Brandon's Bride

by Lisa Gardner

  “Oh, anytime.”

  She shook his hand soberly. They both nodded as well-meaning adults. He walked away to his cabin and she remained standing in her house, her hand fisted at her side so she wouldn’t do anything stupid such as call him back.

  “He’s just passing through, Vic. He’s just passing through.”

  * * *

  Victoria and Randy rose at the crack of dawn, downing a quick breakfast of hot instant cereal and orange juice. Generally Randy tended the chickens and horses on weekend mornings, but he’d been invited on a nature hike with Arnie, so he and Victoria had swapped shifts. She packed his lunch while he filled his water bottles; then he was off like a shot, leaving Victoria alone in a house that was suddenly much too quiet.

  She checked the bucket of corn next to the back door. Corn was running low. The horses needed more oats. She’d have to make a trip to the feed store. She grimaced. The one thing about animals—they just kept eating and eating and Victoria’s bills just kept climbing and climbing. Sometimes, she felt that as hard as she worked, she was on a giant treadmill, sweating bullets and never getting ahead.

  She looped her fine blond hair back into a ponytail, scrubbed her face, and grabbed the bucket to feed the hens. The coop had been moved last week, a traumatic event for chickens, and they’d just started laying eggs again yesterday. Today, she found three more eggs—not bad. She figured it would take another week for everyone’s nerves to settle down. In the meantime, she had enough eggs to make French toast tomorrow for her and Randy’s traditional Sunday brunch. Afterward, they’d head to church, and then to her parents’ house for a table-groaning feast.

  She headed for the stables. The sun was just beginning to come up now, the pastures washed with dew and the clean, crisp air reddening her cheeks. It was quiet out, peaceful and sparkling. In the distance, she heard birds chattering. The wind carried the fragrance of old pine and new grass.

  Mornings were her favorite time. Everything was fresh, everything was new, and she was absolutely content with her life. She had a great family and a wonderful son. She owned a ranch and trained horses. She lived in Beaverville, Oregon, where the sky was a vast blue landscape interrupted only by soaring pine trees and verdant mountains. It was quiet, it was small, and it was the most beautiful place on earth.

  She sauntered into the stables with a smile on her face and a whistle on her lips, and got her hour’s worth of chores done in forty minutes. With her bonus twenty minutes, she might as well go into town and blow her feed bill once and for all. She wouldn’t be a rancher if she didn’t have debt.

  Walking back to the house, however, her eyes strayed to Brandon’s cabin. No signs of life emerged. It was only seven a.m. She didn’t think city people moved much before nine on Saturdays.

  She was lingering. She didn’t want to linger. Of course, she didn’t want to dream about Brandon Ferringer either, and that hadn’t stopped a torrent of erotic images from swamping her sleep last night. She sighed, chewed on her bottom lip, and in the quiet of the morning, wondered what to do with herself.

  She was attracted to the man. Then again, she hadn’t had sex in so long she’d probably lost all circulation in vital parts of her anatomy. Beaverville wasn’t exactly crawling with virile young men, either. Frankly, Brandon Ferringer was handsome, intelligent, had buns of steel and was sleeping fifty feet from her bedroom window.

  All right, the man had sex appeal. What did it change? She wasn’t some footloose, fancy-free young girl. She was a responsible, hardworking single mother looking for a bit more than a midlife crisis.

  Sometimes she did still fantasize about falling in love, getting married and being part of a whole family once more.

  She went into the house, grabbed her field coat and headed for the truck. As Victoria’s mom liked to say, stop mooning and get to work.

  She spotted Ferringer, however, just as she drove to the top of her driveway’s incline. He was at the bottom of the drive, running uphill at a fast clip that had his breath billowing. He’d dressed for the brisk weather—a pair of thick navy blue runner’s pants, a navy blue turtleneck and a red fleece vest to maintain core body temperature. Now, however, the vest was completely unzipped, his shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows and his chest sported a dark stain of sweat.

