Within Reason: Mill Brook Trilogy, Book 2

by Carla Neggers

  “It’s nice that they didn’t junk it.”

  “It is, although it’s not a valuable antique or anything. Aunt Mil picked it up in the fifties at a flea market. She bought it specifically for the house, so I felt it was more a part of the place than of her, or I might have kept it.”

  “The Eberharts have done work in the yard, too, haven’t they?” Adam asked, knowing they had. He hadn’t been by the Bradford place in months, but he’d heard talk in town that it was finally getting spruced up. There were those who had valued Millicent Bradford as a teacher and town volunteer while complaining about her less-than-meticulous ways as a home owner. As far back as he could remember, people had tried to talk her into hiring a handyman. Even, if he believed town gossip, her grandniece Char had a go at the stubborn Yankee. Mil had rebuffed all comers, claiming she liked her place just the way she kept it.

  “They pruned the hell out of the herb garden and rosebushes, which they needed, and took down the dead elm by the mailbox and did what they could about the blackberry bushes. It’s a different place, really. But the same, too. The herbs and roses will come back, and they and the lilacs and most of the other trees and perennials were all planted by Aunt Mil or my great-grandparents.”

  Adam could hear the pain—the guilt—in Char’s voice, but he didn’t sense she was looking to him to change the subject. ‘‘What about the house itself?”

  “Well, they’re not painting it chartreuse or anything. They’re insulating and putting in new windows, doing some rewiring and plumbing, but they’re going to extraordinary lengths to preserve the ‘architectural integrity’—their words—of the house itself. And they want to preserve its history, a sense of the personalities who built the house and lived in it for so many generations.” Char looked at Adam, the flames of the fire blazing in her sad, stubborn eyes. “All Bradfords, of course.”

  Adam could guess what was on her mind. “You did what you felt you had to do when you sold the place.”

  “Did I?”

  “That’s something only you can answer,” he said. Then, after a moment, he added, “Or have any right to ask. It’s none of anyone else’s business.”

  Char pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her ankles. “I could have hung on to the place, you know.”

  Adam said nothing.

  “It would have taken most of my savings and everything Aunt Mil had left me to pay the taxes and even do the basic work on cleaning up and modernizing the house, but I could have managed.”

  “If you’d wanted a rambling old house and ten acres of land.”

  “Look what I got instead.” But before he could comment, she added quickly, “Imagine what my ancestors went through to get that house and land.”

  “And why do you suppose they did? So future Bradfords would feel forced to live there? That’s not what I want for my kids, and I doubt that’s what they wanted for theirs. When I’m gone, this place will be Abby and David’s to keep or to sell—if I haven’t gotten rid of it and moved to Florida by then.”

  Char shot him a look and grinned. “Not a chance.”

  “You never know. From what I recall, Char, Mil hesitated about leaving you the house in the first place. She wanted to spare you the guilt over having to decide what to do with it. I think she finally decided guilt’s not your style.” He looked at her, the firelight making her hair shine, her pale skin glisten. “It isn’t, you know.”

  “Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean...” She didn’t finish, sighing as she kicked out her legs once more. “The fact is, I could have kept the house. Instead I sold it and virtually everything I own and gave up my law practice and invested my profits in a dud horse. So now I have nothing.”

  “Don’t you?” Adam asked, and for the first time he thought he understood what had sent Charity Bradford to Tennessee a year ago. Not her dream—not her passion for her horses or her willingness to put everything in a deal with Harlan Rockwood. A dream was as personal and individual as anything Adam could imagine. But he thought he understood why, then, it had been now or never. He went on, “Imagine for a moment you did hang on to the Bradford house. Where would you be today?”

  “I’d have a home,” she said. “So would Emily.”

  “You’d be knee-deep in insulation, layers of wallpaper, mice skeletons, extension cords, dead bushes—and wondering what life would have been like if you had grabbed for the brass ring instead.”

  “I suppose. And what has this experience taught my daughter?”

  “A little about what counts in life and what doesn’t.”

  Char turned toward him, her hair falling in her eyes as she searched his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t have done what I did, but you don’t condemn me?”

  “I don’t condemn you, Char,” he said carefully. “That doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re not crazy for living like a damn rat instead of calling on your friends for help. But that has to do with pride, not dreams.”

  She tilted her head back. “Sometimes you amaze me, Adam Stiles. And you’re right. I made my choice a year ago and I was so excited. I’ve never had such a rush as when I packed up and headed to Tennessee. I did what I wanted to do and ended up broke.”

  “But not in debt,” Adam pointed out cheerfully.

  “Who’d lend a broke woman money?” She laughed suddenly, her eyes shining. “Any more brandy left?”

  “Sure.”

  He climbed to his feet and divided the last of the bottle between their two glasses, handing Char hers before he sat back beside her.

  She smiled and held her glass up for a toast. “To Aunt Mil—for making dreams possible, for me and for the Eberharts.” She and Adam clinked glasses and drank up, and she settled back, getting cozy. “Strange how one person’s nightmare can be another person’s dream. Those people love that house.”

