by Mia Sheridan
Even more disturbing than his disdainful attitude toward me was the buzzing attraction I felt. It bewildered me, made me feel unsettled and edgy. And yet a current of excitement ran beneath my skin that I couldn’t understand, much less extinguish. Why?
I turned the page of my book, my eyes skimming the lines, but not registering the words. I sighed, too distracted to read tonight, though I knew I should force myself to focus. The sudden sensation of prickly warmth on the side of my face made me turn my head abruptly. Brant was standing in the doorway, watching me, an unreadable expression on his far too handsome face. He was wearing jeans and a white button-up shirt and held a bottle of beer in his hand. I yanked my long nightshirt down, trying to cover up my bare legs. One side of his lip tipped up in a smirk.
“God, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I muttered.
“I hardly snuck up on you. I walked into a room I didn’t know you were in.”
I brought my legs down, placing my book on the table next to my chair and pulling my nightshirt lower on my thighs. His gaze followed my hands before he took a sip of beer, holding the bottle up to me in question. “Want one? May still keeps the good stuff in the refrigerator in the cellar.” His eyes looked slightly glassy, as if he’d had more than one already.
I glanced at my rapidly cooling cup of tea and shook my head. “No, thank you. I don’t drink.”
Brant chuckled. “As a bar owner, I have to say that’s disappointing.”
“Add it to the list, I suppose.”
“The list?”
“Of things you find disappointing about me.”
“I don’t know you enough to be disappointed in you, Belle.”
Oh for God’s sake. This was tiresome. “If you came in here to say something, Brant, say it. It’s been a long day. I don’t have the energy for mind games and insinuations.”
Brant stepped into the room, walking along a wall of books, seeming to study them. He took another swig from the bottle before turning back to me, shrugging nonchalantly. “All right. How long did it take you to get the old man wrapped around your finger? Lucky break he got sick, huh?”
I gaped, my blood running cold. “Are you crazy?”
For a brief second, I saw his cool control falter and something almost insecure flared in his eyes. But as quick as that it was gone and I told myself I must have misread it. He walked closer, his eyes midnight blue in the low light of the room. “No. I’m also not old and easily snowed.” He took a drink, his tongue flicking out to catch a drop of beer on his lower lip. The internal muscles between my thighs clenched. Much to my deep, deep chagrin. “Why’d you call me anyway? To make sure I wasn’t going to cause trouble for you? Contest the will?”
“Contest the will?” I shook my head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Brant measured me, expressionless. Bored almost. “He’s considering leaving Graystone Hill to you. Didn’t you know?”
“What? That’s ridiculous. He was goading you.” My modesty forgotten, I got up, taking the few steps to him so we stood toe to toe. “I called you because I thought you both might take the opportunity to find forgiveness for one another, to say goodbye. Not everyone gets that peace. It’s a gift. One I’m beginning to see is wasted on you, you buttoned-up blowhard.”
I went to step around him, feeling as if a balloon were expanding in my chest. “Now move out of my way.”
He caught me by the arm and I gasped, halting and glaring at him. “Did your precious Harry tell you what he did to my mother?”
I pulled my arm free, rubbing at the place he had touched, not because he’d hurt me but from the warmth that still lingered where his hand had been. I wanted it gone. I wanted him gone. Him, and his beautiful, accusing eyes. Him, and his presence that filled the house with electricity, distracting me and making it feel as if the earth had shifted, moved, rearranged itself in some unfathomable way. “Excuse me?”
His expression hardened, but I saw the very brief flash of pain that moved quickly across his face. “He killed her. Or he might as well have.”
I blinked at him. Was that the reason for their estrangement? He blamed his father for his mother’s death? He believed his father had driven his mother to commit suicide? Oh, if that were true, how much torment they both must have inside.
It still didn’t give him the right to be cruel to me.
A muscle jumped in his jaw as we stood staring at each other, both of our chests rising and falling, our wills clashing as the air sparked around us. I had the undeniable urge to reach for him. To offer . . . something. He looked angry, upset, his expression morphing from one to the other as if he was too conflicted to decide where to land. Or perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps he was lashing out because he was filled with hurt and bitterness and wasn’t sure where to direct it and had settled on me. Perhaps he was just a self-centered asshole. Maybe all of the above. And yet, even so, my heart softened for what he’d been through. I knew that anguish. To lose someone so suddenly, so shockingly . . . I lived with it every single day. “I’m sorry for what you suffered. I don’t know what happened in this house,” I finally said. “I don’t know what’s between you and your father. I was merely trying to give you the opportunity to figure it out before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late.”
I turned, heading for the door, but stopped. Brant had turned and was watching me leave, his face still tense, eyes flashing with the same confused indignation. “Only because you’ve decided it is.” I shook my head. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Brant, despite what all those fancy people in New York City might have told you.” I paused, drawing in a big, shaky breath. “Other people carry pain too. Even your father.”
“You’re the expert on my father, aren’t you?”
