“I’ll just wait in the kitchen—” Isabel said. Obviously, her father hadn’t expected her, and she knew how private he was about business.
“No, no... You might as well come with us,” her father replied with a sigh. “I had wanted to go over all of this with James first, but it does concern you.”
Isabel shot her father a look of surprise, but he’d already turned away and was ambling toward the living room. She looked at James, and he shrugged.
“What concerns me?” Isabel pressed. She followed her father, and James took up the rear. “And what’s with all the mystery lately?”
“Discretion is not mystery,” her father retorted. “It’s how ordinary people deal with personal matters.”
“How personal?” she asked.
Her father muttered something unintelligible and shook his head. “Izzy, you are too much like your mother.”
He said it often, sometimes as a remonstrance and sometimes with tenderness. Today it was the former, but she’d never let her father’s gruffness or ornery temperament put her off. He turned his back on them and went to the couch where he had a few documents spread out over the cushions. He had his ways.
“This.” Her father turned and passed the document to James. “This is a deed. I want it put into my daughter’s name.”
James nodded and glanced down at it. “This is—”
“Yes, the house I promised her from the beginning.”
Isabel looked over James’s shoulder at the document.
“The house where Jenny lives?” Isabel interjected.
“I promised you that house when you were twelve,” her father replied with a shrug. “A promise is a promise.”
James nodded, albeit a bit more stiffly than before. So what did this mean, exactly? Why give her a house that was already occupied? Isabel couldn’t imagine what James must be thinking.
“Dad, if you don’t mind, why not give me another property?”
“Because I’m giving you this one.” His expression turned stubborn. “Didn’t we talk about this already?”
“Not this...” She crossed her arms. “And why now?”
Her father blinked. “Why not now?”
She hated it when he got like this. Her father was a wealthy and intelligent man who felt no obligation to explain his behavior to anyone, let alone his daughter. He would dance around in circles all night if that’s what it took, but he wouldn’t give an ounce more information than he’d already decided upon.
“Look, Princess.” Her father lowered his voice and stepped forward. He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “I’ve let you down an awful lot. This is my attempt to make something right.”
She was too surprised to speak, and before she knew it, her father was escorting them back to the front door. “James, you can take care of the paperwork, I’m sure. In fact, can you bring it back to me tonight?”
“I could—that’s overtime, though, sir.”
“Yes, yes. Just get it done. I’ll sleep better. Izzy, you look beautiful, as always.”
“Dad—”
“Izzy.” His tone grew firmer. “Let me do this. It’s important to me.” His eyes misted for a moment, then he cleared his throat and looked down. “Well, good night.”
“Dad—”
“Good night, Izzy.”
She wasn’t entirely sure of what had just happened, except that she’d been summarily dismissed, and as she and James walked back to his truck, her thoughts were whirling.
“What was that?” she asked once they were in the vehicle once more.
James glanced over at her. “He’s giving you a house.”
“No...” She shook her head. “Why now? What’s the urgency here? I went by to talk to him about the taxes, and I did mention that he’d promised me the house years ago, but you have to believe me that I didn’t want this.”
“It’s okay.” His voice was low and soft.
“No, it isn’t,” she retorted. “My issue with the house was that he hadn’t told me about anything. It’s always like this—he’s always the puppet master.”
James started the engine and pulled out into the drive, the tires crunching against the gravel.
“Maybe he’s trying to make it up to you,” he suggested.
Isabel wasn’t entirely convinced of that. It mattered to her father, she could see that much, but why? She wished she knew. But there was one thing she was certain of: the family business would never be hers while he was alive. That was one thing he wouldn’t share.
“I can refuse the gift, can’t I?” she asked after a moment of silence.
“You could,” James said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. What if this is all you get?”
He’d voiced her own fears bubbling deep beneath the surface. What if this was her inheritance? After being raised to expect only the best, to appreciate quality and luxury?
“My father isn’t about to disinherit me.” She pulled a hand through her hair, tugging it away from her face. “I’m his only child...for now. Why would you say that?”
“I’m not saying that he will,” James said quickly. “I’m talking as your lawyer here. You need to look out for your own future. Your father is remarried with a baby on the way, and he might consider you already taken care of.” He glanced at her, and she thought she saw a warning in his eyes.
“So you think I should take the house?” she clarified.
“Yes. Keep it in your name. It’s paid for, and you will need it eventually. Let your father do this for you.”
“I know this sounds rather spoiled, but I want a different house.”
“This is the one he’s offering,” he said. “Take it.”
It felt wrong. All of it felt wrong. Her father was shifting the balance of power ever so slightly—enough to make a difference in ways she hadn’t anticipated. She was about to own the house that her father had used to do a favor for James. This was putting Isabel very solidly in the middle of their personal arrangement.
“Fine.” She sighed. “You know something more about this than I do.”
“I’m your father’s lawyer. I always know something more than you do. It can’t be helped.”