  “And Mill Brook.”

  “What’s there not to love about Mill Brook?”

  “Lots. We’ve both lived here long enough to know that.” Adam knew they were moving into more intimate territory now, venturing closer to talking about them and what had gone on between them in Nashville. His eyes on her, Adam asked, “Has a new dream replaced the old one of getting out of Mill Brook?”

  “It wasn’t just getting out of Mill Brook,” she explained. “It was also going to Tennessee and raising horses—a positive motivation, not just a negative one. And the timing seemed perfect. Aunt Mil was gone. I had a bunch of cases go sour on me all at once. I wanted out, and I got out.”

  “Have you ever looked back?”

  “You know I have.”

  “But?”

  “But I’m not willing to give up, Adam, Not yet. I’ve got to figure out what’s going on with Harlan. Then I’ll go on from there. I love Tennessee, and I love the idea of raising horses, if not the reality. I don’t know. Right now when I think of where I want to live, it’s in terms of a place with enough electrical outlets and a dishwasher.”

  “The advantages of new construction,” Adam said.

  “Said the president of Mill Brook Post and Beam.”

  Her smile nearly knocked him over with its brightness, its way of warning him that Charity Bradford may have blown her dream, but she wasn’t a failure. She hadn’t given up, and if coming home to Mill Brook would mean she had, Adam didn’t want any part of it. They would just have to work something out. At least, he thought, as far as he was concerned.

  He touched her hair, feeling the softness of her cheek through it, and found her mouth, kissing her lightly. He felt so warm around her. So alive. Not just a father, a brother, a businessman, but simply, a man. The rest were roles he played, important roles; they contributed to who he was. But with Char, he didn’t have to worry about the right response to her report card or the environmental consequences of logging a certain tract of land. He could just be himself. He could discuss those things with her, share his concerns with her�
�and his triumphs and joys.

  Even if she stays in Tennessee?

  “Yes,” he breathed, his mouth finding hers again.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  He smiled. “I said come to bed with me.”

  Located in a separate wing off the first floor, Adam’s bedroom, with the strength and simplicity of its lines and decor, was a reflection of the man who lived there. A tall, paned window, almost as high as the cathedral ceiling, overlooked the back woods.

  “Do you worry about bears climbing into bed with you at night?” she asked.

  “Nope. I’m too restless. Being in the woods makes you nervous?”

  She shook her head. “I have a feeling bears are the least of my worries.”

  “I don’t know as I’ve never seen a bear out back here.”

  “Keep a shotgun in the closet just in case?”

  “No guns around the kids. The risk of an accident’s a lot greater than the risk of a bear. And you ought to know we don’t have many bears around here—and none to worry about. This place isn’t anywhere near as isolated as it might seem.”

  He was right, and she knew it. Char felt removed from the pressures of civilization, but not isolated: the main road into town was at the end of the driveway. Still, she was undeniably, if inexplicably, tense.

  Pushing her uneasiness to the back of her mind, she observed that the handsome bedroom also had a separate entrance onto a terrace, and its own granite fireplace. Adam hunched over it, quickly and deftly starting a fire.

  “Do you have a fire in here every night?” she asked. “When it’s cold, I mean.”

  “No—only when the spirit moves me. Sometimes I’ll build a fire and sit and read a book just to settle down after a long day. Usually I don’t bother and just read near the fire in the family room.”

  “Then I’ll feel honored.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her, but didn’t smile. “You should.”

  The uneasiness came over her again. She felt warm and jumpy, anxious—even self-conscious—if not exactly nervous.

  She cleared her throat and rubbed her hands together, not reassured to notice her palms were clammy. “I’d like to get the road dust off me, if that’s all right.”

  He kept his attention focused on the fire and just pointed without looking around at her. “Bathroom’s down the hall, second door.”

  It was a functional, pleasant bathroom with an oversize white tub, a white pedestal sink and shelves piled with white Egyptian cotton towels. Char filled the tub with water as hot as she could stand and tossed in a capful of almond-scented bath and shower gel. The water bubbled as she peeled off her clothes.

  You need to relax, Ms. Charity, she told herself.

  If only she could pinpoint exactly what was wrong. Or maybe wrong wasn’t the correct word. Not right, anyway. Something just wasn’t right with her.

  She wished she knew what Adam was thinking. That certainly had to be a factor in her unsettled mood. She could ask him, of course. They could talk, analyze, rationalize. What did he think about her? About himself? About them? It would all get very serious and no doubt one or the other would bring up horses and Tennessee and Harlan Rockwood.

  She didn’t want to talk, she realized. She didn’t want to think too much.

  Maybe that was the problem. What she wanted— and this just wasn’t like her at all—was just to go with the moment. Be spontaneous. Act without an agenda. Just let happen whatever was going to happen.

  Yet.. .she was a practical woman. And practical women didn’t go around sleeping with old friends and generating small-town gossip unless there was, as Aunt Mil would say, some future in it.

  Unless Adam loved her.

  Unless she loved Adam.

