Brand (The Donovan Dynasty)

by Sierra Cartwright

  “That really wasn’t necessary.”

  He waited.

  “But it was gallant. Thank you.” She climbed in and took a seat.

  He exited the ATV for a moment to roll down some sheets of plastic, then fastened them to the side of the vehicle.

  “Brilliant,” she said.

  “Not our first rainstorm,” he replied.

  The makeshift doors in place, he unzipped his side to slide behind the wheel. “Good?”

  This time, she knew to hang on to the small bar in front of her.

  After checking on Loopy, he hit the accelerator. This time he didn’t pause. Instead, he continued down the path at full speed.

  He took a turnoff and headed to the rear of the big house. The back door was protected by a portico, and he stopped beneath it.

  They each unzipped the doors then he had to unhook his side to let Loopy out.

  “I need to close the barn door and secure a few things from the wind. Go ahead into the house,” he said. “The door leads into a mudroom then into the kitchen. Make yourself comfortable.”

  For a second, she debated what to do.

  Part of her wanted to put some real distance between them so that she could do some more research on BDSM. Now that she’d had a taste, she had another dozen questions. Unfortunately, since Lara and Connor had left for a honeymoon, she couldn’t ask her friend for advice.

  But she had to remember she was here on business and still had to go over her presentation with him. Seeing that he was looking at her, waiting, she nodded.

  “Stay with Sofia,” he said to Loopy.

  The dog wagged her tail and barked.

  He drove off at his usual quick pace.

  Loopy dashed up the stairs and looked back, tail wagging furiously, as if she were encouraging Sofia to move faster.

  Even though the area was covered, wind blasted through, bringing rain with it.

  She held on to the door so it didn’t slam open and Loopy bolted inside, through the mudroom and into the kitchen, sliding across the floor like an oversized, fluffy mop.

  Laughing, she forced the door closed.

  The mudroom was a well-organized space, with an oversized sink, stacked washer and dryer, laundry hamper, a bench, cubbies for storage of shoes, towels and flashlights, thirsty mats and pegs for jackets and, obviously, cowboy hats.

  She toweled dry, kicked off her shoes. Then, pushing away the feeling of being an intruder, she went into the kitchen. Here, at least, she felt more at home.

  Over the years, especially while she’d helped her mother with the catering company, she’d been in a lot of big kitchens, but she wasn’t sure she’d seen anything quite like this. The appliances were industrial-sized, and a butler’s pantry stood off to one side. No doubt the house had been used for entertaining on a grand scale at one time.

  Most likely, when the house was built, the kitchen would have been in a separate building. So that meant extensive remodeling had been done. And that could be another interesting addition to any book about the ranch.

  She put water in the kettle using the pot filler above the stove. When she eventually bought a house of her own, that would be a necessity.

  Going through the motions soothed her. Not only was it homey, she was accustomed to being the hired help and finding her way around. At least for a time, she was able to forget about what had happened in the barn, as if she’d temporarily been someone else.

  Sofia turned the stove’s flame on high then wandered into the pantry to look for teabags. She found a glass jar with a few miserly bags in it, but thankfully, it was a brand she knew and liked. She located the brown sugar and honey, and she chose a ripe lemon from the fruit bowl. But she couldn’t find a bottle of whiskey.

  Whoever had set up the kitchen had done a good job. Several mugs hung from a wooden tree next to the stove. After putting down the items from the pantry, she found spoons and a teapot.

  Cade returned to the house, and Loopy blasted by to greet him as if he’d been gone for a month. She shook her head, rubbed against him, barked. It was amazing he could keep his balance.

  “What a good girl,” he told her.

  Sofia watched him remove his hat and shake it off before slamming the door closed.

  With Cade in the house, the respite from her thoughts vanished. She was once again the woman who’d felt his paddle and been held against his chest.

  “Hellish storm,” he said.

  “The weatherman’s version of twenty-percent chance of rain.” Because of the unanswered questions between them, normal conversation seemed inane.

  He tossed his hat onto the bench then plowed a hand through his damp hair, dislodging a single, mesmerizing lock. She continued to watch as he shucked water from his shirt.

  For a short time she’d lived with a man, but she’d never stood, riveted, and watched him undress. To be fair, he’d been nothing like Cade. This cowboy exuded confidence and masculinity. Especially after what they’d shared, he was a force as menacing as nature herself.

  Cade wiped the bottom of his boots on a mat then started to unsnap the pearl buttons on his shirt.

  He wore a white T-shirt beneath, and she wasn’t sure whether or not she was disappointed.

  The kettle gave a soft whistle and she moved toward the stove before she got caught, again, staring at him. He really did muddle her thought processes. It wasn’t just him, though. It was her and the aftershocks still zipping through her.

  She moved the kettle to the back burner and turned off the flame.

  Concentrating on what she was doing, Sofia plonked teabags into the pot and filled it with the hot water. She was just putting on the lid when he joined her in the kitchen.

  It shouldn’t have been possible, but he was even broader, more devastating in the white T-shirt and well-worn jeans.

  Her voice was a tad higher than usual when she asked, “Do you have whiskey?”

  “A case of it, at least.”

