Whoever bought the property would be sharing Grace's driveway, their right of ingress and egress a constant reminder Grace's heart had been sliced in two.
Bren stepped off the curb and cut across two lanes of traffic. Even the sun had chosen to hide this morning. Gray clouds crowded the sky, only adding to the bleak future looming several footsteps away.
"Hey." Jeremy jogged the distance between them.
She met up with him on the sidewalk.
His hardened expression, uncommon for Jeremy, and a paler than usual complexion, sent a streak of alarm racing toward her gut.
"Where have you been?" His lips thinned.
Jeremy and indignant didn't go together. Last time she'd checked, she was off the schedule today. Her only commitment was to Grace and the horse rescue. It was touch and go as to whether she'd even show her face at the courthouse steps.
"Short on volunteers. I had to dole out the medications this morning. And all that money I hoped to make on this year's rescue calendar is sitting at the print shop because I'm here dealing with this crap, instead of picking them up." She grabbed his arm, irritation scoring her brow. "Why are you here and what the hell is wrong?"
Whatever he felt compelled to lay on her this morning couldn't come close to losing the land her family—namely her mother and father—had toiled over for the past forty years.
"Bren, don't freak out on me."
If he was trying to console her, he was doing a piss-poor job of it.
"It's Wes."
With the bank dealings, emptying her childhood home, moving her father in, and her return to the master bedroom and all the emotional baggage after her father refused her kind offer to take it—the room, not the baggage—Wes had been only a shadow on the periphery of her subconscious.
The other factor had been the phone calls—they'd stopped.
Bren spotted Bernie over Jeremy's shoulder, standing on the courthouse steps with his glasses perched on his nose. He flipped through papers attached to a clipboard. Grace wasn't the only trustee sale today. he paper listed seven properties.
"I don't care about Wes," she threw back at Jeremy and moved past him.
"Wait." Jeremy grabbed her arm. "Your property's on the auction block now."
Her heart bolted out of her chest, and she shook his hand off her arm. "Thanks for telling me." Bren's legs followed her heart and took off toward the crowd congregated at the bottom of the steps. She wanted to get a look at her prospective neighbor.
Pushing through the crowd of bulky winter coats and endless chatter, she popped out on the other side. Bren grew cold.
Wes.
He stood with a well-shined, black dress shoe up on the brick knee wall to the left of the courthouse steps. Hand tucked beneath his chin, he leaned forward. She'd seen that stance before. He was strategizing for the win. The prize was her land, her childhood home, and her sense of security, along with that troublemaker—her pride.
"Let me through." Jeremy nudged a businessman and his briefcase and came up alongside her. "He's bidding on your—"
"No shit," she snapped. She'd been grieving for a year, struggling to survive both mentally and financially, and now Wes wanted to humiliate her.
Son of a bitch. I'll strangle you.
She dashed up the steps. A hand brushed her arm.
"Shit, Bren, hold up."
She turned, catching his profile. The only thing keeping her from strangling him, too, was the fact he was Robert, not Wes, and even that was a small margin of consolation. "You're his accountant."
"I only write the checks."
Beyond Robert's shoulder the courthouse door opened. She laughed to herself when Kevin strode out. He'd earn his salary today.
"Bren." Robert was next to her. "I told him I didn't approve of him taking advantage of your situation."
Maybe. Or was he stalling her? Robert was a Connelly. The sympathetic expression lining his face wasn't going to sway her.
"Then don't write the check." Bren stepped around him and gauged the distance to Wes.
Robert's cell phone rang. "Wait." He dipped his head, swore, and took the call.
If he wanted to talk, he should have started by telling her his father's intentions before today. Kevin wasn't at his post, but she could feel him closing in. Too bad.
"Connelly!" she yelled.
His head swung, his eyes tracking the crowd. His lips curled when he found her several steps down and heading his way.
Bren balled her hands into fists. She was going to pay Wes back in spades, and she didn't care about the consequences.
