“I am not squirming. Look, I’m not going to sit here and be interrogated by my own brother!”
She had a point. But after the way Char had treated him—after the way he had reacted to her and still couldn’t get the soft shape of her mouth out of his mind—Adam had to admit to a certain lack of objectivity, not to mention patience. He couldn’t blame Beth for holding back on him. He was doing the same to her. He had told her everything about his trip to Tennessee, except for one telling, crucial fact; that Char was mixed up somehow with Beth’s ex-husband. From Beth’s tepid reaction to the goings-on in Nashville, Adam had to assume she didn’t know about Harlan Rockwood’s apparent involvement in Char’s problems.
So what did his sister know that she wasn’t telling him?
He drank some of his own cider, suddenly wishing, in a jumble of emotions he couldn’t seem to sort out, that Char were there with him.
Good Lord, what was happening to him?
He was a sane, practical, stable man. He didn’t lust after crazy women who lived in tents. He didn’t lie awake nights thinking about them. After his confrontation with Ginger, Harlan Rockwood’s housekeeper, he had raced back to Char’s campsite and found little more than pounded grass and fish bones to indicate she had even been there. She had pulled up stakes and fled while he was off on another wild-goose chase. Whatever she was, Charity Bradford was no dummy. If she had been on the river when he had returned from the latest Southern mansion she didn’t live in, there was no telling what he would have done. The idea made him uncomfortable; he didn’t like not being able to predict his own actions.
Or maybe he was just pretending he didn’t know exactly what he would have done. Throughout his flight to Boston, his ride back to Vermont and his long, lonely night at home, he had imagined not strangling Char for her shenanigans, but making love to her in that damn sweaty tent of hers.
He had hoped being back in his own time zone and on New England’s rocky soil would help knock some sense back into him.
So far, not so good.
“Char has her own way of doing things,” Beth said, cutting into her brother’s wandering thoughts. Another bad sign: he wasn’t the kind of man whose mind wandered.
“What things?”
“Maybe land prices were higher than she anticipated and she’s living in a tent so she can save every nickel to buy her spread. You know Char. She doesn’t do anything halfway.”
“Beth, she’s living in a tent because she’s broke.”
“You don’t know that,” Beth snapped.
“There, you see?” Adam countered. “You are defending her.”
“I’m not. You don’t like her, so you’re hot to hang her from the nearest tree.”
“My mind has run more toward drowning.”
“There, you see? You have her tried and convicted!”
“Damn right.” He settled back against the bottom of the couch, stretching out his legs, perfectly aware he was goading his sister. “What more evidence do I need?”
“Maybe there were...” Beth bit her lip, then plunged in and finished, “mitigating circumstances.”
Now he was getting somewhere. “Such as?”
“You shouldn’t complain about Char,” Beth grumbled. “You’d have made a hell of a lawyer yourself. Most people you could cut in two with those eyes of yours. You can be such a bastard, Adam. Damn it, quit looking at me like that!”
“What are you hiding?”
“Adam—”
“Tell me, Beth, or I’m on the phone to Char’s ex-husband telling him he ought to sue for custody of his daughter because her mother’s got her living in a tent.”
Beth grew very still. “You wouldn’t.”
“In fifteen seconds I will.”
“Adam, this is none of your business.”
“You made it my business when you asked me to check on Char. I’m counting.”
Beth groaned. “And Char used to wish she had older brothers.”
“Eight seconds.”
“It would kill her to lose Emily. It would kill Emily.”
“She’d have a proper bed. She could take a bath.” Adam climbed to his feet. “Time’s up.”
Beth remained on the floor, but said something in a small voice.
Adam spun around, thinking he’d heard right but not believing—praying—he hadn’t. “Say that again.”
Scowling, Beth repeated what Adam thought he’d heard. “Char invested almost all of her money in a horse.”
“A horse?”
All Beth could do was nod.