  “I didn’t see any in the pantry.”

  He blanched. “Whiskey doesn’t belong in the pantry.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “There’s some in my study. I’ll get it.”

  He returned in less than three minutes and handed the whiskey to her.

  “That’s a gorgeously shaped bottle.”

  “Connor left it here. It was a gift from Julien.”

  “Now I’m really impressed. Not only does he show up to the reception, but he sends this kind of gift?”

  “And damn good stuff,” he replied.

  Focusing on anything but his hands as he removed the cap, she grabbed a cutting board from behind the sink and pulled a knife from the nearby block.

  He put the bottle down near her. Rather than moving away, he propped his hips against one of the marble countertops and swept his gaze over her in a way that reminded her of the loft and heated her from the outside in.

  She forced herself to concentrate on slicing the lemon, aware of the way he watched her every movement. Trying to make small talk to dispel the unaccountable tension crawling through her, she pretended nothing was unusual by saying, “When someone tells me to make myself at home in a kitchen, I’m afraid I can’t help it.”

  “I like to see someone get some use out of it. All I need is the grill and a beer.”

  Why did that not surprise her?

  She coated the bottom of two cups with the honey then spooned in a hint of brown sugar before drenching the mixture with fresh-squeezed lemon.

  “Is this your version of a hot toddy?”

  “I experiment with recipes. The brown sugar highlights some of the whiskey’s finer notes. Speaking of which”—Sofia indicated the fancy-looking bottle—“are you sure you want to use this? I typically choose something less expensive.”

  “Swill?”

  “You’re a whiskey snob?”

  “Indubitably,” he replied.

  She grinned, liking this side of him, less nerve-wracking than the Dom who’d
commanded the loft a few minutes ago. Still, she knew a thing or two about alcohol. As she eyed the amount she was adding to his cup, she realized he was going to be drinking a ten-dollar cup of tea.

  After pouring tea into the mug, she gave it a gentle stir. “Cinnamon is a nice touch, if you like it.”

  “No. Thanks.” He accepted her proffered cup.

  She waited while he tried it.

  “Damn.”

  “Well?” she asked while pouring tea into her cup.

  “Better than I expected. Thank you.” He gestured toward her mug. “Not putting whiskey in yours?”

  “No. I still have a long drive back to Corpus.”

  “You’ll be here a bit. Should at least give it a try.” He extended his hot toddy to her.

  Accepting it, drinking from it, implied intimacy. And yet, as she’d been telling him, nothing about their time together had been normal.

  Their fingers brushed as he handed off the mug.

  She blew on the surface of the hot toddy then took a small sip. The alcohol seeped through her and she felt its soothing effects creep up the back of her neck. The flavors leaped to life, and she tasted a layer of peat then the sweetness of maple. “Really palatable.”

  He accepted the mug back.

  She picked up her own and took a drink.

  “Not as good?” he guessed.

  “A let-down,” she agreed. The disappointment had her reaching for the bottle. She splashed about a quarter of an ounce into the wannabe toddy, enough to add flavor, but not enough to affect her judgment or reactions.

  “Let me show you around,” he said. “But don’t think I’ve forgotten that you owe me some answers.”

  Her hand shook.

  “Bring your drink,” he encouraged. “This will take a while.”

  Around them, wind continued to pound the house.

  “That would be an occasional gust,” he informed her.

  “Yeah.” She looked out of the back window and saw the wind stripping some pink blossoms from oleander bushes. The rain was even fiercer than it had been earlier, and lightning ripped through the air.

  A shocking clash of thunder sent Loopy scurrying under the kitchen table. She knocked a chair back and curled up, her head buried under one paw.

  “I’ll check the weather radar when we we’re in my study,” he said.

  She followed him into the dining room and her mouth fell open in shock. Ornate windows overlooked a courtyard and a picture of the Alamo dominated the far wall. A massive wooden table filled a good portion of the space. “How many people does it seat?”

  “With all the leaves in the table? Fifty.”

  What surprised her the most was that furnishings were sturdy, rather than ornate.

  “Great-great-grandfather was very much a product of his time, I’m told. He believed in using what was available and making certain things were built to last, especially after the fire. Most of the original furniture is mesquite, and the finishings on them are brass and copper. All the leather used is from the hides of ranch cattle.”

  “So this is original?”

  “As old as the ranch,” he confirmed. “Of course, through the years, we’ve re-covered some of the pieces.”

  “It’s impressive.”

  “At Grandma Maisie’s insistence, he built the house in the hope that all of his kids would stay here and raise their families.”

  “How many kids did they have?”

  “Five. Only my great-grandfather Phillip continued to live here, along with his bride, Anabelle. But everyone returned on the holidays. I’m told that Maisie was never happier than when everyone was home.”

  He kept on talking as he led her toward the front of the house.

  “The architect designed it as a horseshoe, essentially, so that all interior rooms face the courtyard.”

  She moved in for a closer look, but the view was obscured by the driving rain. A concrete fountain and wishing pool were in the middle, and the wind whipped the falling water horizontally. Two small palm trees leaned sideways, and bougainvillea petals blew everywhere. “That has to be a thirty or forty mile an hour gust,” she said. “Good thing they’re only occasional.”