  He showed no signs of slowing, his long, limber legs sprinting up the bumpy path like an antelope. Some people ran for pleasure. Some people ran for fitness. Judging by the look on Brandon’s face, he ran for pain. His jaw was tight, his lips thinned. It was obvious he wouldn’t stop until he’d proven whatever it was he had to prove this early on a Saturday morning.

  Victoria slowed the truck and unrolled the window. In tight clothing, Brandon’s lean, rangy build provided an eyeful, long, limber muscles wrapping his limbs like thick sailor’s rope. He was going to make one hell of a hotshot.

  He finally crested the hill and slowed to a stop beside her idling truck, his breath coming out in gasps.

  “Morning,” she said brightly.

  He leaned over, pressed his elbows into his thighs and gulped air. “Morning,” he gasped.

  “That’s quite a pace.”

  “Need to do . . . six-minute . . . mile. For hotshots.”

  “I see,” she said with the right level of seriousness— Charlie had informed her that everything about the hotshots was serious. “And what are you at now?”

  “Can run . . . the mile and a half . . . in nine. Requirement is . . . eleven.”

  “Then you’re all set.”

  He grimaced. “Want to run it in eight.” He dragged in another deep breath and finally straightened. Thin lines of sweat streaked his craggy face and spiked his hair around his eyes. His face was flushed from the exertion. He looked good.

  “I’m the old guy,” he said bluntly, finally catching his wind. “And the outsider. The requirement may be to run a mile and half in eleven minutes, but if you’re anything above nine, your team laughs at you. I’ll need to be even faster than that. I have more to prove.”

  Victoria nodded. She didn’t doubt that he was absolutely right.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked at last.

  “Going into town. Time to buy some feed. Yourself?”

  “No plans. Where’s Randy?”

  “Off on a nature hike.” She paused. “If you need anything in town, you’re welcome to join me.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to slow you up,” he said immediately.

  “All right, have it your way.” She put her truck in gear, and immediately he changed his tune. For some reason, she thought he might.

  “Actually,” he was saying now, “I would like to get to know the town.”

  “I’ll give you the full nickel tour.”

  “I need to shower first . . .”

  “It’s no bother,” she assured him. Of course it was a bother. Waiting for a man was always a bother. Sitting in the front seat of her tiny truck with Brandon would be a definite bother. And yet she was smiling and he was smiling, and most likely they were both idiots.

  “Just give me ten minutes?”

  “Ten minutes it is.”

  “Victoria . . . thank you.” He sprinted off to his cabin, his long legs effortlessly finding the rhythm.

  She stared at his butt. He had a tight, firm, nicely shaped butt. Oh, for God’s sake. She slapped her hand against the steering wheel and sank low on the bench seat. It didn’t help. She still saw him in her mind’s eye, and she knew the minute he climbed into her pickup truck, she would flush.

  And maybe, if she were lucky, he would, too.

  Chapter 3

  Victoria drove like a madwoman. She barreled her truck down the bumpy dirt driveway with no regard to its ancient age or groaning protests. While Brandon clutched the dusty dashboard for dear life, she casually swung them on the main highway and thrust forward at ne
ar light speed. She seemed to be enjoying the experience very much, her bare lips curved, her freshly scrubbed face untroubled.

  “The seat belt does work,” she mentioned casually.

  “Too late,” he murmured, and sought it out with trembling hands. She was grinning openly. At least he was amusing her.

  This morning she wore what appeared to be yesterday’s jeans with a fresh flannel shirt in shades of brown. Over the top, she’d thrown an old white wool sweater with thick worsted braiding and a hole in the left shoulder. Her face wasn’t marred by an ounce of makeup. Her fine, silky hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, illuminating her light gray-blue eyes.

  He’d seen women in silk and he’d seen women in cashmere, but he’d never seen a woman as down-to-earth, bone-deep beautiful as Victoria Meese.

