by Alicia Scott
"I'll be all right." Bloody hell, he hurt.
"Men. Stubborn, driven, foolish." Randy looked at Victoria with obvious interest, and she bit off her tirade. "Sweetheart—" she ruffled her son's blond hair "—next time you wake up Ferringer, clap really loud."
"No! No need—"
"Oh, of course there is. We don't want to be lax about our duties, do we, Randy?"
"The doctor says we gotta check on you," Randy chirped. "Make you follow my finger and tell me the day of the week. What day is it?"
"Armageddon."
"Wow, he's not very good at this. That's not even a word. What do I do if he gets it wrong?"
"Clap louder."
Randy began dutifully to comply, but Charlie took pity and intervened. "Later, buddy."
"I need to practice."
"You'll have plenty of time for practice," Victoria said sweetly. "All weekend."
Having won the battle, Victoria took her son's hand and stomped out of the room, leaving Brandon to contemplate his crimes. He'd ticked her off, all right. He just had no idea how or why. What had he said while he was unconscious? And why did he feel so guilty?
"Wow," Charlie said as if reading his thoughts, "she really likes you."
"Likes me? I'm afraid you're gravely mistaken."
"Oh, no. I haven't seen her this enamored since she stuck bubble gum in Ronnie's hair in third grade."
"She had a crush on Ronald all the way back to the third grade?"
"Oh, yeah. For Vic, Ronald was always the one. Mooned over him from the day she saw him. Ronald pretty much ignored her, but then in high school… I still remember the first time he asked her out. Her sophomore year. She came home looking as if she'd won the lottery. I pulled her hair, and she didn't beat the hell out of me." Charlie's voice drifted off. Abruptly he shook his head. "Well, when life decides to throw you a curveball, it sure seems to know how to pick the best one."
* * *
She was angry. She couldn't decide if it was at herself or Ferringer, so she was taking it out on her kitchen floor.
Eleven o'clock on a Friday night, Randy safely tucked into bed, Victoria attacked stains that had probably existed since the Depression and scrubbed as if her life depended upon it.
Damn machismo men.
She blew her hair out of her eyes, squirted on more bleach and rubbed vigorously. Didn't they have any idea what it was like for a woman to have a man carried to the house, his face covered in blood and his body unconscious? And then to sit there, so helpless, waiting for the doctor to finish examining, to tell her he really would live, after all, and still there was nothing she could do but wait?
So she puts her horses on hold, she puts her ranch on hold, she puts her life on hold to sit in a damn cabin and wait for said broken man to open his eyes.
And what does Brandon Ferringer focus on? What question consumes Brandon Ferringer as the lump on his skull grows and his vision becomes blurred? Will he still be a hotshot. Is he still a hotshot!
She grabbed steel wool and lit into the stain until her knuckles burned.
Men had too much testosterone. That was the problem. If there was any justice in the world, God would throw out the whole lot of them and let women start over in the labs. Women would produce something driven by more than hormones.
Brandon Ferringer made enough money to support himself. He had enough degrees to be anything he wanted. But no, he had to pick one of the riskiest jobs. He had to be a thrill seeker camping out in her cabin.
She gave up on the stain, now pared down to a pale shadow and looked for fresh targets.
She didn't get Ferringer, she just didn't. She didn't know what drove him so hard when at the same time he could show such patience with Randy and such compassion with her. When she'd told him to think of Randy, he'd understood. When she'd broken off a kiss so hot her lips had seared, he'd listened.
And when Charlie had brought him home and laid him out on the bed, he'd whispered Julia's name.
She stopped scrubbing the floor. She sat there in the sea of soapy water and felt sorry for herself.
She couldn't resent his dead wife. He had a right to miss her and a right to mourn. Victoria was feeling hurt anyway. She couldn't think of any man right now who, when hurt or unconscious, whispered her name.
She sighed, squared her shoulders and picked up a sponge. Dammit, Vic, get to work.
