Come on. What do you say?”
“You’ve already done so much—”
“I’m not doing anything I wouldn’t have been doing anyway.”
She bit her lip. Jace watched as it was trapped there for several long minutes as she thought things over. But she finally nodded, saying, “Thanks, Jace. I appreciate it.”
Knowing that he might blow it if he allowed things to remain personal for too long, he gestured to the notebook in the center of the table. “So why don’t we have a look at your list?”
*
IT was growing dark when Bronte stepped out of the ICU unit. Ignoring the bank of elevators, she took the stairs instead.
It had been nearly a week since Jace had first offered to watch her children while she went to the hospital. At first, she’d been reluctant to accept his help more than that one night. But it soon became apparent that her children were growing weary of the hospital waiting room. They much preferred the comforts of Jace’s home—especially when he’d spent the last few evenings teaching them to ride by leading them around one of the corrals on a sleepy brown mare named Snowflake. They would run out to the car to meet her before she’d even brought the van to a halt, chattering about their rides. Unfortunately, that had left barely enough time for Bronte to do more than exchange a few pleasantries with Jace or wave to him from a distance, a fact that left her curiously … unsatisfied.
Thankfully, either Jace or Steff had managed to pull some strings, because once it had been established that Bronte was a close relative, she’d been allowed to stay in the ICU unit with Annie.
At first, Bronte hadn’t known what to do. Annie had begun to experience problems with her breathing and she’d been placed on a respirator, which had helped to improve her color. The sight of more machinery hooked up to her grandmother’s tiny body had been alarming at first. But after holding her hand and talking to her in a low voice, Bronte had felt the faintest pressure against her fingers. She couldn’t be sure if it had been a spasm or if her grandmother had been trying to communicate with her, but she decided to believe it was the latter. So she began a one-sided conversation, telling Annie all about the children, the journey they’d had, the sights they’d seen. She’d abridged the events, focusing on the scenery and famous landmarks as well as some of the funny things her children had done and said.
To Bronte’s surprise, the unburdening calmed her slightly. Maybe by relating the events of the trip, it became more … real. Boston was a long, long distance away, and she didn’t have to go back. Ever. Now, all that remained was convincing herself of that fact.
When she ran out of things to say, Bronte took her tablet out of her purse and ordered an e-book by Agatha Christie, one of Annie’s favorite writers. Unbelievably, as Miss Marple began to investigate, Annie’s pulse seemed to grow more regular and her oxygen levels began to climb. By the time Bronte left, Annie seemed to be sleeping deeply with none of the restlessness she’d shown earlier in the day.
Stepping outside, Bronte inhaled the cool mountain air. Spring had arrived in Utah, bringing moist balmy breezes that would fade to dry desert winds once the weather grew warmer. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught the deep loamy scents of the fields she’d passed on her way to Logan. The rich, dark earth had been tilled and furrowed and planted—no, drilled was the term she’d heard Jace use—with wheat, barley, and corn.
Spring had always been her favorite time of year. The dreariness of winter began to fade as the world awoke from its long hibernation. As Annie was fond of saying, “It’s a time of new beginnings.”
New beginnings.
Unconsciously, Bronte’s steps began to slow, then halted. When she roused from her thoughts enough to become aware of her surroundings, she knew it wasn’t a coincidence that a squat mailbox was right in front of her.
She hesitated—not in regret. No. The pause was more a way of saying good-bye to the life she’d once thought she would have. Then, she reached into her bag and pulled out the papers sent to her by her lawyer. After signing and initialing the spots indicated with fluorescent sticky notes, she slid everything into the prestamped envelope that had been provided, then dropped it down the chute.
As she turned and hurried to her car, Bronte thought that she would experience a wave of sadness. Instead, she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her back. True, nothing had really changed. Her situation was no different than it had been ten minutes ago. She still had two children to raise, a job to find, an ailing grandmother to visit every day.
But she was going to do everything on her terms and in her way. For some reason, that brought a spring to her step.
*
TWENTY minutes later, Bronte pulled into the lane leading to Taggart Hollow. For the first time, she didn’t see her children in the yard or the paddock. The only sign of life was Barry’s miniature goat, Bitsy. Bronte had already learned that the animal, which was wider than it was high, had an obsession for junk food and would shamelessly beg for snacks.
She maneuvered her car into a spot next to a rattletrap pickup truck with a peeling bumper sticker proclaiming: SAVE A HORSE … RIDE A COWBOY! For some reason, the motto made Bronte’s cheeks grow hot.