He had a point there. “What happened to my dad?” she asked quietly. The question wasn’t really meant for him. Too much was changing. Her father was no longer the delightfully grouchy Daddy who solved her problems. He was different, more serious. He saw her differently now, too.
James didn’t answer, and they drove on in companionable silence for a few more minutes. She couldn’t help but resent her father for this. Up until his point, Isabel was simply the Baxter daughter and James was the lawyer. Now, she’d be the charitable landlord for his sister. It gave her power. It made her more than just plain Izzy.
“I don’t want to be Jenny’s landlord,” she said quietly. How was she supposed to explain all of this?
“Why not?”
“It changes things,” she replied. “Between us.”
He smiled over at her. “How so?”
“You know it does. Don’t make me break it down.”
He laughed softly, the sound low and comforting. “Nothing’s changed. You’ll always be Isabel Baxter. I’ve never forgotten that, you know.”
His words stung, and she felt as if her heart suddenly contracted, pulling away from the pain. He’d never forgotten.
Well, she had. For a little while, at least.
Maybe it was better to know it now—she was Isabel Baxter, his boss’s daughter. They’d always been on different playing fields, and that wasn’t about to change. Somehow, though, that reality hurt more than she’d expected it to. She wasn’t going to be Izzy anymore, was she?
She would always be Isabel Baxter of the Meagher Coun
ty Baxters. A name with a vise grip.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ISABEL AWOKE TO a blister on her little toe from her strappy shoes. She could feel it rubbing against the sheet, but that wasn’t what woke her. It wasn’t yet morning—the sky was still black. She twisted around to look at the clock—it was 2:00 a.m. She blinked in the darkness, wondering what had awoken her, but it didn’t really matter. She’d been having restless dreams anyway after the party and the visit to her father’s place.
“I need to sleep,” she muttered to herself. The next day would be misery if she couldn’t get at least a few more hours, but her mind was awake, and she knew she was probably up for the day.
Carmella’s party hadn’t been a surprise. She knew she wouldn’t fit in with those people anymore, which was why she’d been avoiding them. It was her father who had her stumped. He was hiding something—she could feel it. Had he been trying to point out to James that she was out of his league?
She had wanted to shake off this life she’d been born into, to try something brand-new. Haggerston would never forget where she came from, and even James had kept a solid handle on her position in this town. Her scars didn’t change who she was, and an ordinary existence wasn’t in the cards for her, so maybe it was time to accept it. She was the same Isabel Baxter she’d been before the accident; she just had to dig a little deeper to find that core that didn’t require men’s attention. She used to scoff at their silly little crushes, but she’d relied on them at the same time. Take away the male adoration, and she was still the same woman, but less encumbered, and far wiser. She had what it took to navigate life on her own terms, and she didn’t need men to do her dirty work for her. That was freeing.
James’s reaction had hurt her the most. It was their connection. She and James respected each other. There weren’t any games between them, no flirtatious power struggle. James had seen her for who she was, and he’d still come out of it liking her—kissing her even. But he still hadn’t trusted her. And that lack of trust hurt. He was the only true friend she had right now—the only person in her life not trying to manipulate her, punish her or get something from her. She’d learned to trust him, but that hadn’t gone both ways, and she felt like she’d failed somehow. She hadn’t given as much as she’d received. She’d messed this up.
If he’d seen the real her, then why couldn’t he trust her? But perhaps he had a point. She knew how to arrange things for herself, arrange people for herself, and if she couldn’t manage it, her father certainly could. If James wanted to join her in that carefully arranged life, it would be quite comfortable for the both of them. Except that he didn’t want to slide into her Baxter-made cocoon. He wanted his own life, his own way, and she didn’t know how to be a part of that. She cared for James, but it was distinctly possible that she wasn’t good for him.
She tried to bat that aside, but it didn’t move away so easily, the disappointment settling into her chest like a sodden rag.
“Don’t be silly,” she told herself aloud, sitting up.
Isabel Baxter had never been a woman to mourn over a man for long. Mind you, in the past, there had always been a lineup of replacements waiting. She smiled wryly at the memory. Regardless, lineup or no lineup, a man had never slowed her down before, and she wasn’t about to start now.
Her cell phone lit up a split second before it started to ring, and she picked it up, squinting at the number. It was Britney. What could she possibly want in the middle of the night?
“Hi, Britney,” she said, picking up. “What’s going on?”
And as Britney began to speak, Isabel froze.
* * *
JAMES ROLLED OVER, groggily waking up from a fitful dream. The sheets were tangled around his legs, and a pillow lay on the floor beside the bed. A breeze fluttered the curtain next to his open window, and the clock’s red numbers glowed out the time: 3:07 a.m. His dream had been indistinct—a jumble of anxious feelings and random images. These were the dreams he seldom remembered, except for those first bleary moments after waking, the kind that made coffee an absolute necessity throughout the day. He’d gone to bed late—having drawn up the documents Mr. Baxter requested, and then gone back for a signature. It was irritating, and he’d documented the overtime with precision. The old man deserved it—middle of the night transfers of property pushed the limits of his patience.