She moved to the left-hand corner, where an amazing composite of grime had accumulated in the shadow of her refrigerator, and resumed scouring. It wasn't any use. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about Brandon Ferringer since the day he arrived, and tonight wasn't any different. Last night, she'd dreamed of him stripping off her nightgown, nibbling on her throat and whispering Victoria, Victoria, Victoria until she'd wanted to consume him.
Instead, she'd woken up sweaty and frustrated in the middle of tangled sheets. What was it about her that made her attracted to the wrong kind of men? Sure, Ferringer wasn't a drug addict or thief, but he wasn't so different, either—still just a guy passing through.
What had Brandon meant last night about his "investigation"? Did he really think she was so stupid she didn't notice a slip like that? First he was asking questions about Bud Irving, which was strange enough given Bud's sociable personality. Then he was saying it was because Bud was his father's best friend. Did you really remember the names of your father's friends—particularly when your father died fifteen, twenty years ago? If it meant that much to Brandon, why hadn't he come to Beaverville before?
Oh, yeah, Ferringer was up to something, all right. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Adrenaline-addicted, danger-thirsting guy with secrets. Yeah, she could really pick 'em.
She should just—
She froze, her hand halting midmotion, the water soaking into her jeans. There it was again. A sound. Rustling, outside, where there shouldn't be.
She took a deep breath. She glanced out the window, where the world was dark but she was clearly silhouetted by the kitchen light. Slowly, she crawled toward her ancient refrigerator. Using it for cover, she stood and peeked.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She heard the noise again, someone working their way out of the woods alongside Brandon's cabin. And then she saw him, a black shadow materializing by Brandon's cabin.
A dark, unknown man beginning to approach her house.
Victoria went for her rifle.
* * *
Brandon was sleeping badly again. Tossing and turning on the old bed and hurting himself each time he moved. Sometimes he dreamed he was on fire, a burning twig pressing against the back of his skull. Sometimes he saw his father striding out the door. Time to deal, son. Time to deal. A lot of times he saw Victoria working with her horses, and stood on the sidelines, unable to approach.
He kept waking up in a sweat, groggy and disoriented and knowing he needed to get his butt out of bed, and then he'd go tumbling down into troubled dreams once more.
The fifth time, he roused so violently, he jerked awake, clutching his head. He swung his feet over the side and sat up before he could fall into the abyss. His fingers rubbed his temples and tried to force the migraine into the back of his skull. His stomach rolled queasily.
And outside his cabin window, a tree limb snapped.
His breathing stopped. He grew perfectly still, focused on the window. There. A footstep. Someone was outside, in the back, by the fringe of the woods.
Someone was out there.
His thoughts blew apart on him. He remembered the chain ripping off the saw. He heard the crack of the giant tree falling. He felt the branches snatching at his face. Two big accidents in just two days. What were the chances of two major accidents in just two days?
Someone was out there.
He couldn't get his body to move. He was a New York investment banker. He was a hiker, a wildland firefighter. What was he supposed to do?
Something other than sit on the bed and analyze. Later, you think, rich Brit. Now, you ac
t.
He stood. The world spun crazily, and for a minute he thought he'd be sick. Then his flailing hand landed on the wall and he leaned against it heavily. The wall was straight, the wall was sturdy. He used it to support himself while he inched toward the window.
The intruder was stepping toward the cabin, trying not to make any noise and doing a poor job of it. If subtlety was any judge, this guy wasn't a pro. Brandon took a deep breath. The nausea was receding, the dizziness, too. His head still ached, but standing, moving, thinking about anything other than the lump cracking his skull seemed to help.
He made it to the window and peered out, finally discerning a shadowy figure halfway between the cabin and the house. The man was creeping along with exaggerated footsteps, as if he'd seen too many movies.
What the hell? Brandon gave up on doubts and grabbed his jeans. Concussed or not, he had to do something. He yanked on his hiking boots and prepared to intervene.
* * *
"Oh, for God's sake, it's you, Ronald!"
