by Alicia Scott
She tilted her head on his shoulder, her hair pillowing her cheek. "I read a lot about children growing up with only one parent—you know, for Randy's sake. He asks a lot more questions about his father these days, and I don't really know the best way to say Daddy has a dope problem. Well, one of the things all the studies talk about is that children who lose a parent for whatever reason often develop trust issues. Basically, it's impossible for a child not to feel as if his parent failed him. In Randy's case, he'll probably wonder why Ronald didn't love him enough to give up dope, straighten out his act. Frankly, I wonder that all the time. Even if a parent dies, a child can't help feeling abandoned. Parents are supposed to be there for you unconditionally, and once they're not, you can't fight the feeling that they failed you. It seems safer to depend on only yourself."
Brandon looked troubled.
She continued gently, "You said yourself that you're a bit of a loner. Your work was solitary, and when you left it, you took up hiking—one of the few sports where you don't need anyone. Not a teammate or a competitor or a coach. It's just you and the mountain. Brandon, the hotshots are your first team, aren't they? And suddenly, after thirty-six years of depending on only yourself, you're supposed to rely upon and trust a group of total strangers. That's scary. No wonder you're having problems."
He glanced away sharply, his fingers abruptly steepled and tense. "So what do I do, Victoria? Fail them the way I failed Julia? Make yet another mistake?"
"No. Give it time. Understand how you got these fears and try to work your way through them. You're a capable guy, Ferringer. I've seen you with Randy, with Charlie. You're a great guy."
He was silent for so long, she thought she'd alienated him. Then he said suddenly, fiercely, "Victoria, next time Ronald tells you that you are hard-hearted, shoot him."
"Oh."
"Don't let him treat you like that. Don't let him talk to you like that. You are the most generous, compassionate woman I know." He turned toward her, and the fire in his intense blue eyes took her breath away.
She couldn't swallow. Good Lord, her thoughts and emotions were in total disarray. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to wrap her arms around his lean waist and nestle her head against his shoulder. She was trying to tell herself it was hormonal, while the rest of her was wondering if she and Ronald had ever had conversations like this, and if they had, would they have made a difference?
"I should go," Brandon said hoarsely.
"No!" she cried without thinking, then caught herself and fisted her hands.
Their gazes held in the half-light of the porch, both of them stark, both of them raw.
"I want to kiss you again, Victoria. You don't want that."
"Maybe I've changed my mind," she babbled. She wanted to grab his shirt so he could never walk away.
"It's the moment. You're caught up in the moment, I'm caught up in the moment. And in the morning? You deserve more than I can give you. I don't want you to look at me later and have only regret."
She couldn't deny it. She wanted to, but she couldn't. Brandon's arm slipped from her shoulder. She bit her lip so she wouldn't protest. Her gaze was locked on his face.
He paused. His fingers, featherlight, brushed wisps of her fine, blond hair. He traced a path down her cheek and stopped to wick a bead of moisture from her lashes. Then his thumb came to rest on her lips. She was trembling.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered.
Don't go, don't go, her mind begged. Practicality be damned, I want you to stay. Make me feel pretty…
Brandon pulled away. He moved to the center of the yard where his face could no longer be read, and she pressed her fists against her stomach. "Good night, Victoria."
It took her much longer to reply. "Good night."
Chapter 6
« ^ »
Brandon woke up slowly, when the sun was already high in the sky. His morning started where his evening had left off—with his body rock hard and aching. He was already reaching for Victoria, who had haunted his dreams. But then he opened his eyes, and his bed was empty and he was alone with the sun streaming over his legs and the emptiness raw in his gut.
Ex-husbands, hard hearts and trust issues. Their conversation whirled around his aching head in teasing snippets, and finally he squeezed his eyes shut.
New day. Same old business. Get over it, Brandon. Get over her.
He pulled his ancient body out of bed. He still had a headache, but as a type-A anal retentive, he'd certainly suffered worse. Otherwise, all arms and legs seemed to be operating within spec.