His cell phone buzzed on the bedside table, and his hand shot out and slammed on top of it. He blindly pushed the button to pick up the call and brought it to his ear.
“Yeah...” he mumbled into the phone.
“James? It’s Izzy.” There were tears in her voice, and James shook himself fully awake.
“Izzy? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He sat up, a barrage of possibilities slamming into his sleep-sogged brain. Was she hurt? Was she stuck somewhere needing a ride? He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock—the time was as ungodly as it felt.
“I’m at the county hospital. It’s my dad.”
“Is he hurt?” he asked quickly. “What’s happened?”
“He’s—” She let out a shaky breath. “They said that he had a heart attack. Britney called an ambulance, but by the time they got him here... It doesn’t look good.”
“Oh, God...” He pulled a hand through his tousled hair, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Okay, I’m on my way. I’ll be there soon, okay?”
“I’m sorry to wake you up.” There were tears in her voice again. “I didn’t know who else... I mean... I probably should have called Carmella, but I didn’t want to wake her up, and—”
“Hey.” He softened his voice. “I’m on my way, okay? I’m glad you called me. I’m here for you.”
He wasn’t sure if his words were enough, but they’d have to be until he could get down there. Hanging up the phone, he grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He was moving on auto-pilot, his mind spinning. Mr. Baxter’s new will effectively cut Isabel out, and if he’d had plans to make that up to his daughter somehow...
“He’s not dead,” he muttered to himself. People had heart attacks all the time and recovered. This was simply a medical emergency, and the older man was right where he belonged.
He pulled his T-shirt over his head, then grabbed his wallet and shoved it into a back pocket. Within a matter of minutes, he was in his truck and driving down the empty streets. As he drove, his thoughts finally had a chance to catch up with his body. Isabel had called him—and that touched him. He’d met her friends, and he knew exactly why she hadn’t called any of them. She needed support right now—her defenses were down. As she’d said, they were sharks and there was blood in the water.
Not that he could fix anything. Not that he could really do anything as the family lawyer. This was the job for doctors and nurses, but Isabel would need someone by her side, too. She’d need someone to tell her that it would be all right, to get her some coffee. That’s what he could offer tonight—a shoulder for her to lean on. And a steady flow of coffee.
The hospital was located in the next town over, and it took half an hour before he parked and headed in the sliding front doors. The waiting room was nearly empty. A young man in dusty jeans and cowboy boots sat on a chair cradling an arm, a tired young woman beside him. A nurse called him, and he stood up to follow her.
This was the quietest he’d ever seen the emergency room. Not that he’d been here often, but at this time of night, it would have to be a serious emergency to get someone to slog all the way out to the hospital. He looked around and spotted the triage window.
“Hi,” he said, dipping his head down to see the nurse behind. “A friend of mine was admitted tonight with a heart attack. George Baxter. I’m a friend of the family.”
Announcing that he was a lawyer didn’t always get the best results. Especially in a hospital.
“Yes, of course.” She tappe
d something on her computer. “I don’t see—”
“James?”
He looked up to see Isabel standing down the hallway. Her dark hair was mussed and her eyes were big and red-rimmed in her pale face. She crossed her arms over her chest as if protecting herself from falling apart. She looked smaller, somehow, thinner.
“Thanks,” he said to the nurse and headed in Isabel’s direction. She stood immobile and waited for him to get to her, then her face crumpled.
“Hey...” he murmured, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her solidly against his chest. She fit under his chin nicely, and he held her there while she shook with sobs. “Hey...” He wasn’t sure what else to say, so he kept repeating the word softly into her hair. She wrapped her arms around his waist and balled his shirt into her fists. He leaned forward, holding her close. He couldn’t fix this, but he could be that brick wall for her. It was what he was good at. Finally, she sucked in a shuddery breath and pulled away. She wiped at the wet spot she left behind on the front of his T-shirt.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“I’ll dry,” he said. “Are you okay? Where is your dad right now?”
She shook her head. “He—um—he’s gone.”
“What?” The words hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.
“He...” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “He didn’t make it. The doctor told us right after I hung up with you. They said there was just too much damage to his heart.”
“Oh, Izzy.” He didn’t have anything that could make this better, and he felt a lump rising in his own throat. George Baxter had been a force to be reckoned with, and he’d earned James’s respect. He’d been a good man, albeit flawed, and while he knew Izzy would feel this more than he did, it still was a personal loss.
“How can that happen?” she asked, looking pleadingly up into his face. “I don’t get it. He was fine. Last I saw him—last we saw him—he wasn’t sick. He was just fine.”
The last James had seen him, he’d been signing the papers in his house coat—perfectly healthy.
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