by Linda Joyce
“I thought it was all a bad dream,” Branna murmured.
“For your sake, I wish it was.” He hunkered into a squat beside the bed, because sitting beside her on the bed seemed too personal when she was hurting.
“How did I get in here?”
“I thought you might rest more comfortably in your own bed. You were asleep when I carried you in.”
“Professor, for someone who doesn’t like my ‘type,’ you’ve been most gallant. Thank you. Thank you for your help before, and thank you for now.”
“Well, let’s just say it’s part of the service. After all, Dr. Brown assigned me to mentor you through your adjustment period.”
“I doubt he ever intended this kind of service.”
Her chuckle set him at ease. Humor was a cure-all, as much as chicken soup. If Branna could joke, she must be on the road to recovery.
“If you’re hungry, Sadie brought soup. Better than the broth I heated up. She says she’s got biscuits and pie in the car.”
“Sadie’s here?”
“Yeah. She’s outside with local ladies of charity who’ve come to crown the town’s newest heroine.”
“Her family needs her. Please encourage her to go home. I’ll be fine. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I’m here.” Sadie appeared in the bedroom doorway. Light from the hallway fell across the bed. She flipped on the lights.
“Oh! Turn it off. Please,” Branna cried. “The light hurts my eyes.”
James rose and turned off the bright overhead light and switched on the lamp beside her bed.
“See, you do need me. I brought the rest of the food in from the car. Would you like a bite to eat?”
“No. Not now. Sadie, your family needs you. Thank you for the food, but please go home.”
“Not until you’re up and out bed.”
“Well, I think I can do that.”
Branna gently moved the covers aside. She planted her feet in the spot where he’d been sitting. Under her own power, she rose to standing, more mechanical-like than with fluidity. She looked at her feet, shuffled a few short steps, and grabbed for the door jam. “There, I’m up and out of bed. I’ll see you out.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” James cautioned.
“Please, let me try.” Branna’s imploring eyes made him move out of the way. He offered his arm for support, but she pulled away.
Sadie took the lead and headed down the hall. Branna followed, mostly sliding along the wall, using it for support. He trailed one-step behind, ready to catch her if she tumbled, all the while praying she wouldn’t.
Helpless, he maintained a watchful lookout as she reached the living room. With steadier feet than he’d imagined, she crossed the space, grabbed for the back of the couch, and followed it like a railing. About fifteen feet separated the couch from the door. She managed the expanse a half step at a time. When she reached the door where Sadie waited, he let out a breath in relief.
“Sadie, thank you again. I’m sure the food is wonderful. You’re very thoughtful.” Branna flipped the switch for the front porch light and opened the door. James stood beside her, willing her strength, though he didn’t dare touch her. If she fell and injured herself again, what would he tell her parents?
Sadie hugged Branna tight. “So, you’re tougher than you look, I’ll give you that. But I think Dr. Newbern should leave, and I should stay.”
Branna closed her eyes. She sucked on her bottom lip.
He couldn’t decide if she was about to explode or cry.
Rather than wait for Branna’s reply, he jumped in. “Sadie, I’ve got this covered. I have to call Dr. Brown back, and I promised Branna’s parents I’d call them back, too.” He used his professorial-lecture tone, one that he knew Sadie wouldn’t argue against.
“I promise, I’m fine.” Branna smiled weakly.
“All right.” Sadie frowned, apparently reluctant to leave. “You’ve got my number Dr. Newbern, if you need me.”
After Sadie was safely in her car, he turned off the front porch light, closed the door, and then assisted Branna in her shuffle to the couch. He located her cell phone in the kitchen, intending to make good on his promise. “I answered your cell phone earlier.”
“My cell?”
“I didn’t want it to wake you up.”
“Ever hear of voice mail?”
Sarcasm was a type of humor. He hoped a sign of her continued recovery.
“Your mother called. Then your father got on the line. They’re worried. They want to talk with you. Especially since I told them what happened. And...if you don’t call them, I have to. If you truly don’t want your mother hiring a pilot to bring her here, you’ll talk to her.”
Branna heaved a sigh. “You told them? Oh. You don’t understand,” she wailed.
“I know that I’m a man of my word.”
“Maybe so, but your word created an obligation for me.”
“Just call them. Tell them you’re fine. What’s the big deal?”
“My family’s complicated.”
Branna held out her hand, and he plopped the phone into her open palm. She pushed a button on the keypad. She had the phone on speaker. He listened to the other line ring and Mrs. Lind answer.
“Momma? It’s Branna.”
“Branna!” Her mother called for her father. Then, her mother continued, “I’m coming as soon as I can get there.”
“No, Momma. James may have exaggerated a bit out of concern for me. I’m fine. Not that I wouldn’t love to see you, but how about next weekend? Could we plan for that?
“I don’t know...how about this weekend?” Her mother’s concern came through loud and clear.
“Momma, I swear I’m fine.”
