Detective Miller looked at Belle, something shifting in his eyes, the memory of that day maybe. His expression took on a note of sadness. “Yes. Another few minutes and . . .” He pulled in a breath and released it. “But my part was just good timing. It was because of you, that you survived.”
I winced slightly, feeling like an idiot. This was the man who’d saved Belle’s life. Christ, I’d buy him a beer or twenty if I wasn’t leaving Kentucky imminently. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, hoping my tone conveyed my sincerity, the deep gratitude I felt for this man who had been a hero to Belle when she’d needed one most.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Brant.” His smile seemed sincere as well. There was a small moment of awkwardness, and then I turned to Belle. “I’m going to head to the house. My dad will want to know that we’re back with the horses, and I’m sure you two can use some catching up.”
Belle smiled, opening her mouth as if to say something but then giving Hank a quick glance and closing it again. She nodded. “See you at the house.”
I shook Hank’s hand one more time and then walked to the house, letting myself in. Then I went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee and poured myself a cup, taking it out onto the porch.
I loved this spot. The fields and pastures stretched before me with a direct view to the stable below, the second stable a mere dot in the distance. The sun had completely risen in the sky and it looked as if the day was going to be warmer and hopefully dry. I spotted Belle walking along the fence line around the stable, Hank Miller at her side. Despite that I knew the role he’d played in her life, and was grateful for it, the sight of them strolling together made me feel edgy, and I wasn’t sure exactly why.
“What the hell were you two thinking going out in that mess last night?”
I turned around to see my father’s glower as he walked toward me.
“Good morning, Dad.”
He waved his hand around as if there was no time for niceties. “Could have gotten yourselves hurt or broken one of the horse’s legs.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I’m aware.” I glanced to where they had stopped, my gaze lingering on them for a moment. “Isabelle was really worried about that foal. She was upset. I went with her. No one else would have.” They’d have tried to talk her down, insisted she stay, I thought, remembering the haunted look in her eyes, the desperation, the need I now knew stemmed from her own personal tragedy. I turned more fully toward my father. “But I could have dissuaded her. I could have held her back. Blame me, not her.”
His eyes narrowed on me and he stared for long moments, his eyes widening ever so slightly as if he’d had a sort of revelation. He swore softly under his breath.
But then his flinty gaze raked over me once again before he glanced to where Isabelle was and back to me. “Where’d you find to sleep in that drafty old building?”
I looked away, feeling like a guilty teen for some inexplicable reason. “In Gramps’ office. We made a fire.”
I kept my eyes averted and for a moment, there was only silence from him. “Aw, hell. Tell me you did not take advantage of Isabelle.”
I let out a surprised laugh, a jolt of anger ricocheting through me. “Take advantage? We’re adults. And what we do with our time is none of your damn business.”
He swore softly under his breath agai
n, looking genuinely pained, and for a moment I wondered if he was having another attack of some sort. “Isabelle is not the sort of woman you use for a night and then discard, goddamn you.”
“Jesus.” I turned away, leaning my hands on the porch railing. “You’re making this out to be something it’s not,” I said, gritting my teeth, my ire rising. Presumptuous old fool.
“So you slept with her?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“You don’t have to. It’s all over your face. Hell, it’s been there since the first day you arrived. Your eyes follow her everywhere. You going to marry her?”
I was stunned silent for a moment. “Marry her?” I asked, incredulously. “This isn’t the 1950s. Things don’t work that way anymore, Harrison.”
His eyes narrowed at the use of his name. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“And who the fuck are you to give me advice about what’s right?”
He cringed, and strangely, I took no satisfaction in it. Instead I felt a distant throb of shame. “Someone who’s made mistakes and lived to regret them,” he said quietly, almost as if to himself.
I sighed. “Anyway, it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t using her.”
He watched me for a moment. “Yeah? And what if she’s pregnant?”
I stared back. What the hell? “What? No, she . . .” I stared off behind him at the shingles on the house, trying to get my thoughts straight. I hadn’t used a condom. Hell, I’d been half out of my damn mind I’d wanted her so bad. It was no excuse but . . . didn’t women usually . . . No, of course Isabelle wouldn’t be on birth control. Ah, Christ. I knew better. In New York, I always carried condoms. I always had a plan . . . I never acted impulsively like I had last night.
“If she’s pregnant, Isabelle’s the type of woman who will expect you to marry her,” my father reiterated. “Do you know anything about her background?”