Brandon emerged from his cabin just in time to see Victoria appear on the front porch, flash on the lights and position the shotgun against her shoulder. Caught in the flood of light, the man froze, looking on the verge of peeing his pants.
"Vic," he croaked. "God, you're not going to shoot me, are you?"
Victoria was already lowering the gun. She looked disgusted. "Of course not! Though it's through no help of your own. What the hell are you doing, skulking around a woman's yard?"
Ronald hunched his shoulders and gave her a beseeching look. At one point, that expression had probably worked for him. Now it didn't sit well on his lined face, his cheeks puffy and his eyes bloodshot. At one time, he had probably been handsome. Now he looked thick and bloated, a man who'd fought the battle and lost.
"Go home, Ronald," Victoria said. "I don't have anything to give you, and you already stole what there was to take."
"Ah, gee, Vic, can't you give a guy a break? I'm off that stuff now. Swear to God, cross my heart and all that." He tried the puppy-dog look again, but it just didn't wash.
"Go home before you wake up Randy. It's the least consideration you can give."
Ronald shifted uncomfortably. He couldn't meet his ex-wife's gaze. "I'm trying," he mumbled.
"That's good, Ronald."
"I miss you."
Victoria didn't say anything.
"It's not my fault," he suddenly blurted in a belligerent tone. "My daddy was an alcoholic, too. It's in the genes. You can't fight your genes."
"You always have a choice, Ronald."
Ronald seemed to deflate. "I miss the old days, Vic. Don't you remember the old days? We'd cruise around in my pickup truck and look at the stars. Drinking Old Milwaukee and waiting for the sun to come up."
"We were eighteen and stupid."
"Nah, we were wild, we were real, we were something. Don't you remember? I was the big man on the football team, and you were my doll. We were the couple. Everyone wanted to be us."
"Ronald, you don't belong here. You need to go home."
"Ah, hell, Vic. You always were a hard-hearted bitch."
Victoria's expression didn't change. "I'm going to count to ten. If you don't leave by then, I'll call the sheriff."
"Your daddy, you mean. Always running to your daddy—"
"One—"
"Just gimme a couple bucks. For old time's sake."
"Two—"
"I won't bother you again. I swear."
"Three—"
"Come on, you gotta have something stashed away. You always had something stashed away. No one could prepare for a rainy day like Vic. Superwoman, supermom. Ain't no man good enough for you—"
"Four." Her chin came up, but in the glow of the porch lights, Brandon could see the tears in her eyes. He'd had enough.
He took two steps forward and caught Ronald by the shoulder so hard the other man jumped and squealed.
"Get off her land," he said without preamble. "She may have something against shooting her ex-husband. But I don't."
Ronald bolted. He ran from the yard as if his tail was on fire and there wasn't enough water in the world to put out the flames. And just as quickly as it began, Brandon and Victoria stood alone in the shadows, her rifle propped against her legs, his arms reaching for a tree to steady himself.
Awkwardness set in. Brandon gave up on the flimsy sapling and leaned against the rusted-out truck, trying to think of something to say. He'd witnessed something too personal, intruded upon Victoria's inner sanctum and upset the natural order of things. She stood stiffly, looking straight ahead with her chin up and her lips thinned.
"Are you … are you all right?" he asked finally.
"Oh, sure. Never better." But her expression made a liar out of her words. She set the rifle against the side of the house and slumped on the porch steps, wrapping her arms around her knees. The light washed over her face, exposing her high cheekbones, and the tears that still threatened her lovely blue-gray eyes.
He wanted to hold her. He wasn't sure she would let him. He approached the porch instead and wordlessly sat beside her. She offered a tight smile.
"Not exactly the finest example of the male species."
"I think he'd been drinking."
"Probably. Ronald does his finest thinking under the influence."
"Victoria," he began, but couldn't think of what exactly he wanted to say.
"Well, he's not so wrong," she stated after a moment. "I am hard-hearted."
"You are not hard-hearted, Victoria."
