Brant's Return

by Mia Sheridan

  I set the note down on the top of the manila folder and raked my hands through my hair, expelling a breath. “After my mother . . . why’d you let me think that was the reason she . . . did what she did?”

  “Because you were destroyed, Brant. Finding her that way? And hell, for all intents and purposes it was because of that. Your mother’s reasoning wasn’t always sound, and she was self-centered. Something like that . . . she wouldn’t have worked through it reasonably.”

  I stared at him, knowing exactly what he was saying, understanding, remembering. I looked away. “Was she crazy?” I asked softly.

  “She went to a doctor once who diagnosed her with manic depression. He gave her some pills that made her practically catatonic. She hated it.” He sighed. “Truth is, I hated it too. She was . . . unpredictable, but at least she was there.”

  I nodded, wondering for the first time in my life what it must have been like for him to love her. God, I’d never even considered it, hadn’t let myself remember the patience he’d had with her, the way he’d shrug off every batch of burnt cookies that she’d left in the oven because something else had caught her interest. The way he’d fashioned a leash for an injured baby possum because my mother had been beside herself with grief and insisted on raising it herself . . . for a couple of days. Then my father had taken over the raising of that possum, feeding it with an eyedropper until it was independent enough to be set free. He was always there for her. He always indulged her, took care of her messes, loved her despite them. Allowed her to live her life the way she needed to. Loved to. Just as a man who loved a woman should.

  My father was a protector. Perhaps a misguided one, but a protector nonetheless.

  I put my head in my hands, rubbing my temples, memories coming at me from every direction, flowing in like an unblocked stream. The force so strong it felt as if I were being knocked down, dragged along the sandy bottom. Why? Why had I dammed it up in the first place?

  “I worried I was like her,” I breathed, the words rising to my mouth, unbidden.

  “What?”

  I blew out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in my body for years, decades. “Everyone always used to say how much I reminded them of her. How . . . full of life we both were . . . how wild, fun . . .” My voice trailed off as I stared unseeing at the wall. Afterward . . . after that day . . . I had shunned the part of myself I associated with her. Became the complete opposite not only for fear I’d turn into her, but also because then I’d have to acknowledge how she’d really been. And how afraid I was of turning into that other part. The part that scared me, the part that I . . . hated. Oh Christ. I hated it. I did. Hated how irrational she was, how disconnected. How . . . crazy.

  I’d blocked her out entirely, afraid that in letting in some of the good, I’d have to also face the bad. And so I’d kept her in the back of my mind as a fuzzy image of reality, a mere shadow of who she’d really been. If anyone had dishonored my mother, it had been me.

  I had to acknowledge my true feelings about Ethan before I could find peace, Isabelle had said. I don’t know what’s locked inside your heart, but you have to face it. It will be hard, but it will be worth it, I promise.

  I let out a sharp hiss of breath. She had been right . . . because she always was. She’d seen me, she’d known what I was doing, what I’d been doing since I’d left this house, and she’d tried to help me. Only I’d been too blind, too fearful to listen to her, too stubborn to attempt change.

  Even if I was like my mother, did I imagine I was powerful enough to control it by will alone? Had I thought I could hold it back by only allowing through a rationed amount of passion? That I could somehow regulate my emotions where she could not? Somewhere inside, did I blame her for not trying harder to be the mother I’d wished her to be? The person I’d wished her to be? Oh Jesus. It hurt to think about this, but I needed to. My father didn’t deserve my hatred, my disgust. God, he’d lost the woman he loved that day, and his son. He’d been left all alone. And for thirteen years, he’d never tried to correct my assumptions, but he’d silently applauded me from the sidelines.

  I looked at my father, really looked at him for maybe the first time, saw the heartache in his eyes, the way he covered his own feelings with gruffness. “Yes, Brant. You are like your mother. The best part of her. I never,” he choked slightly and then coughed, taking a moment to recover, “I never wanted you to forget that side of her. I didn’t want you to let that be covered over by her actions in the end.”