  He’d returned to his cabin last night with the best of intentions. He was here in Beaverville because of his father and needed to get cracking. He’d pulled out the Tillamook yearbook and stared at the pictures of Bud Irving and Al Simmons as if he could sear them into his brain. He needed to find Bud Irving. He needed to solve the riddle of Maximillian the Chameleon.

  He’d thought of Victoria and the way she smiled at her son. He’d pictured the way her hips swayed slightly as she swiftly covered ground with her dirt-eating stride. He’d replayed the way her brow crinkled as she tried to work out mixed numerals with Randy.

  He’d lain on his bed, feeling wired and disoriented and anxious. He’d tried to rein in his thoughts, but they came back to Victoria again and again, and each time, his nerve endings trilled and his head got light and he wanted to see her again.

  He hadn’t felt like this since the day in the coffee shop when he’d met Julia. That night he’d returned from work equally frazzled. He’d paced his apartment, entertained wild plans and tossed them out one by one as he sought the perfect way to approach this delightful woman. Finally, he’d buried her in flowers, launching a six-month whirlwind courtship of roses, dinners and jewelry. He’d had money and he’d poured it on her lavishly.

  Poor Julia, who’d loved cheap perfume and tacky trinkets.

  But it had worked, and she’d married him with a laugh and a smile, and he’d felt like the luckiest man on earth.

  And now he remembered the years after. The night he’d come home at two in the morning after a crazy month of working unbelievable hours on a bond-financing project. Julia had been waiting up for him, listening to the radio in the dark. The song “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore” had played, and she’d started to cry.

  He’d brought her two dozen roses the next day. He’d tried to come home earlier, say ten p.m. instead of two a.m. And he’d watched his marriage begin to fall apart, though he could honestly say he had never loved his wife more.

  He wasn’t any good at relationships. He was lousy at love. He was better off climbing mountains and fighting fires.

  “Here we are,” Victoria sang out cheerily. “Downtown Beaverville. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

  She slowed the truck to a light sprint, and Brandon yanked his mind to the bright spring morning and the row of beat-up trucks pulled up to wooden sidewalks like modern-day horses. Beaverville bustled first thing on a Saturday morning. Big, tough men lumbered down the streets, hitching up old jeans and feeling their back pockets for cans of chew. Even Whiskey Jack’s had people passing through its doors. Brandon hoped it meant the bar served breakfast, but judging by one man’s swagger, he couldn’t be sure.

  Did Bud Irving hang out at a place like Whiskey Jack’s? Or maybe the feed store or the general store or the pharmacy? Beaverville wasn’t that big . . .

  Victoria jerked the brakes, dug in the back tires and swung her old truck into a neat one-eighty next to the feed store. Red plumes of dust billowed up; then abruptly she killed the engine and the world finally settled down.

  “You can let go of the door now,” Victoria said innocently and hopped out.

  Brandon climbed down just as a short, middle-aged man with jet-black hair and jowls appeared. Victoria introduced him as Joel Logger. Judging by the way his belly strained his red-checkered shirt, Joel enjoyed a good beer. His worn denims sagged precariously low, barely captured by a thick leather belt with a huge silver belt buckle and the will of God. Joel was saved from slovenliness, however, by a beaming smile, intelligent black eyes and a firm, hearty handshake.

  “So you’re the New York hero?” He rocked on his heels, working a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth and inspecting Brandon. “I hear you saved two kids.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Ferringer doesn’t like to talk about it,” Victoria said, her gaze fixed on the feed store’s big yellow price tags. “British reserve and all.”

  “Brit, huh? Well, welcome to Beaverville. We got no city pollution and no city crime. ’Course, we got no city entertainment, either, but the baseball team’s turning out pretty good. After that, I recommend a drive into Bend. Better bars there. Just don’t tell Jack.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Brandon assured him. Jack must be the Jack of Whiskey Jack’s fame.

  “Ferringer’s here to work, not barhop.” Victoria tapped her foot impatiently. “Joel, please tell me you’re not serious about these prices.”

  Joel grinned and led the way inside where he and Victoria began haggling in earnest.