“Why the innuendos? I thought we were speaking plainly. Ask me what you’d really like to know.” I drew my shoulders straight. “No, let me save you the trouble. I’m not sleeping with your father. I’m not his live-in girlfriend, and I don’t have any interest in taking over Graystone Hill, nor as far as I know, does he have any plans of leaving any portion of it to me. I’m his secretary, just as I told you, and I . . . I hope his friend. I care about your father, and it’s breaking my heart to know that someday soon he won’t be here anymore. I regret calling you at all, although my intentions for doing so were good. You showed up here looking for a fight. Maybe you should think about why. But leave me out of it.”
He didn’t say anything else as I turned and left the room, hurrying up the stairs to my bedroom. When I got there, I realized I’d left the book I’d been reading in the library. I didn’t want Brant to see it and for a moment I considered going downstairs to retrieve it. My hands were shaking though, and I didn’t want to face Brant again tonight. I’d just leave it—he was too self-centered to notice a book I left behind.
I stood against the door of my room, my hands pressed flat on the solid wood as I worked to get my heart rate under control. Other people carry pain too. That same emptiness that had opened inside me earlier that day yawned wide again, threatening to swallow me from the inside out. I suddenly felt so very alone. I could feel the hole in my heart expanding. I didn’t think I could bear it. Not now. Not at this moment where anger and bitterness hung heavy in the air of the house I’d made a home. My sanctuary. My solace.
I pushed off the door, removing my nightshirt, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I left my room, moving as quietly as possible down the stairs and then quickly to the front door, only taking in a full breath once I was outside the house and beyond the place where Brant Talbot still was, likely brooding in his beer and self-pity.
I jogged to the stable, saddled Seneca quickly, and led her from where she’d been grazing on hay. “How do you feel about a night run, girl? Just you and me and the moon?”
I mounted her, pulling on the reins as she galloped out of the stable into the moon-drenched pasture. The night was cool and bright and the w
ind flowed through my hair as Seneca picked up the pace. We ran into the night, the sound of her pounding feet echoing my own heartbeat, but somehow calming it as well.
I felt the wetness on my cheeks as she slowed to a trot, the tears flowing swiftly. Seneca came to a stop, and I lay forward on her, hugging her strong, solid neck and allowing the pain to drain from my body in the form of quiet sobs.
CHAPTER SIX
Brant
I groaned, rolling over in bed and cracking one eye open. My vision cleared, though my headache did not and I lay still, waiting for the pounding in my skull to diminish. The night before came back to me in living color, serving not only to increase my headache but also to fill me with shame.
I was an asshole. An ignorant, arrogant asshole.
I turned my head, spying the book on my nightstand, the book Isabelle had been reading the night before when I’d all but ambushed her in the library. Shattered: Reclaiming Your Life After Loss. Who had she lost?
Other people carry pain too.
Jesus. I’d made so many assumptions about her, and they’d been wrong. She told me she wasn’t his girlfriend and I believed her. Not only had I believed her, but a tight knot of relief had loosened inside me. God, I’d been so damn jealous, pissed about my lack of control where she was concerned. I could admit that now. Jealous because of the attraction I’d felt for the woman I thought belonged to my father, attraction that had been immediate and undeniable.
Wild. Unexpected. Crazy.
The way that damn sundress strap had slid down her shoulder . . . the way she’d blushed and pulled it back up. It’d made my guts clench and my mouth go dry. My body had reacted to that unintentional baring of skin—innocent shoulder skin for the love of Christ—with more intense longing than I’d felt for any one of the women I’d had naked and under me in recent years. And then the outline of her feminine shape under the thin towel . . . the way her round breasts had barely been covered, the way the cloth had stretched over her ass . . . A ragged breath escaped my chest and despite my pounding head, my body tightened with want.
What the hell was it about her? And what did it matter? She hated me now. I’d ensured that by acting like a total prick. So I’d gotten drunk alone and passed out. Seemed like a solid plan at the time.
Now, not so much.
I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. A couple of Tylenols and a hot shower had me feeling better. I needed to book a flight to New York. First though, I’d suck up my pride and apologize to Isabelle.
The nutty smell of coffee greeted me as I entered the kitchen. “Thank God,” I murmured, grabbing a mug and pouring myself a cup. It was Sunday, but I wondered if the guys who worked at the stable still filed in and out for coffee and May’s biscuits on weekdays. This place had always been so full of life and noise, the sound of the front door constantly opening and closing, the raucous buzz of chatter and laughter coming from the kitchen as the guys talked and joked. They’d never made me feel like the owner’s kid. They’d made me feel like one of them and I’d loved it. It came to me now how lonely I’d been when I left. How I’d not only lost a mother to death and a father to anger and betrayal, but I’d lost May and all the others I’d considered family. I’d thrown myself into school then into work, and perhaps it was why I’d become so successful. It was all I’d had. Pushing myself, working all hours of the day and night helped hold back the loneliness. The pain.