She was within striking distance when Bernie's eyes peered over his glasses, and he frowned. "Is that the final bid?" He focused his attention on Wes.
She rammed her fist toward Wes's chin and tripped over the last step and missed. She swayed and tried to gain her balance.
Wes straightened and grabbed Bren's hair. He yanked her to within a breath of his mulish face and then gave one hard tug without letting go. Her eyes teared up, and she clenched her teeth.
"I ought to backhand you," Wes said, his voice low and savage.
Bren caught sight of Kevin coming down the courthouse steps. With the crowd below, it would be awhile before he got to her. Locking a pair of belligerent eyes on Wes, she stared him down. "Go for it," she said through gritted teeth.
Wes raised his hand. Bren squinched her eyes closed and prepared for the blow. When it didn't come, her eyes sprang open to find a black suede arm and strong male hand gripping Wes's wrist.
"Let her go. Or I'll break it."
Bren recognized the slow drawl.
Wes's eyes widened. "Who the hell?"
Langston's grip tightened, and Wes's face crumpled in pain.
"Your choice."
Wes released her hair and flung it in her face.
She stepped back and pressed her hair behind her ears. Bren studied the stranger she'd tangled with a month ago. He was solid and lean. His jeans clung to his long, powerful legs. He wore a black suede blazer against broad shoulders. His black cowboy boots were sleek as satin. The pulse in his neck throbbing through the open collar of a denim shirt kept her mesmerized. She willed her eyes upward. His face was shrouded in shadow by his black Stetson, but she didn't miss the gleam of those emerald green eyes boring into Wes.
"Apologize to the lady."
Bren's lips sputtered, and she began to laugh.
Langston shot her a look. "Amused?"
"Extremely."
He smiled, his expression softening. "Good." He brought his attention back to Wes. "I don't make it a habit of repeating myself."
"Apologize?" Wes scoffed and slid Bren a dirty look. "You'll have to break my—"
Langston tightened his grip. Wes yelped like a dog getting its foot stepped on and groaned, "Let go."
Langston raised a brow. Wes stood his ground. Langston applied more pressure. Bren swore Wes's bone popped, and she winced when he withered toward the pavement.
"Sorry," Wes gritted under his breath.
Langston let go.
Wes struggled and regained his balance. Once upright, he straightened his tie, adjusted his dangling Bluetooth, and sent an irate glare at Bernie. "Whitcomb, let's settle up. I've got the required ten percent." He waved an impatient hand toward his checkbook, or rather Robert climbing the steps toward them.
Bernie pressed his glasses back toward the bridge of his nose. "Hold up, Connelly. The bid's still open until I issue the final asking."
"Then do it." Wes's eyes cornered his son. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Susan called. Her grandmother took a fall." Robert took a step back and looked at Bren. "You, okay?" Robert's gaze cut to Wes. He glanced at Bren, then back to Wes. "What happened?"
Wes pointed his stubby finger in Bren's direction. "She happened. Now pay the man."
"Premature, don't you think?" Langston asked.
Wes ignored him. "Whitcomb."
Bernie jumped. "Right. For t
he third time of asking, the final bid is three hundred seventy-five thousand."
"Five hundred thousand," Langston said.
Bren jerked her head toward Langston. "You're joking!"
"I don't joke about money, darlin'." He reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a cashier's check.
Wes looked from Langston to Bernie. "Five twenty-five."
Robert stepped forward and whispered in Wes's ear, "Dad. Let it go."
"I will not." He pulled away from Robert. "Pay him."
"Cashier's check or cash," Bernie stipulated.
"Robert?"
Robert leaned in. "We don't have it."
"Bullshit."
Robert shook his head, waved a disgusted hand toward his father, and walked away.
"Robert, don't you turn your back on me!"
"What's it going to be, Wes?"Bernie asked. He nodded toward Langston. "This man's got a cashier's check for five hundred thousand."
Wes's Bluetooth beeped, and he spoke into his mouthpiece. "Take your ass back to Baltimore. I don't need your shit."