The pile of dirty clothes on the floor earned his grimace. He needed to find a Laundromat. He needed to find Bud Irving. He needed another week's worth of sleep. He settled for pulling on a pair of jeans that really needed a wash. Stepping onto his front porch, he promptly encountered Randy.
The young boy was sitting on the edge, swinging his feet and looking like he'd been there awhile.
"Mom said I wasn't supposed to wake you up anymore," Randy explained. "She said you were feeling better, and I had to let you sleep."
"That was kind of her."
Randy cocked his head and eyed Brandon's bruised and battered face with open skepticism. His gaze narrowed. "What day is it?"
"Saturday."
"What's your name?"
"Randy Meese. I'm eight years old and love baseball."
Randy grinned wide enough to stretch his freckles and reveal his missing tooth. His ears stood out like jug handles beneath his tousled hair. "The doc said you might have am … you might not remember things. He didn't say you'd think you were me. If you're me, will you do my chores?"
"I don't know. What are your chores?"
"On weekends, I feed the chickens and the horses. I also get to muck stalls. I hate mucking stalls."
"Can't say that I blame you. I have to do laundry. Want to do my laundry?"
"I don't know how," Randy said soberly. "I'm only eight. Where are y'goin?"
"Ah, to the stables. Thought I would wash up."
"My mom's not out there."
Brandon paused, his mouth parted like a fly trap. Belatedly, he snapped his jaw shut. It wasn't that obvious. Brandon was never that obvious. Randy was most likely saying the truth, observing the truth, reciting the truth. Brandon scowled.
"I just wanted to wash up," he said curtly.
Randy wasn't fooled. "My mom is pretty."
"Uh…"
"She's good with horses, too. My grandpa swears she's the best horse trainer around."
"Mmm, okay."
"She's a little weird about eating vegetables, but my grandma is the same way. I think maybe that's a woman's thing." Randy nodded sagely.
"Ah." Brandon was officially flummoxed. "I see." No, he didn't. He was in over his head and looking around desperately for the escape hatch, or at the very least an eight-year-old's on-off switch.
"I think you should go out with my mom," Randy announced matter-of-factly. "She always says Beaverville doesn't have any good men that aren't a relation, but you're new and you're not an uncle. You oughtta do."
Brandon decided to take a seat. He swung his legs over the porch next to Randy and let them dangle.
"Well," he said at last, his tone serious, "I'm very flattered. I happen to like your mother a great deal. I like to think she likes me. But it's not a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of thing." More like a mad, passionate, hot-blooded, steam-pouring-from-the-ears kind of thing. "Er, we're friends. For example, you're friends with what's his name, Arnie. And I'm friends with Charlie."
Randy digested this. "Charlie and Arnie aren't as pretty as my mom."
"Well, yes, that's true."
"They're not so good with horses, either."
"Ah, but do they make you eat your vegetables?"
"Oh," Randy said, eyes widening. "Aha."
Brandon began to breathe easier. Four years of formal forensics training in Oxford's private boarding school, followed by two years of debate at Whar
ton, and he was almost ready to take on a farm boy. How much did his Wharton degree cost again?
Randy said abruptly, "I saw my dad last night."
"What?"
"I woke up hearing some noise, and when I looked out my window, there he was."
"Oh." Brandon didn't know what to say.
"My dad's a drunk," Randy said quietly. "His daddy was a drunk, too, and that's why I don't have a second grandpa—he drank too much whiskey and hit a tree. You shouldn't drink and drive."
"You shouldn't drink and drive," Brandon repeated.
"I don't want to be a drunk. I'm never going to drink. It's evil, and I don't ever wanna make my mom cry the way my daddy did." Randy's lower lip was suddenly trembling. Brandon understood. Growing up wasn't easy. Watching your father disappoint your mother made it even worse. And feeling as if you had to fix everything and heal your mother's pain was almost unbearable.
Certainly nothing Brandon had done had ever been good enough. Caroline was still bitter and angry and resentful. Brandon no longer phoned home because he'd run out of things to say.