  It felt like I was choking too. “So you took the burden of my hatred to spare me the pain of hating her on top of my grief?”

  “It seemed better that way. And I wasn’t blameless. I made my own mistakes. I was willing to pay for them.”

  “Ah, Dad. Christ.” I gripped my hair again, leaning my head forward as the truth of that day settled into my mind, my soul. We’d all made such big mistakes, let guilt and anger and terrible sadness rule our choices for far too many years. No more.

  I let go of my hair, looked up. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

  For a moment my father didn’t speak, but his shoulders shook slightly. Then he gathered himself together. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Please forgive me, son.” His voice faded off at the end. He was going to go to his grave believing he deserved my hatred.

  “Yes,” I choked, standing, the file folder slipping to the floor, years’ worth of papers spilling out. My dad stood, and I hugged him, taking care with his cancer-riddled body, the full impact of the fact that I’d gotten my father back again and would soon lose him once more hitting me full in the chest.

  “I’m so proud of you, son. All these years . . . so proud,” my father said, hugging me tightly. “I hoped . . . I hoped so much you’d come back. I didn’t want it to be like this, but I’m so glad you’re here now.”

  After a moment I let go, helping him back into the chair. Tears sparkled in his eyes but he blinked them back. I squatted in front of him. “Dad, we have so much to talk about, so much to catch up on, but right now, I need to find Belle.”

  He tilted his head, approval clear in his blue eyes. “You messed things up, did you?”

  “Yeah. Big time.”

  “Then I’d say you better go fix it before another minute passes.”

  I breathed out a laugh. “I agree. I just don’t know where to go. May said she went to visit her parents but doesn’t have their information.”

  My dad frowned. “Hand me the folder with her name on it in the second drawer on the left,” he said, pointing at his desk.

  I retrieved the folder and brought it to him and he rifled through it, shaking his head. “This is her original job application, but she didn’t put any information in here about her parents. Paige and Aaron Singleton are listed as her emergency contact.” He handed me the piece of paper.

  “Damn.” I frowned. “Okay, I’ll go call them.” I paused. “Thanks, Dad.”

  He nodded, closing his eyes, obviously worn out—physically and probably emotionally too. But I smiled as I patted him on the shoulder and turned to leave. I still had a lot to work through regarding my mother and my turbulent feelings about who she’d been and what she’d done, but it felt like a weight had lifted from my soul.

  I shut my dad’s door and turned toward the stairs then hesitated. Maybe there was something in Isabelle’s room that would give me the information I needed. An address book? Something? I opened her room door, the very faint scent of her making my heart speed up with longing. Isabelle. Vanilla and honey.

  Home.

  I opened the desk drawers but they were as empty as the first time I’d looked in there. Her dresser drawers were full of the clothes she’d unpacked. I picked up a nightgown and brought it to my nose, inhaling, groaning.

  Isabelle. Please don’t give up on me yet.

  The only other piece of furniture where she might have tossed an address book was the nightstand. I opened the small drawer and peered inside, everything in
side me stilling and then immediately quickening.

  With shaking fingers, I picked up the plastic baggy, staring at the one word clearly seen in the tiny window on the enclosed test stick.

  Pregnant.

  Isabelle was pregnant . . . and she hadn’t called to tell me.

  I sat down heavily on the bed.

  God, why would she call me? And why would she ever consider giving me a second chance?

  **********

  I paced the office, my cell phone clutched in my hand as Paige and Aaron’s voicemail picked up again, the number that had been listed on Isabelle’s employment form. “Hi, this is us. We’re not home right now, but leave a message and we’ll get back to you.” Apparently Aaron hadn’t changed the outgoing message to reflect his newly single status. Apparently Aaron didn’t know that few people had home phones anymore.

  I started to leave a third message when the line was picked up, I heard a man’s voice saying, “Hold on,” and then the machine was clicked off. “Hello?”