  “Let’s head to my study.”

  As he’d said, the floors appeared battle-scarred, worn from years of boots and spurs.

  History and masculinity defined the room that was on the other side of the hallway. An ornately framed portrait hung on the wall between two windows. Humphrey Sykes, she assumed. On another wall was a rendition of a woman from the same period. Perhaps the man’s wife, Maisie.

  “Have a seat,” he invited as he sat behind a substantial desk, something she guessed the original Sykes owner had built. From everything she observed, it appeared that being a Dom was in his DNA, not that something like that was possible.

  This office, in color, size and scope, suited him. She couldn’t imagine anything more fitting.

  She slid onto a leather chair that faced him and glanced around while he powered up his computer. The wall space was covered with pictures of the ranch—drawings, photos, aerial shots. There were paintings of horses, of cattle. A branding iron was displayed on a shelf.

  There didn’t seem to be many mementos belonging to Cade, though she could be wrong about that.

  Every time he walked in, he had to be reminded of who he was and the weight of his responsibility. No wonder he took things so seriously.

  Her hot toddy had cooled enough so that she could take a long drink. Thunder rumbled, accompanied by a bright flash of lightning. A few seconds later, the overhead lights flickered. “Ominous,” she said.

  He looked over the computer screen at her. For a few heartbeats, their gazes were locked. His eyes appeared dark and his expression was unreadable.

  The computer made a sound like a bell and he glanced away, severing their connection.

  A few seconds later, he crooked his finger, indicating she should come around the desk. Even though she realized that being so close to him was a spectacularly bad idea, she went to stand behind him.

  A picture of the local radar filled the screen. The storm cell was enormous, covering most of the county. Most of it was in green, signifying rainstorms, but several patches were yellow and several were red.

  “We have a flash flood and tornado watch until eight p.m.” He pushed a button to set the radar into motion. “And it’s moving east.”

  Which meant that if she left now, she would be driving through the potentially treacherous weather the entire way back to Corpus Christi.

  “I have about fourteen bedrooms you can choose from,” he offered, turning his chair slightly to look at her.

  Her heart dropped.

  “Or the guest house if you’re more comfortable.”

  She wanted to protest, say that she’d just head out when this band of rain eased. But she knew the power of Texas storms, particularly near the coast. And if the computer predictions were accurate, there were more powerful winds to come. “I’ll have a look at the radar again later.”

  “The ranch roads can wash out in places if we get a lot of rain in a short period.”

  She hadn’t considered that possibility. “I know you were only planning to have me here for an hour or so.”

  Looking over his shoulder, he said, “Ms. McBride, I can assure you, I have no objection. You’re anything but an inconvenience.”

  Uncertainty rippled through her as she moved away from him. “Do you mind showing me the rest of the mansion?”

  None of the house was ostentatious. As he’d said before, it was intended to be lived in. Furnishings were sturdy. And for a house that had been occupied for most of a hundred years, there were surprisingly few personal items. The parlor had a library of hardback books, all lined up alphabetically behind glass-fronted doors. Family portraits hung on many walls. Most of the other paintings depicted either landscapes or Texas historical sites.

  “Is it what you expected?” he asked when he led her upsta
irs.

  “No. I thought it would be much more…” She sought for the right word. The place seemed a little austere, unlived in. The courtyard with its bright, tropical plants, flowers, roses, provided a stark contrast. Finally, she settled for, “Grandiose.”

  “Humphrey Sykes’ father was a lawyer who left Virginia to find a better life for his family. He moved them all to Texas, took advantage of some land grants, but he died shortly after. Yellow fever, I believe. The family wasn’t rich, and Humphrey grew up knowing that everything he had could disappear in a moment.”

  “The fire reaffirmed that?” she guessed.

  “It did.” He nodded. “So he never overspent. When my great-grandfather Phillip died, all of his personal possessions filled a shoebox. Money went into the land, into the kids’ educations, purchasing cattle and horses. An obligation to the future.”

  “Is that ideal something that you share?”

  At the top of the stairs, he paused and turned toward her.

  She stopped a step below him. “In your office, I didn’t see anything that might belong to you.”

  “I grew up really poor the first few years, and not because my dad wanted it that way.”

  “So you don’t feel as if any of this is really yours?”

  His eyes darkened again. When he spoke, his voice was ragged, a bit raw with emotion. “You might say that.”

  Without another word, he headed down the hallway.

  More interested than ever about him, she followed.

  “This is for storage,” he said, indicating a door. “When the house was built, trunks were kept here, for traveling, for extra clothing. That type of thing. Generations since have kept holiday decorations, unneeded furniture. If indeed we do a pamphlet, there may be some things of interest in there.”

  He pointed out bathrooms and bedrooms, and the transom windows so that air could move between interior spaces. “Many of the windows facing the courtyard open all the way so you can walk out them and onto a sleeping porch. Of course, now that we have air conditioning, the only people who do that are kids.”

  “Did you?”

  She had a difficult time picturing him as a little boy.

  “Yeah. More often than my mom might have liked. She used to say she was afraid the mosquitoes would carry me away.”