  She was taking risks with her reputation, her peace of mind, her lifelong friendship with the Stiles family by continuing whatever it was she was continuing with Adam. An affair? A brief, wild fling? They were much too sensible for that sort of thing... weren’t they?

  It was entirely possible, her rational side told her, that ultimately they could prove just to have needed each other at the same time. There was nothing tawdry or regrettable about needing someone, about being there for someone, especially a friend. And who cared what anyone else thought? Let the gossips gossip; she and Adam would explain the score to whomever needed to know. If what they had now, what they felt for each other, was based on little more than a coincidence—a fleeting need for love and passion when both were feeling particularly vulnerable—then so be it.

  Except it didn’t feel that way to her.

  It felt like, if she were willing to be honest with herself, something lots more than coincidence and vulnerability.

  It felt a whole lot more like love.

  Char knew that sooner or later she and Adam were going to have to figure out what they meant to each other. She was going to have to push past his emotional remoteness—that damn Yankee reserve of his— and find out what he felt. Tell him what she felt.

  But better later than sooner.

  She slid into the steaming water and instantly felt the tension ease out of her muscles... and her mind. Tonight, at this moment, she and Adam were right for each other. She would deal with tomorrow when it came.

  After a few minutes a knock on the door roused her from her temporary sense of peace. Adam asked, “May I come in?”

  Hear heart began to pound. “Certainly.”

  He entered the bathroom, and something about his being fully dressed and her nakedness struck her as inordinately sexy. She could feel her nipples hardening, her entire body becoming tingly and excited. Both her earlier uneasiness and short-lived calm were distant memories now.

  ‘Want some company?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the tub.

  Char sank lower into the water under the inadequate cover of the bubbles. “Sure.”

  In the dim light it was impossible to tell what color his eyes were. He dipped his hand into the steamy water and pushed the bubbles down toward the end of the tub, exposing her breasts to his view. She thought he would touch her, but he didn’t. He reached toward her knees and scooped up a handful of bubbles and, grinning, put them on her chin.

  “You could never pass for Santa Claus,” he said.

  “Watch it before I pull you in here with me, clothes and all.”

  ‘Takes too long to get out of wet clothes, especially one-handed.”

  She laughed. “Then maybe I won’t pull you in, after all.”

  He gently pushed the bubbles off her chin, smoothing them down her neck, his fingertips barely skimming the surface of her skin. Every millimeter of her was sensitized to him as the warm, silky water swirled around her.

  “Sweet torture, isn’t it?” he murmured.

  “For me or for you?”

  “Both of us.”

  His fingers shot under the bubbles and flicked against her breasts before he pulled his hand from the water. “Can’t stay at that for long without going crazy,” he muttered. “Every day since I left Tennessee I’ve imagined you here like this. The reality, I assure you, is far more irresistible than the fantasy.”

  She smiled at him. “Who wants you to resist?”

  He laughed and stood up, pulling his shirt out of his jeans. He unbuttoned it slowly and deftly with his one hand. Char watched, transfixed. He hung the shirt on a hook on the door and pulled his undershirt over his head, Char unabashedly taking in the sight of his hard abdomen and chest.

  He caught her staring and dipped his hand into the tub, flicking bubbles onto her cheek. “Voyeur,” he said, laughing.

  ‘What am I supposed to do, go underwater and hold my breath until you’re finished?”

  “Watch all you want.”

  She did, and when he was naked, she could see that her watching had had its effect on him, as well. He climbed into the tub with her, their legs tangling and water splashing over the sides.

  “I don’t think we’re going to last in here very long,�
� Char said, her mouth dry with anticipation.

  “Agreed,” he replied. He fished around for a few seconds and came up with a facecloth. “The last person I took a bath with wasn’t potty-trained.”

  Char laughed. “Same here.”

  But her laughter died as he took the soaped-up facecloth and washed her throat and sides, coming ever closer to her breasts. His slow, steady movements augmented her already heightened sense of awareness. She strained forward, but he withdrew the facecloth, dropping it into the water again. Then, with his hand, he rinsed the soap off her skin, just skimming her breasts.

  She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Adam, we’ll drown.”

  “But what a way to go.”

  He brushed a finger across each of her nipples, then cupped one breast, splaying his fingers as she moaned with a longing that seemed capable of making her explode. She slipped one arm under his and reached into the water for him, satisfied that he was throbbing with desire as much as she was. Her fingers moved with the same rhythm as his. He made small, guttural sounds in the back of his throat, then all at once pulled back.

  ‘That’s it, sweetheart. Out of the tub or damned if we don’t drown.”

  She was already on her way. They grabbed towels, dried off in a hurry, and not very well. The chill of the bedroom air after the heat of the bath gave Char goose bumps and further excited her as she jumped into Adam’s king-size bed, more luxurious than anything she had slept on in months. Adam joined her, and they snuggled under the blankets, warming each other with hands, feet, entwined legs, deep, hungry kisses.

  ‘This feels so right,” Char said, sliding underneath him, “and yet six months ago if someone had told me I’d be in Adam’s bed tonight, I’d have prepared papers to have them committed.”