Brant's Return

He seemed to consider that for a moment, finally blowing out a breath as if there was too much to think about in this exact moment. “My father had an affair with his secretary before my mother . . . died. It’s part of why we haven’t spoken in thirteen years. I only tell you that to explain my rush to judgment. I was wrong and I’m sorry. I really am.”

Oh. I gave my head a slight shake, not knowing what to feel about that information. “I didn’t know.” We were both quiet for a second. “I can’t say whether you and your father can make peace, Brant. But I hope you know that my intention was only to allow you both that opportunity. I have no personal stake in this, other than, well, I care about your father. He’s been good to me, and he helped me at a time when I needed it very much.”

He tilted his head, his eyes boring into me, and some crazy part of me felt as if his gaze could peel back my layers if I wasn’t very careful. This man who I’d thought was so full of artifice . . . so adept at playing games. And maybe he was. No, he definitely was. I had the feeling it was all part of his world. But . . . there was more there too. Or there had been once upon a time. Maybe he was only beginning to remember. He gave a small shake of his head as if his own thoughts had been moving in the same direction and instead of continuing on, he had chosen to step off that particular path. “Do you really have no interest in Graystone Hill?”

“Of course I have an interest in Graystone Hill. I love it there. I love everything about it. But do I have designs on owning it—?”

“Hey, that’s not what I meant. I don’t think you have designs on it. I was wrong about that, and I was sincere about my apology on that front. But what if my father actually wants to leave it to you? I saw you with the horses today, Belle. Are you telling me you wouldn’t want to do that full-time?”

“Your father’s offered to let me work at the stables full-time.”

He tilted his head. “Then why don’t you?”

I shrugged, blowing out a breath. “Horse training can be . . . emotional work. For me at least. I love it for that reason.” I needed it for that reason. “But the paperwork at the house, crunching numbers, organizing schedules, it’s a good balance. It works well for me.” I hoped to God I wouldn’t have to find another job after Harry died, but if I did, I now had more employable skills. And there was no lack of horse farms in Kentucky. I held on to that small comfort like a life preserver in the turbulent sea of Harry’s diagnosis and my own uncertain future.

“You could work as little or as much as you wanted if you owned Graystone Hill.”

The truth was, I liked to stay busy, needed to stay busy. A life of leisure would not benefit me in any regard nor was it something I aspired to. I shook my head. “I would never allow your father to leave me Graystone Hill. It should be yours, or belong to someone who has the first clue how to run a business. I wouldn’t accept it. It would feel wrong. But this is all a moot point anyway, Brant. Your father is not leaving Graystone Hill to me. If he mentioned that as a possibility, it was only to raise your hackles. Your father likes to do that, and I’m sure you know it as well as I do.”

He was quiet for a moment, something in his expression that I couldn’t quite discern. “Maybe.” He put his arm on the back of the pew, his long legs obviously cramped in the small space in front of us. “You have horses growing up?”

I smiled, picturing the barn of my childhood, the places I used to hide, the secret corners I’d made my own. The smell had brought such peace to my heart. The same way the scents of the Graystone Hill stable did for me now. “Yes. All kinds. Plowing horses, carriage horses. I learned to ride at Graystone Hill though, because where I come from, people don’t ride much.” I shook my head. “It’s just not done. It’s too much like a sport, and that’s not acceptable. But . . . you can’t grow up Amish without knowing a thing or two about horses.”

Brant grinned and my heart gave a small jolt. That smile. Good Lord, what couldn’t a man get with a smile like that? Nothing. There’s nothing he couldn’t get, and you’d be wise to remember that. You were led astray by a pretty smile once before . . . I pictured that smile now, twisting my hands in my lap as that old familiar pain buzzed through me.

“I’d say you know more than a thing or two, Belle.”

Belle. The first time he’d called me Belle, he’d said it mockingly. Now respect laced his tone. I liked the nickname as it rolled off his tongue. And I knew I shouldn’t.

I’d always been reckless though, hadn’t I? At least that’s what Mamm would say. At the thought of my mother, my lungs ached. Lord, but I missed her, even now, almost eight years since I’d last seen her. I’d been eighteen years old, a newly married woman, but I’d still needed her even as I’d watched her grow smaller and smaller through the back window of my husband’s car. “We should go,” I said, standing. “I have some things to do at the house and I’m sure you do too.” I stood and Brant followed suit, looking a tad confused by my abrupt need to leave. There were suddenly too many emotions swirling in this small space, too many memories that had been set free from the vault where I usually stored them. How funny that I’d done so with this man—the man who wasn’t even close to being a friend—when I didn’t revisit my past with anyone who didn’t already know about it. Maybe that was the reason I’d gone there at all. Maybe Brant was safe in some regards. But in any case, I needed to take a step back now. “Did you decide how long you’re staying?”

He ran a hand through his thick brown hair, leaving it slightly mussed. He’d taken off his long-sleeved shirt and was now wearing only the white T-shirt he must have had on beneath. It had a smear of dust on it and he looked nothing like the buttoned-up blowhard he’d been the night before. At the thought, I almost smiled, but held it back.

“I was going to leave today actually. But . . .” He looked off behind me as if he was just now considering the question I’d asked. “Another day or two wouldn’t hurt.” The corners of his eyes tightened and he looked sort of taken aback, as if he’d surprised himself and didn’t exactly know how or why. He looked at me again. “Yeah. I’ll be staying.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Brant

So Isabelle had been married. Was that the loss she was still trying to get over? The reason she’d been reading the book on the topic? It had to be. Why in the world did the knowledge that she’d been married make my stomach tense? I didn’t know much about her and it wasn’t as if anything would happen between us. I was attracted to her. I’d admitted that. Hell, attraction seemed like too mild a word for how I reacted to her. But nothing could come of it for a hundred reasons, so in the end, what did it really matter?

An Amish girl and the bourbon king of New York City. There were so many jokes in there I couldn’t begin to sort through them all. Not that I was the bourbon king of New York City. Yet. And maybe I never would be, but even the thought of an Amish girl and a man who profited from drinking, partying, and sin in any multitude of varieties, was pretty damn funny.

Right?

Why was I thinking about this anyway? A total waste of time. Funnily enough, the thought of Isabelle owning Graystone Hill didn’t really bother me anymore. She said she wouldn’t allow my father to leave it to her, but really, how could she stop him if he was bent on doing so? And if my father was going to leave it to anyone, she wouldn’t be the worst choice, and she certainly wouldn’t be interested in a bourbon formula of all things. She’d be willing to sell it to me—why wouldn’t she?

My father would be discharged later today. May had said he was grumbling and complaining, which I took to mean he was back to his old self. I should spend some time working on my laptop, catching up on business in New York, but instead, when I found the house empty, I walked to the stable in search of . . . in search of what? Isabelle. Just be honest with yourself. You’re looking for Isabelle.

“Hey city slicker,” Gus greeted, clapping me on the back.

I grinned. “Gus. I’m gonna convince you I’ve still got a little Kentucky boy in me yet.”

Gus chuckled, winking. “I don’t doubt it. You here to ride?”

“Yeah, ah, is Isabelle around?”

Gus gave me a quick glance, a knowing look in his eyes. “Yeah, she’s out in the yard. Here, I’ll saddle Sugar Cube for you.”