Brant's Return

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.”