Bren caught Bernie mumbling something to Langston. he two walked away toward a makeshift table, she assumed to complete the paperwork for the transfer of land.
Wes yanked his earpiece off and nailed Bren with his eyes. "Go ahead and smirk, girl. Next time you won't be so lucky."
"Are you threatening her?" Kevin came up behind Bren and rested his hand on his service weapon. "Because it sure sounded that way to me."
"You take it any way you want, Bendix." He sneered down at Bren. "Either way you lost, girl."
Bren chewed the inside of her lip. He was close enough she could lift her foot and nail him for his smartass comment before he could counter. But then she'd give Kevin a reason to side with him.
"Go home, Wes. It's over," Kevin said.
Wes glared at Bren. "We're just getting started." He brushed past her, nudging her shoulder, and disappeared into the crowd.
"You're damn lucky you don't have a black eye." Kevin stood, hands on hips, peering down at her.
"I was hoping for one."
"What?"
"Then you could have arrested him."
"No. I'd have to arrest both of you. You swung first."
Bren turned away. Kevin gripped her arm and hauled her back. "Like I told him. It's over, Bren."
"It's only beginning. Maybe Wes doesn't have my land, but because of him a stranger is going to be living in my house."
"That stranger saved your ass."
Bren clenched her hands and bore into Kevin. "Whatever."
Langston sauntered back toward them, his black cowboy boots clicking against the pavement.
Kevin whispered, "Be nice."
"You okay?" The Texan tucked a document inside his breast pocket.
Bren folded her arms. Digging her fingers into her sides, she gave him a cheeky smile. "Kiss off." She turned on her heels, caught sight of Jeremy, and stalked to her pickup truck. She should be grateful, but she was too damn pissed.
"Bren," Kevin called after her. "What's your problem?"
"Figure it out."
"Rafe is it?"
Bren slowed and glanced over her shoulder and caught Kevin shaking Langston's hand. "Sorry about her," Kevin said.
That's right, Kevin, suck up to the enemy.
"Looks like you've got your land," Kevin added.
Yeah, what about that? Vultures came in many forms. This one just happened to be tall, dark, and irritatingly good-looking.
Chapter Five
Bren climbed the steps of her childhood home and ignored the pinch in the back of her eyes. he only place she wanted to be after the courthouse this morning was here. She leaned against the doorjamb of her old bedroom. The horses danced—an Arabian, sleek and white; the paint, a mix of chocolate brown and cream, its mane flowing. They'd been stenciled on the wall by her mother. Unlike her sister Kate, her dreams had never left Grace's pasture. he horses were everything to her. Grace was everything.
She frowned. She could have those dreams again—new dreams, if she could let go of the past and this old house. When the paperwork cleared, the half of Grace she still owned would be close to free and clear. She could devote more time to her boys and less to obsessing over debt. Her job with Jeremy was a windfall. Her hours worked well with the boys' school schedule. She saw no reason to give it up.
Having her dad move in had also been a blessing. It'd been over a week since they cleared out the house and he took up the extra bedroom down the hall. It felt safe having a man in the house again. And the boys were getting to know their grandfather. Plus, he was a great cook and demanded a full house at dinner. They were beginning to resemble a family. Maybe three generations wasn't a typical setup, but it worked.
Bren sighed when she took the first step downstairs. The new owner would probably paint over her horses. But her father was right: Every memory she could hope to bring back to life was locked in her heart. Painted walls and sleek walnut banisters and creaking old steps would someday crumble, but her memories were forever.
She took one more gaze around the wide foyer and reached for the door. The crunch of gravel outside alerted her to a black four-door pickup and light blue sedan pulling up.
Bren stepped back from the thin glass window running the length of the door. Bernie and Langston. Damn it! Her life truly did suck. More like her timing. She didn't need Bernie finding her in the house—his pouty expression saying "poor Bren Ryan."