  Brandon left them to check out the store. It was huge, overflowing with feed, farm gear and even a small selection of John Deeres. It was a popular place, with a dozen people milling the aisles, checking out cattle medications and new sprinkler heads. Brandon examined each person as discreetly as possible, only to discover that all farmers looked alike to him. Every man in the group wore faded jeans, cowboy boots and plaid, and Brandon had only a forty-year-old image to work with. It wasn’t enough.

  He returned to the back door just as Victoria and Joel finished dueling and shook hands. While Victoria signed the credit slip, Brandon hefted the bags of feed into the back of the pickup truck.

  “I could’ve done that, you know,” she announced as she came down the stairs and realized what he’d done.

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t haul you around for your muscle.”

  “I’m sure it was for my British charm.”

  She scowled and climbed behind the wheel. Some strands of silky blond hair had slipped free of her ponytail, curling around her cheeks. She blew them back with one fierce huff.

  “Thirsty?” she asked abruptly.

  He eyed her carefully. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was suddenly nervous. “Maybe.”

  “Ever have a chocolate soda, Wall Street Man?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “All right, what the hell.” She abruptly popped open her door and hopped out. “Come on, Ferringer. Tom’s got a real ice-cream parlor in the back of the general store. Makes the best chocolate sodas around. My treat.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “My invite, my treat.” She took off down the street, and Brandon had no choice but to follow.

  The general store was just a few doors from the feed store. A tiny chime sounded their arrival, but no one stood behind the cash register. Plowing through narrow aisles that bore everything from Band-Aids to barn boots, Victoria led him straight to the back where the store suddenly sprang open into a white, brightly lit space. Sure enough, it looked like an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor, with a long Formica countertop, red vinyl stools and bare bulbs rimming the top.

  “Tom!” Victoria boomed, and the back door was promptly pushed open. A trim, gray-haired man bustled through, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “Vic, good to see you.”

  “How’s my favorite soda man?” Victoria clasped his hands over the counter, and the two exchanged dazzling smiles. Brandon was beginning to think they’d
forgotten all about him until Tom’s gaze slid past her to him.

  “So you’re the New Yorker.” Tom thrust out his hand and shook vigorously. For someone who was in his late sixties, his grip was firm and strong. Judging by his erect stance and penetrating stare, Brandon pegged him as a retired military man. A good one.

  “Brandon Ferringer, right?” Tom winked. “I got my sources. I’m considered Beaverville’s version of the front-page news. And for God’s sake, Vic. It’s not fair for you to have kept him to yourself. I’m the gossip mill around here. If I don’t know things first, people stop passing by.”

  Victoria laughed. “It’s true,” she told Brandon. “Tom’s lived here for as long as I can remember, and nothing happens that he doesn’t know about. So if you’re cheating on anyone or hiding from the law, don’t tell Tom.”

  “I took over Beaverville’s paper when I moved here fifteen years ago,” Tom informed Brandon proudly. “Of course, with a circulation of only twenty-five, it couldn’t last forever. Now I thrive on gossip, and you’re the headlines around here. I heard you’re some kind of hero.”

  “That’s what people tell me,” Brandon said wryly. He eyed Tom curiously. The man spoke friendly enough, but his gaze was sharp, almost assessing. There was an alertness to his stand that didn’t fit with a general store owner making idle chitchat.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re not what I expected,” Tom said.

  “Too British?” Brandon quizzed politely.

  “Too many gray hairs.”

  “I prefer the term ‘blond highlights.’”

  “Then I’m a California surfer dude.”

  “Way cool,” Brandon said with such a straight face Victoria cracked up and Tom began to chuckle.

  “Oh, yeah, you’ll do just fine around here. Have a seat.” Tom gestured to the red vinyl stools, his expression perfectly charming. Perhaps Brandon’s imagination getting the better of him, after all. He took a seat next to Victoria and began to relax.

  “I assume you both want chocolate sodas?” Tom said, heading toward the ice cream.