Truth be told, Bronte would have stayed longer at the hospital if her children had been with her, but she didn’t want to impose anymore on Jace’s hospitality—which was why she lingered in the car, suddenly nervous about knocking on the huge front door. Before she could psych herself into ignoring the nervous fluttering
in her stomach, there was a sudden tap on her window, one that nearly sent her through the sunroof.
Jace stood on the other side.
“The kids have gone down to the barn with Elam, my older brother. We had a foal born last night, and they’re helping him feed the mare and have a look. Why don’t you come into the house and wait?”
The House. The Taggart Big House. How many times as a kid had she longed to see what it looked like on the inside? She knew all about the history of the place—as well as the smaller dwelling a hundred yards away, near the creek. The original Taggart ancestor who’d claimed the land had built a small cabin, the Little House, for his bride. But toward the end of the nineteenth century, another Taggart had made a fortune in cattle and built the Big House with all the ostentatious style of the nouveau riche.
It was an imposing structure. The foundation was made of river rock and the façade of split logs. An ornate pine railing fashioned from slats of wood with cookie-cutter-like holes in the shape of pine trees marched around the entire structure. Supports made of thick, lacquered lodge poles gave the house a sturdy solidity that easily bore the weight of two more stories adorned with ornate gables and mullion windows. The house had a permanence to it, as if it had always been there, having somehow sprouted from the ground—a fact made even more evident by the towering pines and mature trees that surrounded it.
“Get out of here, Bitsy,” Jace said good-naturedly before opening her door.
Bronte swung her legs out, then followed him up the front steps to the wide wrap-around porch.
“How’s Annie?”
“The respirator seems to have helped. By the time I left, I was pretty sure that she knew I was there.”
“That’s a good sign.”
He opened the screen door for her and, miracle of miracles, after all these years, Bronte stepped into the entryway of the “western mansion” she and her sister had ogled all those years ago.
Her shoes sank into a thick oriental carpet that ran down the length of the polished hardwood floors. Ahead of her, a massive staircase curled around to the upper floors, rimmed by a baluster carved with trees and foliage and running horses. Another ribbon of carpet ran up the center, held in place by gleaming brass rails. Here in the entry, a looming antique hall tree as large as her van flanked one side of the door, while the other had a solid-looking Victorian bench with lion heads carved into the armrests. The effect of the heavy pieces and polished wood might have been stuffy if it weren’t for the pile of boots under the seat and scattered farm toys parked in random positions on the floor.
“Sorry for the mess. A bunch of men live here and we’re hopeless.”
She laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything to laugh about.
“Barry uses the floor for his farming and ranching,” Jace said, motioning to little tractors and pickups and other various pieces of machinery that were tiny replicas of the ones Bronte had seen working in the fields. “I’ve tried to teach him to park things in the ‘shed,’ which is an old cupboard in the family room. But as you can see, I’m not having much luck.”
Jace motioned for her to follow him. On opposite walls, two doorways led away from the entry. To the right, she could see a formal parlor decorated with period antiques, a crystal chandelier, and an enormous fireplace. But to the left, she was led through a very modern family room with leather sofas, a huge television, and strategically placed side tables. A discarded pair of sneakers—probably Barry’s—a newspaper, a plethora of remotes, and even more scattered ranch equipment and herds of plastic cows and horses proclaimed that this was a room for comfort rather than show. It was a guys’ room, stripped of frills and focused on comfort.
“You’re getting the benefit of a full deployment of Barry’s machinery, I’m afraid. He had Lily helping him ‘plant the south forty.’”
“I’ll make sure she helps him pick them up.”
“No need. Barry goes berserk if you move his stuff. Once a week, we have a lady come in, so he knows he has to drive everything into the barn so she can vacuum. Other than that, we tend to walk around it.”
“That’s sweet.”
Jace grimaced. “It’s not so sweet if you’re walking through the room in your bare feet and land on a swather, but”—he shrugged—“he’s come so far in the last few years, it’s a foible I haven’t bothered to corral.”
He moved to the back of the room to a heavy swinging door with brass hand-and kickplates and held it open for her. As she passed through, she found herself in a kitchen that screamed “the seventies!” with oak cabinets, an avocado and harvest gold motif, and Formica cabinets with a set of mushroom shaped canisters that had probably been someone’s ceramics project. If it weren’t for the modern appliances, she could have believed she’d walked into a museum.
Although she’d tried to keep her expression neutral, Jace must have sensed her surprise. “I know. Horrible, isn’t it? But everything works, so we’ve never bothered to update it.”
“I’d be happy to give it an overhaul if you’d give me the go-ahead,” a female voice wryly offered.