Bren quickly locked the door and slid into the kitchen, prepared to make her exit through the back door. Grabbing the handle, she yanked and then cursed under her breath. She yanked harder, but the door didn't budge. The key turned in the front door, and it creaked open. Shit. Not good. She eyed the pantry—not wide enough. Cabinet under the sink—too many pipes. Broom closet. That would work. She opened the closet and pressed her body inside. At five six she wasn't tiny. The top shelf grazed her head, and she hunkered down. Shutting the door, she tried to control her breathing. She hated small spaces.
Footsteps followed. Bernie called out the rooms. "Four bedrooms, master bath, and hall bath are upstairs."
Perfect. Once they hit the second level she was outa here.
"You go on, Rafe. I'm going to finish the paperwork in the kitchen."
Bren grimaced. She was starting to sweat, and it wouldn't be long before she hyperventilated. Her barn coat was like a straitjacket, tight against her, making the cramped space even smaller with its thickness.
Bernie cleared his throat and flicked his pen. Judging by the sound, he was using the center island. he click of a pair of familiar boots hit the hardwood of the kitchen, and Bren pressed back against the closet.
"What you think of the upstairs?"
"It's adequate."
"Four bedrooms."
"It's just me."
"Then you'll have plenty of space."
Sweat ran down between Bren's shoulder blades. Come on. Enough small talk. A drawer shut. Then another. He opened the dishwasher. The suction of the refrigerator door signaled he was getting close. What the hell? Does he kick tires, too? Bren held her breath. She could sense him in front of the broom closet. The door pressed forward. Crap. His hand was on the handle.
"I just need your John Hancock right here," said Bernie.
The door popped out a fraction when he released it. hat was too close.
"Enjoy your new house, Rafe. Welcome to Maryland."
"Thanks."
"A little advice. Keep a safe distance from Bren Ryan. Ever since her husband died last January, she's been unpredictable."
"Unstable?"
"It's possible."
"Thanks for the advice."
Their voices floated away, their footsteps grew faint. Bren cracked the door, the air cool against her cheeks. he front door opened and shut, and she closed the broom closet door.
Come on, Langston.
The quiet unnerved her. His boots were distinct against the hardwo
od, yet there was nothing. Where did he go? he front porch? She couldn't stay here forever. Eventually she'd have to make her move.
The broom closet door swooshed open, the light blinding.
"You are a peculiar woman, Mrs. Ryan."
Bren popped up and hit her head on the top shelf. "Ouch." She closed her eyes against the pain.
Langston reached in and cradled her head and pulled her forward. "You make it a habit of hiding in broom closets?"
"How'd you know?"
"You're not very covert. It was hanging out of the door." He tugged on her barn coat. "Who's your jeweler?"
Bren couldn't help but smile at the heart-shaped pin with puzzle pieces glued on. "Finn."
"The blond with glasses."
"How do you—"
"I remember him from the sale barn. You have an older boy, too, a teenager."
"Aiden." That was a little disconcerting. He remembered a lot about her family.
Bren stepped away from him, putting the center island between them. "I should be going. Sorry about intruding. I was just..."
"You can come by anytime."
Bren's hands fidgeted on the center island. He'd bought her land, her house, and yet offered to still share it with her? She had no choice but to share the driveway. But she wouldn't step foot in this house again. "No. It's your house now. I was making sure I didn't leave anything behind."
He cocked his head and studied her. His dark brown brows knit together over a pair of emerald eyes. "You're the horse freak."
"Pardon?"
"Horses. The room with the painted horses." He motioned toward the ceiling.
"Guess that's why I have a horse farm."
"Right." He took a step closer. "I like the room."
Bren pulled her hands apart and stepped back, eyeing the entrance to the hallway. "Good. You ever have a daughter, she'd love it."
"Family's not something I'm looking for."
Bren bit down on her lower lip. He towered above her. The shape of his Stetson, since removed, still molded against his head and made the black locks curl up at the ends around his ears. His face chiseled and rough with a light black beard gave him a dangerous appearance. He took of his black suede jacket and laid it on the counter.
Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) Page 7