  “Aaron? This is Brant Talbot. I’ve left a few messages.”

  “Sorry, I just got home. What’s happened? Is Isabelle okay?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

  “Yeah. She’s fine. But she went to her parents’ house, and I’m planning on surprising her but don’t have their address. I was hoping you might.”

  He paused for a moment. “I don’t, but it’s possible Paige does. I’ll call her. She won’t be happy to hear from me, but I’ll do it for Isabelle.”

  “If you give me the number where she’s staying, I can call her.” I paused. “Listen, Isabelle told me things got . . . physical between you two, and it’s probably better—”

  “Physical?” He let out a short burst of laughter. “What the hell did Paige say I did to her?”

  I frowned, uncomfortable. I only wanted the damn address where Isabelle was, and I didn’t want to be responsible for having a man who’d beat his wife contact her when she was just looking to be left alone. “I wasn’t there for the conversation. She told Isabelle you’d been angry, gotten violent with her.”

  He swore under his breath. “Paige is a fucking pathological liar. She lies as easily as other people breathe. I didn’t know the full extent of it until recently. But let me assure you of this—I never laid a hand on my wife.”

  Wait, what?

  “Listen,” Aaron went on. “I’ll dig that address up for you myself. Give me your cell number and I’ll text it to you. And please tell Isabelle to call me when she returns.” I gave him my number, he repeated it back, and after a terse goodbye, the call was disconnected.

  I shook my head in surprise, not knowing what the hell to make of that. Was he lying? Paige is a fucking pathological liar, he’d said, sounding so angry, almost unhinged. Deciding I had enough of my own problems at the moment to worry about theirs, and feeling frustrated and antsy as all hell, I left the house and jogged to the stable. I prayed Aaron would send the address I needed quickly. I could look up the location of the Amish community in Ohio and drive in that direction, but how likely would it be that once I got there, anyone would give me the specific location of Isabelle’s parents’ house? I wasn’t sure, but waiting for Aaron seemed like the more logical course of action. I needed to get rid of some pent-up energy before I got in the car and drove to Isabelle. I needed to think, to come up with the words I’d say to her, how I’d put voice to the things in my heart. And I knew from experience the best place to do that was on the back of a horse.

  It only took me ten minutes to saddle one of the mares, and then I was leaned over the powerful animal as she galloped across the pasture.

  Peace. Freedom. Clarity.

  As I rode swiftly over the rolling hills, it felt as if the movement allowed the coat of armor I’d outfitted myself in to slip free and fall behind. Out here I was just me; a man now, but also the wild boy I’d once been. Uninhibited by anything. Unafraid. Willing to take on the world. Willing to risk it all. I’d been so scared to allow that part of myself to surface. That’s why I’d been so deathly afraid of the way Isabelle made me feel—out of control, practically obsessed . . . crazy at times, truth be told. But that’s what love was.

  Love.

  I was a fool.

  I hadn’t asked Isabelle to marry me because it made sense. Hell, if anything, it made little sense. I’d wanted to marry her because I was head over ass in love with her. I’d asked her to marry me because from the moment she’d entered the room that first day, I’d been infatuated, my feelings so immediate and so strong that the damn earth had moved. And I’d only fallen deeper and deeper with every moment we spent together. It was irrational, practically inexplicable and the truest, most honest thing I’d ever experienced.

  Fuck. I’d been so terrified of the intensity of my feelings for her that I was ready to give her up rather than acknowledge what they were.

  I’d been ready to give her up rather than give in to the delirium of love.

  Isabelle. Brave, strong Isabelle. My Isabelle.

  I hadn’t wanted to be with her for Caspian Skye, or anything else. I’d give it up in a heartbeat for her. Hell, I’d give up my entire empire for her. Anything. She was the love of my life. I didn’t need the fulfillment of opening another bar or getting the best deal on a new property. Not anymore. I needed her.