James glared at her. “You have—” he pointed to her head “—a concussion. Not to mention bruises and other small cuts. And, that thing on the side of your neck.”
“You’re being hard headed,” her father insisted.
Astonished that Branna would lie to her parents about her injures, he rose to leave the room, wanting to give her privacy. Branna tugged on his sleeve, then patted the couch beside her. He gave in and sat.
“You have to trust me when I say, I’m fine. If you don’t trust me about this, how will you ever trust me to run Fleur de Lis?”
“That’s different, Branna.”
“No Momma, it’s not. If I can’t run my own life, stand on my own and make solid decisions for myself, how can the family ever trust me to be a good steward of the estate? You want me to lead, but you don’t let me.”
James cocked his head. Had he overheard correctly? Estate? Well, that answered a number of things. Estates usually equaled big money. Branna an heiress? If so, an expensive car as a gift was something she probably expected in life. But then, why did she drive an old Volvo?
Sitting beside her made eavesdropping unavoidable. He turned his attention to the photos on the side table. He guessed the group shot was of her family—a very big family. He picked up the framed photograph and studied the faces. She looked a lot like her mother. The two could just about pass for sisters. And there was another woman who closely resembled Branna. A sister, maybe. She and Branna looked to be close in age. The two elderly women in the center caught his attention. Twins?
“James?”
“Yeah?” he said distractedly. When she tilted her head and peered at him with the phone resting in her lap, he asked, “Is your mother placated?”
“For the moment. Could I bother you for some tea? This,” she said lifting the cup from earlier, “is cold. And it needs sugar. Would you like something?”
“A little Captain Morgan to take the edge off,” he muttered. “I’ll make tea. Would you like some of Sadie’s soup? I’ll ladle you a bowl.”
“Just tea. I’m tried.”
He slapped his thighs and rose. Branna stretched out on the couch. He covered her with the quilt, tucking it under her feet.
“I didn’t mean to compl
icate things when I answered your phone. And, darn. I didn’t think to lie to the folks on the other end of the line.”
“I didn’t lie. I played the incident down. My family is—”
“Don’t say complicated again.”
“So much is expected of me. They treat me like I’m...in need of a nursemaid and in line for the throne, when what is needed is a strong leadership.”
“But aren’t you?” he called from the kitchen.
“I’m the proverbial good girl. I’ve never colored outside the lines until I dumped Steven and moved here.”
“So, you’re saying you hit your rebellious streak late? That happens to the good-girl types. I hear it’s not fatal. Cream? Sugar?” he called over the kettle’s whistle.
No answer.
“Branna? Do you want something in your tea?”
Was that a sob?
“Branna?”
Yep. Definitely a sob.
He moved the whistling kettle from the stove, turned off the gas, and quickly made his way to her.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sitting on the floor, he was eye to eye with her as she lay on her side with only her face peering out from beneath the quilt. She looked like a lost soul.
The depth of her fragility hit him. His gut tightened. Branna’s tears were drops of pain and each one branded his heart.
“You don’t understand anything about my life. Yet you keep judging me. I’m this type or that type. Your low opinion oozes out. You don’t even bother to try to hide it.”
“Wait. Look—”
“Are you always so harsh?” Branna sniffed.
Harsh? No. Cautious. Yes. Judgments weren’t always a bad thing. In the past, an error in judgment had cost him dearly. But Branna wasn’t Caroline. His head had taken a while to catch up with his heart. “I’m sorry I seem harsh.”
Their gazes locked.
Branna nodded. “Apology accepted. One sugar and one cream, please.”
Had that been Caroline... No. He had to stop that. No more comparisons of anyone to Caroline. That was a piece of bad luck he could finally shake off.
He returned with mugs of tea, steam rising from each and curling together. Branna scooted and leaned against the armrest of the couch. She took a mug and blew on the liquid. Traces of tears had made barely visible tracks down her face.
He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, near her feet. “Branna, if you’d like to talk about...” He started to mention her parents, but changed his mind. “The accident or anything else, I’ll listen.”
“Oh James.” Branna plopped the mug down on the coffee table. Tea sloshed over the side.
She pushed her feet out from beneath her and surprised him by cuddling close, practically gluing herself to his side. Soft sobs started. Her body trembled. Tears soaked the front of his shirt. The helplessness that had engulfed him when Katie died now blanketed his heart.
He put his arm around her and hugged her close. What could he do? What should he do? Was her flow of emotion the result of the concussion? Did he need to call the doctor, or better yet, rush her back the hospital?
“Branna, it’s okay. Whatever it is, I promise, it’ll be fine.” Maybe she needed more rest. A good night’s sleep cured many things. Could make the world a wonderful place.
“I’m here. Let it all go.”
He let her cry. After several minutes, when his shirt was soaked and her tears lessened to a slow dribble, she sniffled. He offered her a tissue from the box next to him, then turned and patted her shoulder as she held the tissue to her nose.