“Millicent left her at least forty grand, and she had her savings and her profits from selling her house. Are you telling me she bet it all on a damn horse?”
“Not bet. Invested.”
“There are no guarantees with horses. You don’t bet money you can’t afford to lose.”
Beth stiffened. “Char knew the risks.” Then, slumping all at once, she added, “So did 1.”
“You?”
“Since you know everything else, you might as well know that I had Char invest twenty thousand for me.”
Adam clenched his hand at his side and kept himself from shouting. “You can’t afford to lose twenty thousand.”
“I know, but...” She refused to finish.
“But what?”
Beth climbed to her feet and grabbed her coat off the couch. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Beth, please.” Adam touched her arm with a gentleness that amazed him. But he had seen the pain— the worry—in her eyes. “Tell me.”
“Char guaranteed my investment.”
“She what?”
“There’s no financial risk for me. She insisted.”
Adam’s short-lived calm vanished, and he felt as if he would explode. His hand dropped from his sister’s side as he backed off and looked for something to throw, something to relieve the pent-up frustration he was feeling, the sheer impotence.
He swung back around at Beth. “Right now your buddy Char can’t even guarantee herself a hot meal, never mind your twenty grand.”
“Adam...” Now all at once Beth looked scared; he could see her swallow. “Do you think something happened to the horse?”
“You mean you’ve got twenty thousand dollars invested with her and you don’t know what’s going on?”
“No. Char keeps assuring me everything’s fine, but—”
“But she also told you she lives in a museum.”
“I’m worried,” Beth said simply.
Adam exhaled. “I know.”
“Not about me—about Char. You know how she is.”
Yes, he did. Charity Winnifred Bradford was the last person he knew who would ever admit to failure. Adam was suddenly glad his instincts had kept him from bringing up Harlan Rockwood’s name. There was no point in adding to his sister’s concerns, at least not until he had more information. Had Char dragged Harlan into her scheme as well? Impossible. Not even she was that crazy.
“I wish I knew what to do,” Beth said.
“You don’t do anything,” Adam advised without hesitation. “You’re too close to Char and you’ve got too much riding on whatever the hell it is she’s up to. Let me see what I can do.”
Beth’s green eyes widened suddenly, and she gave her brother a surprised, knowing look that suggested she had a fair idea of what had been going on in his mind since he had watched Char walk across the beautiful grounds of Belle Meade to her car two days ago.
‘Thanks, Adam,” his sister said judiciously.
He grunted. “No thanks needed. Your buddy gave me the runaround one time too many. I’m not going to make any promises, but I’ll do what I can to find out what’s really going on with that lunatic.”
Chapter Five
THE WEEKENDS WHEN Emily flew to New York to be with her father were the most difficult for Char, but at least they came only once a month. She had hoped she would cope better in their new cottage than the tent, but the emptiness of the tiny house, E
m’s drawings on the refrigerator, her bath toys in the basket next to the tub, only served to remind Char of her aloneness. In Vermont she had never really minded Emily’s monthly visits with her father. She would use the time to catch up on work, go to movies and concerts without having to pay a baby-sitter, just be alone with a fire in the fireplace and a good book to read. Tennessee wasn’t like that for her, not yet. If she had more furniture, she supposed she might feel more at ease. But maybe not. There was more to her restlessness than not owning a sofa; it had to do with lost dreams and failure and a deep, swelling, endless fury with herself for ever having been dumb enough to get swindled out of everything she had.
Harlan Rockwood had betrayed her trust. She would prove it and make him answer for what he had done.
The thought of retribution got her out of bed and off to work on the quiet, delightfully cool Saturday morning without Emily, just over a week after Adam Stiles had intruded into their lives and launched Char into a house she couldn’t afford.