  I pulled up on the reins, slowing the mare so she came to a trot, then to a stop. I hopped off, tying her reins loosely to a tree and leaving her to graze on what was left of the dying fall grass.

  Had I meant to come to this spot? To the copse of trees I’d found refuge in as a boy? Or was it coincidence I’d ended up here, the place where I’d first begun to love Isabelle Farris? I entered the circle of trees and memories flowed in. In this place, which still felt holy to me in some way that was difficult to define. It was here where Isabelle had first shared a piece of her soul with me and seemed to look into mine. Ah, God, Belle. Belle. My heart thumped with love for her, every beat echoing her name.

  Please don’t tell me it’s too late.

  How can I make this right?

  I looked at the break in the trees above, shimmery golden rays filtering in.

  If only this really was a portal and in the next heartbeat, I could be with Belle, wrapping my arms around her, inhaling her sweet scent.

  I fell to my knees under the pale stream of light and stayed there for a long time, my decision taking form, settling. I knew exactly what I wanted to do and nothing had ever felt more right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Isabelle

  The house was just as I remembered it, the barn’s red siding glinting in the afternoon light. The clothesline was filled with clothing flapping in the breeze: Mamm’s solid-colored dresses and white aprons, Dad’s broadfall trousers and button-up shirts. Soon it would be too cold to hang the washing on the line lest it freeze. My heartbeat quickened, and my breath hitched. Lord, I was nervous.

  A bird called out in the sky as if offering encouragement, and I looked up, watching as it flew out of sight. The absence of power lines was strange to me now. I’d been away a long time. Long enough that the outside world was the norm, and this way of living was not.

  My hand shook as I knocked on the door and then stood back, holding my breath. I let it out in a long gust when I heard soft footsteps approaching from the other side. The door opened and my mom’s face sent a spear of emotion ripping through my chest. “Mamm,” I croaked. I meant to go on. To say hello, something, but my words were gone, stolen by the very sight of her.

  My mother brought her hand to her mouth, sucking in a breath of shock. For a moment we simply stared at each other and then she stepped forward and pulled me into her arms. That was enough. The dam broke and a keening cry came up my throat as I gripped her, burying my face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of security. The scent of the mother’s love I’d missed so desperately for so many years, years filled with both almost unendurable grief, but also moments of profound joy.

/>   We gripped each other for long minutes, shaking in each other’s arms until she finally pulled away, glancing behind her. There my father stood, watching us, his face older, filled with the same desperate sorrow that filled my mom’s.

  “Come in, Isabelle,” my mother said. I didn’t miss the fact that she checked beyond me, likely making sure no one in the community had seen me, their ex-communicated daughter. I didn’t care. They had welcomed me, at least for now, and my heart calmed. I entered the house where I’d grown up, placing the bag I’d carried from the car by the front door.

  My dad and I sat at the kitchen table as my mom went about making garden tea. It was cold in their house and I put my hands between my knees, keeping my wool coat on. I watched my mom move around the kitchen and was grateful for the few minutes in which to gather myself. She placed a steaming mug in front of Dad and me, and then sat with one of her own. Wrapping my cold hands around the warm mug, I looked at them. I’d have liked to catch up, to reminisce and tell them all that had happened to me since I left, but I needed answers. I’d driven here to put my heart at ease, at least on this matter. Looking at them now, their rigid though kind expressions, the way their own hands shook, I knew they hadn’t done anything to purposefully hurt me. I knew it in my heart and soul. “Did Ethan steal from you?”

  My dad glanced at my mom and then pressed his lips together, looking away, seeming to come to a decision. “Yes. Not just us, but thirty other families in the community.”

  I exhaled a sharp breath, sadness, anger, devastation piercing my heart. “And yet you let me go with him anyway.”

  My mom reached across the table, laying her hand on mine and then removing it just as quickly, as if she hadn’t planned on the gesture and immediately reconsidered it. She sat back, clasping her hands in her lap. “Isabelle, you were pregnant, daughter. You married him before you told us. What were we to do?”