Bran knew the last remark was meant as an insult. “I don’t try to fit into the group, as you call them, but I keep them happy and well-fed.”
“Like pets?”
“No. More like livestock.”
“I see.”
“That’s why I need Carina. She speaks their language.”
“You don’t need another goat to take care of your goats. You need a goatherd.”
“Carina’s not like the others. She’s smarter than you think.”
“No doubt that woman is smarter than you think. Mark my words, you will not control her. She will as soon cut your throat as the steak on your plate.”
Bran finished tying his shoes before responding. “Then I better not give her anything sharper than a table knife.”
A creak of the chair indicated Fordham’s rise to his feet, and Bran wasn’t surprised when his voice moved. “Having one’s carotid sawed open with a dull blade hardly sounds more pleasant than a quick slice with a razor.”
Bran reached up and clasped the hand he knew was offered, though he didn’t need help standing. He paused, turning his face square to Fordham’s. “You think she hates me that much?”
“On the contrary, I believe she loves you a great deal… as one loves a trust fund.”
Bran strode into the hallway, snatching his cane where it leaned against the door jamb without breaking stride. “I have my reasons.”
“I don’t trust her.” Fordham kept pace with him.
“Me, neither. I thought you’d watch her for me.”
“A formidable task that will be, when she becomes the mistress of the household.”
Pausing at the door to his workout room, Bran put his hand on Fordham’s shoulder. “But you’ll do it?”
His long-suffering sigh was loud enough to carry all the way down the stairs. “I will try.”
“Thank you, Fordham.” Bran squeezed his shoulder. “If the guys are up, tell them I’ll be down for breakfast after my run.”
“Not necessary. Most reasonable people don’t awaken two hours before the sun rises.”
“I feel sorry for all the rest of you, tied to a ball of fire ninety-three million miles away.”
“Every person needs to sleep—even you. Your health will suffer if you continue to operate on four hours of rest at night.”
“Sleep is a waste of time, like this argument.”
To avoid any further discussion on the subject, Bran strode to the treadmill to start his daily run. Though he tried to concentrate only on exercise—pushing his body to the limits—thoughts of Stephanie kept inching their way inside his head.
He remembered the day, several months after she started working for him, when she’d started an awkward conversation.
“Branson? Can I make a suggestion?”
He could hear the nervous tinge in her tone. Something’s up.
“You can try. I probably won’t take your advice,” he joked, hoping to put her at ease.
“You told me once you don’t sleep very much. Is that from being blind?”
“Yes. Without light and dark stimulation, your body’s circadian rhythms don’t work right. It’s pretty common in people who are totally blind.”