Taking my cup with me, I climbed the stairs, noticing the door to Isabelle’s room was slightly ajar. I pushed on it but her room was empty. I stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the room that had once been mine. It was different now—the furniture was new, as was the carpet and the shades on the window. I was surprised at how sparse it seemed, though. There were no feminine knickknacks on the dresser or bedside table, no discarded clothing draped over the chair or left on the floor. The bed was made as if Isabelle had learned that skill from the finest Marine sergeant who ever lived. For a moment I wondered if she’d been lying—if she really slept in this room at all. But I forced that thought aside. I didn’t think she was, but truth be told, it wasn’t really my business anyway. I’d been an ass. How had she judged me so quickly though? She didn’t know me, didn’t know what I’d suffered. Didn’t know about the years of loneliness and . . . Fuck. Damn her. Isabelle had been right. I’d shown up looking for a fight. It was exactly what I’d done. And I’d been willing to find one wherever I could.
My gaze snagged on a small piece of furniture next to the closet door. So not all of it was new. The desk had been mine. How many hours had I sat there doing homework, trying not to let my eyes wander out the window to the stable beyond, the place I’d rather be over all other places on earth? The thought surprised me. I hadn’t remembered. Or I hadn’t let myself remember. Drawn to the desk, I entered the room, walking to it and pulling the top drawer open. If Isabelle used this desk, she didn’t store anything in it. There was nothing in the top two drawers, but in the third one, I found a baseball in the corner near the back. I wrapped my fingers around the ball and held it up. “Well, holy shit.”
The Cincinnati Reds had been playing the Mets and my father had gotten tickets, driving us the two hours to the Queen City to watch a game. It’d been a good day. A damn good day. We’d eaten hotdogs and popcorn, and in the ninth inning, one of the Mets had hit a fly ball that flew straight toward the stands where we were sitting. My father had knocked people over and landed upside down on his back in the middle of the steps to get that ball. I’d stared wide-eyed, my heart beating frantically at the sight of my father’s feet above his head, wondering how many bones he’d broken. For a full minute he didn’t move but then he’d raised his arm, that ball clutched in his palm. For me.
I turned the ball this way and that, visions moving through my mind of that day . . . the excitement . . . the joy. We’d re-lived that epic catch the whole way back, laughing so hard tears had poured down our faces as my father’s truck sped along the highway. How old had I been? Ten? Eleven?
I set the ball back in the drawer, sliding it closed. That wasn’t my ball anymore. It was from a time long ago, a time I’d never get back no matter how hard I tried.
There was only quiet behind my father’s door and I paused as I walked by, raising my hand to knock. But why? What was there left to say?
I moved quietly down the stairs, stopping by the room still obviously used as the office. Isabelle wasn’t there either, but I could use the office computer to book a flight since my own laptop was charging.
I turned on the computer, opening the Internet browser. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to type in the website for the airline I typically flew with. But instead, I went to Google, typing in Isabelle’s name. There were a few hits, but none of them looked like they had anything to do with the Isabelle Farris who lived and worked here.
Feeling a strange sense of guilt for looking her up at all, I shut down the browser, turned off the computer, and left the office. The day was mild, the sky a cloudless blue above me as I walked the road to the stable.
My eyes scanned the people in the training yard with the horses, but none of them had that dark hair that glinted red in the light. What would it look like under the sun?
The interior of the stable was cooler, the scent of horses and hay meeting my nose the second I entered, bringing with it a strong wave of nostalgia.
“Well, knock me over with a damn feather. Brant Talbot as I live and breathe.”
The grin had taken over my face before I’d even fully turned around. “Gus Cohen.”
The older stableman grinned, taking my hand and shaking it heartily as he used his other hand to squeeze my shoulder. “Look at you. Heard talk you turned into a bona fide city slicker, but I didn’t know the extent of it.”
I laughed. “How have you been, Gus? How’s Edna?”
“Oh, we’re both fine. Not getting any younger, I suppose, but can’t complain.” He patted my shoulder again. “I�
��m sorry about your dad.” He shook his head. “His diagnosis was a real kick in the gut for all of us. I know you haven’t been back for some time but . . . I imagine for you too.”
“Yeah.” I looked away for a second and when I looked back at him, he was studying me, a knowing look on his craggy, sun-wrinkled face. “You planning on staying awhile?”
“No. I’m actually leaving today.” I cleared my throat. “I was looking for Isabelle before I leave though. I need to talk to her.”
“Isabelle drove into town to pick up your father’s prescriptions. She should be back shortly. I believe she’s planning on working with Scout Leader in the yard.”
“Scout Leader?”
“Horse we’re training for a ranch in Lexington. They prefer to send their wily ones here. We get ’em started on the right foot, and they take over the training in hopes of creating a star.”
“So you do all the hard work, and they eventually get the glory.”
“Essentially.” He laughed. “Isabelle makes it look easy though. A damn fine sight to behold.”
“Huh,” I said, looking at him sideways. “I thought Isabelle was my father’s secretary.”
“Oh, she is, but when your dad noticed how skilled she was with the horses, he wasn’t going to pass up utilizing her talent. Your pop’s many things, but he’s no dummy.” He paused for a second. “I think it’s good for her too, you know? She started coming here for the equine therapy classes, and it seems to me, the horses are still providing that for her, though in a different way.” A shadow passed over his face.
“Equine therapy classes,” I repeated. “When did Graystone Hill start offering those?”
Gus scratched his balding head. “About three years back. Isabelle was in one of the very first classes. She still participates in them as an instructor once in a while.”