"Have you, uh, have you told your mother this?" Brandon suggested softly. "I find her rather easy to talk to, myself."
"I don't wanna worry her." Randy rubbed at the corner of his eyes furiously. "She's got a lot on her mind, you know."
"She's your mum, Randy. That's what she's there for."
"Do you tell sad things to your mom?"
Brandon faltered. Talking to his mother was the conversational equivalent of putting his head on the chopping block. But Caroline wasn't anything like Victoria. Caroline's hatred of men extended to her son, whereas Victoria…
Victoria would give up her afternoon to tend some fool's head wound even when she had a whole ranch to run. Victoria would give her life for her son and the brothers and family she held dear. Victoria was fierce, loyal and generous, and the man who finally earned her trust and respect would be the luckiest man alive. And that man had better take damn good care of her or Brandon would—would…
"I talk to my grandma," he told Randy. "When I'm upset, when I have too many things on my mind. She listens." He added in a low mutter, "And I should call her soon."
"Does that help?" Randy wanted to know.
"It helps."
Randy's feet swung faster. He seemed to contemplate the advice. "Maybe … maybe I could."
"Victoria would like that."
"You think?"
"I think."
Randy nodded. He stuck his fingers through his belt loops. "I could tell her, I guess. You know, so she'd feel like I was sharing. Grandpa tells me sharing is another one of those woman things."
"And how." Brandon sighed.
They sat together a minute longer, listening to the silence like men. Randy pulled up a slender stalk of prairie grass, shucked the outer skin and stuck the stem into the corner of his mouth. Brandon thought of the cold, stone foyer in Hampton Court where his mother had told him that Max's plane had gone down with a smile twisting her thin, bloodless lips.
After a bit, Brandon went into his cabin, slid on a pair of sweats, and regardless of doctor's orders, began to run.
* * *
At one o'clock, Brandon stood in front of Beaverville's tiny Wash-n-Fold, attached to Tom's General Store. He'd procrastinated about doing his laundry as long as possible—partly because laundry wasn't his thing and partly because some traitorous part of him mooned over Victoria like a sixteen-year-old schoolboy, convinced that if he just lingered around his cabin long enough, he could catch a glimpse of her.
Apparently Victoria had marshaled her defenses after last night, however, because his pathetic vigil had yielded no sightings. Not even a glimpse of sun-highlighted blond hair or worn plaid shirt. Not a sneaking grin or firm, curving line of well-shaped legs.
He'd just wanted to say hi, he thought defensively. Give a neighborly hello. Certainly after last night's conversation they were something more than mere acquaintances. They'd shared moonlight and personal intimacies. He understood about her husband. She understood about his dad.
He'd started gazing at her lips again.
God, he was hopeless.
Belatedly, he tore his attention to the line of coin-operated washers and contemplated strategy. In Manhattan, he dropped off his meager clothes downstairs, the doorman sent them out to the corner cleaners, and they returned magically washed, pressed and folded. In Nepal, he'd hunkered down on rocks and scrubbed his fleece and wool beside the grinning Sherpas who thought the foreigner's love of soap was funny.
In the last four years, he'd taken care of his chores on his own and through many means—except for a Laundromat.
He rustled through his pockets until he came up with a handful of quarters and spent the first three on a little box of white detergent that promised "outdoor freshness." Having spent a great deal of time outdoors, Brandon wasn't sure if his clothes should smell like trees or mud but was willing to give it a try.
If memory served, he was supposed to divide his clothes between whites, lights and darks. The three piles looked small and insignificant on top of the yellow industrial washers. He kept his whites out and threw the lights in with the darks. Good enough.
He was just tossing them into the machines when Tom stuck his head through the doorway.
"Don't do that!"
Brandon froze, his red Patagonia vest in his hand. He looked wildly from side to side. "Do what?"
"Wasn't that a light blue T-shirt you just put in?"
Brandon nodded.
"Uh-huh." Tom leaned against the doorjamb and made himself comfortable. "Add bright red to that, and you'll have streaks through all your light-colored clothing."