Today was her last day at Belle Meade. Monday she began work at a cosmetics counter at a moderate-priced department store in downtown Nashville. She had given up on the legal profession until she had her credentials together to practice law in the state of Tennessee. In the meantime her boss at the department store had subtly let her wishes be known on the subject of Char’s fingernails, namely that she ought to grow them. Char supposed painting her nails magenta wasn’t nearly as bad a fate as typing letters for a sleazy lawyer. Not that she wouldn’t have taken that job if offered.
Such was the state of her desperation.
At least Emily liked the idea of magenta fingernail polish.
Char’s last day at Belle Meade flew by, and maybe because she had only her empty house and an immediate future behind a cosmetics counter to look forward to, she thought about Adam far more than she would have liked...or ever have admitted. All week she had expected to walk out to her car and find him sitting on the hood, ready to strangle her. There hadn’t been a word from him since she had sent him off to Harlan Rockwood’s. Nor had she heard from Beth. If Adam had realized Char was squatting on Rockwood land and had told Beth, there would have been no keeping her in Vermont. So either Adam hadn’t realized it or hadn’t told Beth.
Char hated not knowing for sure, but finding out entailed at least a phone call to Vermont. Best to leave well enough alone on that score.
Most likely Adam had figured she had made it clear she wanted him to mind his own business, decided to respect her wishes and gone back to his logs. She had no idea why that prospect depressed her, but it did. Was she so damn desperate to have someone care about her that even Adam, who didn’t even like her, would do?
Suddenly she missed her Great-Aunt Millicent so much she could have cried. Aunt Mil had cared about her. She had been the one person in the world whose unconditional love Char had known she could count on. She could have told Aunt Mil everything.
She said goodbye to her friends at Belle Meade and started out to her car, the loneliness of that morning returning in full force. In spite of her wish not to, she remembered Adam’s smile and his laugh and his generosity with Emily at dinner. If she didn’t settle up with Harlan Rockwood and get on with her life soon, she just might end up doing something crazier than investing her life savings, her inheritance and her best friend’s money in a crummy horse.
The only thing crazier than that would be renewing her twelve-year-old’s crush on Adam Stiles.
That wouldn’t be crazy. That would be downright laughable.
And just as futile as expecting her beautiful, expensive Thoroughbred would win a race against anyone except kids on bicycles.
With her job at Belle Meade finished, she suddenly realized, anyone coming down to Tennessee would have a tough time locating her. She tried to tell herself it was just as well; she didn’t need anyone meddling in her affairs right now. But as she approached her car, she had to acknowledge the gnawing of panic in her gut…in her very soul. She was on her own.
Then she stopped dead and decided she was seeing things. Too much desperation, too much loneliness, too much introspection. Too much caffeine. Something.
She blinked once, twice, three times and all she got for her effort was dizzy.
Adam Stiles remained on the hood of her car.
He looked every inch the uncompromising Yankee he was, but Char couldn’t hold back a giddy smile— until she remembered she had given the man cause to be very angry with her indeed. Then she stopped smiling and told herself to be sensible. She had dug herself a large hole with this man. Best to consider ways to climb out of it without his wanting to boot her back in.
“Adam? That is you.”
She laughed the kind of laugh lawyers made when clients popped into the office unannounced. It sounded forced, which it was. Not only did she have simple shock to contend with, not to mention her loneliness without Emily, her apprehension about starting her new job and her feelings of disorientation at moving to a new house. But she also had to deal with something more elemental, something primitive and unexpected and utterly impossible to deny. And that was her simple, raw awareness of the man. Of Adam. It was like suddenly finding the neighbor’s German shepherd, whom you had considered mean and unapproachable for years, as dopey and friendly as a golden retriever puppy.
Bad analogy, Char thought. She wasn’t all at once finding Adam dopey and friendly. Sexy and desirable were more like it.
He wasn’t wearing his hook, but that wasn’t what she noticed first. His eyes were. They were dark and narrowed and not very pleased.
“Good gracious,” she went on, falling on her favorite old Southern expression. “What a surprise. Are you back in Nashville on business?”
“You could say that.”
