Brant's Return

I frowned. “See you off where?”

“Your dad is leaving for a lung treatment this morning,” May said. “I’m going to drive him to Louisville and stay with my cousin for the weekend while he’s there.”

“Breathing treatment?”

“It’ll decrease the pressure your father’s been feeling in his chest. Make him more comfortable they say,” May said, shooting my father a glance that held a measure of sympathy. What she was saying, I guessed, was that this was a treatment that would aid in his comfort, but not in the longevity of his life.

“We’ll be home on Monday,” May went on. “Isabelle will be here. You’ve got the house to yourselves, I guess.”

My heart picked up. “Has Isabelle been down yet?”

“Isabelle’s surely been up for hours. The girl rises before the sun. Probably out riding.”

“Where does she go?”

“Oh, all over,” May answered.

I frowned, not liking the idea of Isabelle out galloping through the pastures by herself. What if the horse fell? What if she got injured? Hell, the woman didn’t even carry a cell phone.

When I looked at my father I realized he was watching me closely, a small knowing smile on his lips that made me feel defensive for some unknown reason. “You were wrong about Isabelle, you know. She doesn’t expect a damn thing from me.”

“Do you want her to?”

A resounding yes echoed through my mind. “Maybe,” I replied.

He regarded me for a heartbeat. “From what I recall, you always were a persistent little bugger.”

May was looking back and forth between my dad and me, but she didn’t ask the questions I could see in her eyes, for which I was grateful. “Well, come on then,” May said. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late. You take care, Brant, and I’ll see you on Monday?” She eyed me hopefully, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah, May, you’ll see me Monday.”

She smiled, nodding her head as she moved past me. My father gave me one last look and then they both headed toward the front door, my father grumbling about having to endure May’s driving for the next hour.

I poured myself a cup of coffee in a travel mug, pulled my jacket from the hall closet, and headed to the stable. I saddled up Trapper, a beautiful chestnut whose personality was the perfect mix of gentle and feisty. He’d want to run, but he’d be responsive to my direction.

I rode out of the stable, waving at the guys in the yard and calling to let them know I’d be back soon. They waved in acknowledgment, turning back to their work. I was now recognized here and that knowledge sent a spiral of satisfaction through me. I was part of this place once again, not only in spirit, but in actuality. I was grateful that none of the staff were cold toward me. I had no clue what could and would have been said about my thirteen-year absence.

I allowed Trapper to run freely for a little while, keeping my eyes peeled for the sight of a lone rider out in the open pastures. There were so many small copses of trees, though, so it was difficult to see far in any one direction.

The stream had receded to its normal depth, and I could tell the ground was solid beneath Trapper’s feet. I thought back to the night of the flood, everything inside me quickening: my heart, the blood flowing through my veins, the desire in my body for the woman I was looking for. Where are you, Isabelle?

Just as I posed the question, I saw the small shape of a rider off to my right in the far distance and turned Trapper, anticipation and happiness ricocheting through my chest. Trapper and I moved toward her at a steady gallop and as we got closer, I realized her horse was standing still, neck lowered, grazing.

Isabelle looked over her shoulder and even though she was too far away for me to see her expression clearly, I saw her nudge her horse then move away from me, the horse breaking into a run.

She looked over her shoulder again and I thought she was smiling, which made me laugh in return, nudging Trapper faster, the charge of chasing a fleeing female catching at the primal part of me. Knuckle-headed Neanderthal, she’d called me. I laughed. Maybe she was right. Maybe there was something in a man’s DNA that naturally thrilled to a good chase. She raced ahead of me, this woman who seemed to know me better than I knew myself—or at least wasn’t afraid to call me on my bullshit. I hated it. And I loved it.

“Slow down,” I called, laughing.

She looked over her shoulder again. “Are you going to keep asking me to marry you?”

“Is that why you’re running from me?”

“Yes!” She laughed, the wind picking up the sweet sound and tossing it back at me.

God, she was amazing.

I nudged Trapper harder. Belle was a better rider than I was, I could admit as much, but the horse she’d chosen to take out today was a dappled-gray mare named Pretty Penny. She was sweet and reliable, but she couldn’t outrun Trapper. No way. I gained on her, leaning low like the jockeys, letting the cold fall air whoosh past me.