"You know how to do laundry?"
"'Course. Been doing it all my life. Never married." He eyed Brandon with that too-penetrating stare. "Want some help?"
After a brief hesitation, Brandon agreed. Tom dumped his clothes out and sorted them into dark darks and all others. Then he tossed the piles into two separate machines, picked cold wash for the darks, warm wash for the lights, and plugged in quarters.
"I have quarters," Brandon said immediately.
"Don't bother. It's on the house."
Brandon was uncomfortable. There was something about Tom Reynolds. He seemed friendly and he seemed casual, and Brandon kept thinking both of those appearances were a lie.
"Take it from me," Tom said conversationally, "laundry's not hard once you get the hang of it. Funny that a bachelor like you has never washed clothes before."
"I generally send them out."
"Oh, that's right. The rich man." Tom smiled to take the sting from the words, but Brandon stiffened anyway. "How's the training coming?" Tom nodded toward his face. "Looks like the other guy is winning."
"I had a small run-in with a tree."
"Yep, I already heard. Probably knew the news before you regained consciousness."
Brandon didn't argue. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious.
"Coleton's pretty unhappy," Tom said. "It's not wise to make a man like Coleton unhappy. He's a tough one."
"I gathered that."
"You know how he got his scars?"
"No."
"Neither does anyone else. Rumor is a fire in Montana that got out of control. Some say he went back for his buddy, but his buddy didn't make it and Coleton lost half his face. Coleton won't talk about it. Showed up here twenty years ago, walking through the streets without even a hat on and staring everyone in the eye. That's Coleton's style. Take it or leave it. We've all gotten used to him over the years. Of course, every now and then some poor kid bursts into tears or runs away screaming. Coleton never apologizes."
"Why should he?"
"Oh, some would say he should have plastic surgery or at least make an effort to cover up his ears."
"It's his face, his scars."
"True, true. But some people think he's maybe a bit too fond of them. They can do amazing things with plastic surger
y these days. Makes you wonder why he's never looked into it."
Brandon shrugged, trying to figure out where this conversation was heading and not succeeding.
"Personally," Tom drawled, rocking on his heels, "I think Coleton is perfectly aware that the scars make him appear scary, and he likes the fear. When he says jump, people around here jump. He talks about fire, and people shut up and listen. Those scars have made Coleton a big man around town."
"I suppose."
"The one thing everyone learns from Coleton is to be careful. For example, it's a dangerous thing to be digging a fire line by a half-dead tree without checking it out first. Kind of like starting a chain saw without inspecting the machinery."
Brandon stilled. He stared right at Tom. Only two feet separated them, and suddenly that space was tense, uncomfortable … dangerous.
"I see," Brandon said at last.
"I'm not sure that you do."
"A man should be warier? Look out for accidents?"
"Some men seem more accident-prone than others," Tom said.
"Why would one man be so accident-prone?"
"I don't know. I hear rumors that he's asking questions, that some people are uncomfortable. Lots of folks believe the past should be the past."
"Like Bud Irving?"
"Especially Bud Irving."
"I should leave now," Brandon said abruptly. "Give my clothes time to wash."
Tom nodded. He narrowed his dark eyes, the corners deeply creased in his tanned, weathered face. The man had one of the best poker faces Brandon had ever encountered.
Slowly, he moved back. Brandon had made it to the doorway when Tom spoke again.
"Be careful, Ferringer. It's not me, you know. I'm just hearing murmurs about things I don't like to hear. And I'm not one to believe in accidents."
"How long were you in the military?" Brandon asked bluntly.
Tom looked him in the eye. "Not the military, Ferringer. But it was long enough."
Brandon was breathing hard by the time he got outside. The spring sun slapped him in the face and stunned him. He'd thought it would be dark. Storming and sinister. Instead, it was a cheerful Saturday afternoon in downtown Beaverville, and people were bustling on the plank sidewalks, eyeing the collection of pickup trucks and lingering over tractors. A young boy and girl went dashing by, the towheaded girl shouting at her brother to stop.