His voice was deep and serious, his words clipped in that Yankee way. Char had gotten so accustomed to the pleasant rhythms of the South that she was even more attuned to every nuance of his voice, taking nothing for granted. There was no drawl to mitigate the knee-wobbling effect of his words... just his eyes. Focused on her as intently as they were, they brimmed not with controlled anger or even cool neutrality, but with the same confusion Char herself was feeling. Or maybe she was projecting her own emotions onto him, deciding he felt what she wanted him to feel—what she herself felt.
In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if he had deliberately sought her out, because Adam Stiles wasn’t a man to let anyone have the last word.
“Oh?” She couldn’t think of much else to say that wouldn’t sound defensive or antagonistic or plain dumb. “Tell me more.”
“In the car.”
“Mine? Where’s yours?”
“I took a cab from the airport.”
Must have cost a pretty penny. “Directly here?”
Almost a smile. “You got it.”
Not good, Char thought. Not good at all. It wouldn’t be easy to get rid of him this time. “Adam, if you came all the way to Tennessee just for revenge because I jerked you around a little—”
“Not a little, Char. A lot.”
“You had it coming to you.”
“How so?”
She didn’t know how so, except that he had stopped in to see a friend while he was in town and unknowingly had pulled the rug out from under the life she had fashioned for herself for the folks back home in Vermont. But she had to say something. ‘‘You shouldn’t have been so relentless.”
His eyes grew warm as they searched hers. “I thought I was just being a friend.”
“You should have guessed.” She cleared her throat, hating his sincerity. His gentleness. Why couldn’t he be mad? “Never mind. What’s your revenge to be?”
He didn’t rise to her bait, but simply shook his head. “I don’t want revenge.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Answers, I guess.”
She laughed bitterly. “Don’t we all.”
If she wasn’t going to give Adam answers, Char decided she should s
top telling him lies. At least not so many. She drove Adam to her little rented house outside Nashville and sat him at what passed for a kitchen table: a white-painted board over two sawhorses. What furniture she hadn’t sold was in storage in Vermont. Emily had picked a bunch of black-eyed Susans, which Char had put in a jelly jar and sat in the middle of her makeshift table, and they had found a couple of folding wooden chairs that sort of matched. Add a couple of sky-blue place mats and Char found she didn’t particularly miss her antique Shaker table in storage in Vermont.
Adam sat on one of the folding chairs while Char put on the kettle for coffee. The ease with which she could now boil water continued to delight her. Ah, to appreciate the little things in life. From what she had observed of Adam over the years, she supposed he already did.
One point in his favor, anyway.
He looked around the simple kitchen. “This isn’t Belle Meade or Cheekwood,” he observed, “and it sure as hell isn’t the Rockwood estate, but it does have your stamp on it. And it’s better than that tent of yours.”
Char shrugged as she got her coffeepot and filter and two mugs down from the open shelves. “I don’t know. A couple of nights Emily and I have missed our tent. Reading aloud under a proper roof just isn’t the same.”
“How long were you on the river?”
“Just a month.”
Adam sat very still, his eyes narrowed, capable, it seemed, of peering into her very soul. “Why?”
“We’d rented a farmhouse,” Char explained, squelching the urge to lie. “Nothing fancy, but nice. There was a big porch with a swing, and blackberry bushes and a gorgeous view of the river. The rent was fair, but not cheap.” With a sigh she spooned coffee into the filter. She used to buy gourmet beans and grind them herself; now she settled for whatever was on sale at the grocery store. “I kept us there as long as I could.”
“It was furnished?”
Char nodded. “What furniture I didn’t sell when we left Vermont I had stored. I saved a few of Mother’s and Aunt Millicent’s pieces—antiques, that sort of thing. I figured I’d have everything shipped when we got settled. I didn’t want to rent a trailer and drag a lot of stuff down.”
Within Reason: Mill Brook Trilogy, Book 2 Page 7