Brant's Return

Then again, my father had also said he wasn’t interested in the bourbon business. That had been my grandfather’s hobby. My father loved Graystone Hill for the land, the horses. So if he wasn’t interested in the bourbon, why hadn’t he sold it to Edwin Bruce long before now? What had he been saving it for all this time? Or who?

Me? Was that even plausible?

A beat of emotion at the idea alone flitted through me, but I didn’t dwell on what I had no real way of knowing. What I did know was that I wasn’t going to give it up to Edwin Bruce without a fight.

I stood. Edwin didn’t so much as blink. Nor did he stand. “I think we both know how this is going to end, Edwin. Buy some golf clubs. It’s time to retire.” I turned, letting myself out of his office, not even glancing at his assistant as I stalked by and out the front door into the brisk New York air.

**********

I couldn’t fucking focus. I paced my office for a few minutes, finally standing in front of the window, looking out at the New York skyscape, unseeing. I felt antsy, uptight. I’d give anything to be able to hop on a horse and gallop somewhere fast and far, the pounding of hooves loosening the thoughts in my mind and allowing them to fly away, the air rushing at my face, the exhilaration of speed causing that soaring feeling in my chest.

I used to get this feeling inside me . . . sort of like a choir, rising, falling, only one without sound. It would squeeze at my heart one second and then make it feel lighter than air the next.

Belle. What are you doing right now? I needed to stop thinking about her. Her words. Her presence. But how could I? She consumed my thoughts.

I put my hands in my pockets, picturing her in the training yard with the horses, her auburn braid trailing over her shoulder, glinting red in the sun. I pictured the heartbreaking sight of her crying against Mona Lisa’s neck as the rain fell around her, envisioned the way she’d looked later . . . lying in the dying glow of the fire, her skin flushed, her expression filled with wonder-laced passion. “Ah, Christ,” I hissed, running my hands through my hair and holding on to my scalp for a moment. I couldn’t fucking stop thinking about her. She tormented me. Thirteen days of being tormented to be exact.

And you didn’t even say goodbye, you coward. You didn’t say goodbye, and you haven’t called her. What did she think? What could she think?

My thoughts scattered with the ringing of my cell phone. I pulled it from my pocket, glancing at the screen before taking the call. Derek. I gave him a brief rundown of my meeting with Edwin Bruce, ending the call quickly. I’d been brusque, I knew, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk.

When I turned from the window I was surprised to see Sondra standing in my doorway. How long had she been there? Her face morphed into a smile as she walked into my office, her body shapely in a fitted emerald-colored dress. “Well hello, handsome.”

Her floral perfume met my nose as she leaned in, kissing me on the cheek, and then using her thumb to wipe off the lipstick she must have left there. “Why the glower? Rough day?” she asked, her hips swaying as she walked to the chair and sat.

I sighed, moving to the front of my desk and leaning on the edge. “Yeah.” I rubbed at one eye. “And long. I’m just tired.”

“Poor darling.” She tilted her head. “Why don’t you let me cook for you tonight? We were interrupted that night at your place, and I only saw you for a minute at the fundraiser last week. Some alone time is overdue, don’t you think?” She gave me a flirtatious smile.

I frowned and Sondra looked wounded for a moment. “Don’t look so excited.”

I shook my head. “No, no, I’m sorry, Sondra. It’s just . . .” What did I say? I know we started something but . . . I met someone? I can’t get a different girl out of my head? I look at you and all I want is Belle? A girl I barely know, a girl with a messy braid, calloused hands, and dust smeared on her cheek? I let out a frustrated breath. I needed to forget about Belle. I’d already determined there wasn’t another choice. Still, I didn’t want to lead Sondra on either. I wasn’t interested. Not anymore. Maybe I never had been.

Maybe my whole life was a big game of pretend. Maybe? Like hell. “Listen, Sondra—”

“Brant, I know what this is. You’re all twisted up because your father is dying. It’s understandable, darling. What you need is a little time to get your head back in the game so to speak.” She moved toward me, taking my hands in hers. Her palms were baby soft, smooth, not a callous to be found. “Just remember.” She paused, her tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip. “I’m not the type of woman you keep waiting for long.”

She gave my hands one final squeeze and then turned, sashaying out of my office, the door clicking quietly behind her.

I let out a breath, relieved she was gone, but her final words repeated in my head. I’m not the type of woman you keep waiting for long.

And then the words my father had said, anger lacing his voice.

Isabelle’s the type of woman who will expect you to marry her.

Could my father have been right about that? I still didn’t think so, but . . . I mean, fuck, what if he was right? What if, because of her upbringing, Isabelle was so naïve she thought sleeping together meant I’d marry her? Me leaving like that must have felt like a desertion. Especially after she’d already been left to helplessly fend for herself once, even if under very different circumstances. Abandoned.

I dropped into the chair behind my desk, turning on my laptop. I had so much damn work to do, and yet I couldn’t fucking focus.

Look her up, my father had said. I hadn’t, because looking at her story as a news article on the Internet sounded intrusive, painful. Now that I’d heard the details from the woman who’d been there, the horror of the memory clear in her voice, the grief etched into her expression, how could I stomach experiencing it reduced to a few unemotional paragraphs typed out in black and white? And yet, despite my reservations, I brought up a search bar. I still didn’t know her married name, but now that I knew the crime she’d been a victim of and the rough timeframe, finding the information was easy using specific search terms: Kentucky home invasion, lone survivor, family murdered in their home. Fuck me. I already felt sick.

I pulled up the first article, scanning through it. It was a summary of what Isabelle had told me. I already knew the events, yet it still caused my chest to hurt, my jaw to clench. I clicked on the second article, speed-reading, scrolling down the screen. I stopped, one line jumping out at me that I hadn’t seen in the other article. Zeke Harvey, the man who’d invaded their home that evening, killing Isabelle’s family and leaving her with scars on her body and in her soul that she’d wear for the rest of her life, had held them tied up for four hours. Four. Hours.

I groaned aloud. She hadn’t told me that. I wondered why, wondered if the memory of those hours were filled with so much unfathomable anguish that she couldn’t even speak of them. To watch your child cry for you to save her the way her daughter must have done . . . I clenched my eyes shut, closing the top of my computer without even turning

it off. No wonder her heart had broken all over again the night Mona Lisa couldn’t comfort her foal, the one Isabelle must have known was crying for its mother. No wonder.

I leaned my elbows on the desk, holding my head in my hands for long minutes. What she’d gone through . . . it was even worse than I’d thought, if that were possible. And the feeling roiling through my gut, shooting into my limbs and compelling me to do something was possession. Protection. Distress that I was here and she was there. And yet, she was safe now, safe at Graystone Hill. Her refuge.