As the door swung back into place, Bronte could see a woman reaching to put a baking dish into one of the upper cupboards. She was tall and voluptuous—a fact made even more apparent by the tailored snap-front blouse she wore and her tight designer jeans. Her hair was long and loose, falling down her back in a riot of curls that Bronte wouldn’t be able to re-create, even with a hot curling iron and a gallon of hairspray. When she turned to face them, Bronte was struck by her prettiness, but even more by the aura of happiness that seemed to surround her like an invisible glow.
Bronte immediately felt dowdy and flat-chested. Why, in all their encounters, had she assumed that Jace was single? Clearly, if he wasn’t married already, he would be soon, because this woman had an easy familiarity with his kitchen—and with Jace—that Bronte absorbed even in the fleeting seconds they’d shared the same room.
“Bronte, this is P.D. Raines—”
“Short for Prairie Dawn,” she inserted.
“I was getting to that,” Jace groused good-naturedly.
“Sometimes, you forget.” P.D. patted his cheek as she brushed by him to hold out her hand. “I’m Elam’s girlfriend.”
SEVEN
ELAM’S girlfriend.
Bronte feared that her smile was too bright—too telling—because P.D.’s eyes sparked with her own brand of humor.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
After a firm shake, P.D. tucked her fingers into her pockets. Jace leaned against a nearby counter. Now that introductions were made, it was easy to see that the familiarity Bronte had sensed was one of friendship rather than intimacy.
“It sounds like you’ve had a rough welcome to the area,” P.D. said.
Bronte offered a rueful sound that was meant to be a laugh, but came out far more telling than it should have done. “I’m hoping Annie gets feeling better soon.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Oh, I—”
“No. She hasn’t,” Jace offered before Bronte could think of a suitable noncommittal reply.
“I’ll warm up some dinner.”
“No, I—”
“She’d love that,” Jace said, interrupting her again. Pushing away from the counter, he moved to pull out a chair for Bronte, leaning close to murmur, “Go with it. It’s turkey night at Vern’s.”
Bronte didn’t have a clue what that was supposed to mean, but with Jace standing so near, his lips next to her ear, the tiny hairs on her nape seemed to jangle in delight. She couldn’t think of a response, so she sat down.
It didn’t take long to see that—although this might be a bachelors’ stronghold—P.D. knew her way around the kitchen. Within minutes, a steaming open-faced sandwich with ciabatta bread, smoked turkey, and roasted vegetables smothered in a rich cranberry chutney was placed in front of her.
“My deconstructed Thanksgiving-leftover sandwich.”
Bronte had thought that she was too keyed up to eat anything, but the rich scents rising from her plate seemed to unlock her appetite. Instantly, the heady combination of hickory-smoked turkey and chewy bread, earthy sage and citrus-kissed cranberry brought her taste buds back to life.
“Oh, wow,” she mumbled around the first bite, then quickly covered her mouth at the breach of manners.
P.D. laughed. “That’s the kind of response I like.” She made a shooing gesture toward Bronte’s plate. “Don’t stop. We’ve all eaten, so we can hold up our end of the conversation until you’re done.”
And they did. While Bronte slaked her raging hunger, P.D. used the time to regale them with funny stories about the restaurant and the “kittens” that Barry had coaxed out from under the cabin deck.
“Except they weren’t kittens,” Jace said. He slouched in his chair, his ankle resting on his knee, one elbow propped on the table. A slow smile spread over his lips and Bronte felt as if she were struck dumb. The expression was so genuine, so wistful, so … kind … as he thought of his little brother.
The food seemed to lurch in her stomach. What would she give if, just once, someone appeared even half that … contented as they thought of her? Even in the first few, passionate years of her marriage, she couldn’t remember Phillip ever reacting that way. He’d been more possessive, his attitude more of a “look what I’m nailing on a regular basis” kind of smirk.
In time, she’d begun to hate that expression.
“He’d found a litter of skunks wedged into a hole under one of the supports,” P.D. was saying, her hands gesturing as she spoke.
But Bronte was still watching Jace, seeing the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
“I nearly had a heart attack,” P.D. said, a hand flattening over her chest, “because all of the windows were open and Barry was petting the baby skunk and scratching its ears. Apparently, he couldn’t figure out why the stupid cat wouldn’t purr when he was being so nice to it.” P.D. took a quick breath. “As calmly as I could, I told him it was time for dinner and to leave the ‘kitty’ and come inside. Barry reasonably informed me that it wasn’t even close to dinnertime—and since he’s got us all trained to his schedule, I couldn’t really argue with him. I had to come up with something quick.”