"Oh yes, I am. I married that man, Ferringer. No, I worshiped that man, spent most of my younger days with the world's largest crush on him. Loved him, adored him. Became his wife and bore his child. And now… Now I look at him and feel nothing." She turned toward him. "Do you know how strange it is to look at someone you once loved enough to promise until death do us part and feel nothing?"
"It happens, Victoria. People fall in love. People fall out of love. It doesn't mean you're hard-hearted."
Her expression said she wasn't convinced. He gave up on good intentions and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She stiffened, of course. He could feel the battle within her clearly, pride going head-to-head with need. Abruptly, she turned to him, her head relaxing into his shoulder, her arm curving around his waist. She felt warm and pliant, soft and strong. He'd kissed her, but he'd never really held her. It felt better than he'd imagined.
His throat grew tight. It had been so long since he'd held anyone. Years since he'd seen his sister, Maggie, and broken his self-imposed exile with a hug. Years since he'd allowed himself to reach out and remember how poignant an embrace could be.
You're still an I, Brandon, I need us to be a we.
I'm sorry, Julia. I didn't know. I just didn't know, and now I'm trying so hard to learn, and it's too late.
"You still love your wife," Victoria whispered as if reading his mind.
"Yes."
"You called her name, you know. When you were unconscious or asleep or whatever, you called for her."
"I was dreaming that I saw her. I was trying to catch up with her. There were things I wanted to say."
"It's hard when someone dies."
"Yes."
"Unfinished business, I suppose."
"A lot."
Victoria gazed at him curiously. "How long were you married?"
"Three years. I was working as a bonds trader on Wall Street. Julia was a waitress in the coffee shop on the corner, where we would spend most of our lunches … if we took lunch."
"You married a waitress?"
"She was working her way through school, earning her doctorate in nineteenth-century European history. Julia was a research fiend. Someday, she would've made a great professor."
"Did she get sick?"
"She went for a walk in Central Park. The police think it was a mugger."
He had too many doubts to say more. About a mugger really shooting a waitress. About Julia
researching Maximillian and then suddenly turning up dead. He didn't believe in coincidence.
"So your wife was shot," Victoria was saying, "New York became an ugly place, and you hightailed it out of there. Traded in prime rib for trail mix?"
"Something like that."
"Something? Come on, Ferringer, it's almost midnight, the stars are clear and you just met my wonderful ex. Humor me and tell me more. Please."
He said clearly, "The money's not mine, Victoria. Not really. The big money, the money your father sees, comes from Julia's life-insurance policy. She died, and I received a million dollars. You have no idea how hard it is to get rid of that kind of money."
"You're trying to get rid of it?"
"I worked too hard," he said abruptly. "All through the marriage. Julia kept asking me to come home, to spend more time with her, but I … I liked working. I wanted the money, the power. My father had bankrupted my mum's estate, but I bought it back when I was twenty-five and I became rather hooked. I was going to be everything he wasn't—rich, successful, self-made. Instead, I became everything he was—cold, remote and self-centered. And I married a great woman and I failed her." His lips twisted. "Just like Dad."
"You're an intense man, Ferringer."
He nodded somberly. "I am, and I have this nasty habit of learning everything too late."
Victoria studied his face. He'd retreated from her, his thoughts someplace dark and tortured. In his mind, was he a little boy again, watching his father ruin his mother's estate and feeling helpless? Or was he thinking about his dead wife and the time he felt he should've spent with her? She had wondered what drove him so hard, and now she knew. Brandon Ferringer was wearing his father's hair shirt. He'd been trying to absolve his father's sins since he was a little boy, and now he was an intense, brooding man who was much too hard on himself.
She moved closer and tightened her arm around his waist.
"You were twelve when your father died?" she asked quietly.
"Yes. He was an importer-exporter who traveled a great deal. His plane went down over Indonesia. They never found his body."
"You know, Ferringer," she said softly, "I think I know why you're having problems with teamwork."
"Do you?" He was staring at the night sky.