If blowing one’s nose could ever be described as dainty, Branna managed it.
“Another tissue please.”
He pulled four from the box and handed them over.
Branna’s gaze met his. “So what type am I now? The foolish-crying type?” she whispered.
Her accusation stung. “No. Not at all. You have the wrong idea about me. Look, we really don’t know each other that well. Unlike you, I keep my life uncomplicated. By your own admission, yours is not.”
“Humph.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve been hurt. Now your armor’s hard. Do you have compassion for anyone?”
“What? Yeah I do. If I didn’t, I’d have left you at the door when you said you were fine and could manage by yourself.”
“Maybe you have an over developed sense of...duty, or misguided ideas about honor. Maybe that’s why you’re still here.”
James paused. The last thing he wanted was an argument with her. He softened his tone. “Branna, you needed me. I wanted to be here for you. What you experienced today was scary stuff, life threatening. Someone needed to stay. I decided that someone would be me.”
He couldn’t bring himself to say that the accident scared ten years off his life, and that his heart had fallen in love, even if his brain resisted.
“I’m fine now. Thank you for the use of your shoulder. You can go.”
The flashes of anger in her eyes bothered him more than her punctuated angry tone. Was anger a cover for pain? Fear?
Her blotchy red, tear-stained face wouldn’t win her a beauty contest, but she still looked lovely. The pain in her eyes made him want to hold her. Made him want to be the man that made everything in her life turn out all right.
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not that kind of guy, your Highness. I’m not leaving. Tell me what I don’t understand about the complications of your life.”
Chapter 27
Loud banging woke James. Disoriented, he pushed up from the floor to a sitting position, and then rested his back against the couch. Morning rays of light seeped in from around the drapes, but gave no clue as to the time. He glanced at his watch. It showed six thirty a.m. He’d slept all night on the floor.
A soft low groan behind him drew his attention. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Branna appeared deep in sleep, though agitated by a dream. Sleeping had brought color back to her cheeks. She looked irresistible. Sweet. Warm. Womanly. Dare he sneak a kiss? He could enjoy waking up beside her each morning. He craved a deeper connection with the woman who had haunted his dreams.
Running his fingers through his hair, he let out a low growl. Who was he kidding? He wanted more than a kiss. He wanted to pick her up, take her to bed, and make love to her—all day. Some knight in shining armor, taking advantage of a helpless injured woman.
What was wrong with him? She needed help, not lust.
When the banging started again, he jumped up and ran for the front door. Whoever was making the noise had to stop. Branna needed sleep. They’d talked off-and-on until two in the morning, until neither of them could stay awake.
He yanked open the front door, stepped outside, and pulled the door closed. “Stop that!”
The banging continued.
“What the hell are you doing?” he called to Bill, who pounded the rim of a gallon-sized bucket of paint.
The painter stood at the rear of his van, the back doors opened wide. Several five-gallon paint buckets surrounded him like a drum set. Inside the van, a blend of colored paints puddled on the floor.
“Sorry, man. Did I wake you?”
“Never mind me. Branna’s sleeping.”
The painter eyed him up and down. “Yah, man, whatever you say.”
“Don’t give me crap. Paint if you’re going to, but stop the banging noise. The lady’s had a rough night. Yesterday was tough business.”
“Is she doing okay? That was something, though. Did you see the video of the crash on the news last night?”
“No. What video?”
“Some college kid films planes taking off and landing for some docudrama he’s making. He happened to be in the right place at the right time. Got it all on tape. Miss Lind will be the FBI’s star witness in the drug smuggling case.”
“I don’t know if she saw anything other than the plane. Anyway, look, no noise. Okay? Let’s let her sleep.”
/> “Sure. No noise.”
When he returned to the house, Branna remained asleep on the couch. The aroma of brewing coffee greeted him, and he followed his nose to the kitchen. Last night, he’d set the timer on the coffee maker after Branna directed him to coffee and filters.
Anticipating the hot dark liquid that dripped into a glass carafe, the fog in his brain started to push aside. Black and strong. That’s how he wanted his coffee this morning. He needed a full-caffeine jolt if he intended to make it through the day. Waiting for his liquid addiction-of-choice, he thought about the things Branna had shared between her catnaps and bites of Sadie’s biscuits.
At first, it was uncomfortable to hear such intimate personal information about her. He’d resisted intimacy for so long. He engaged in deep discussions about politics, philosophy, books, and even religion once in a while, though he usually avoided those discussions also. Never had a woman exposed her most deep-seated emotions and layered them with logic as Branna had done.
“I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,” she said.
“Well, this one isn’t silver either. However, the pecan pie is gold-medal worthy. Take a bite.” He held the spoon to her lips, and she tasted the pie.
“Mmm, this is good. I was born with a yoke of responsibility. I’m the oldest female in my generation of the family. Do you know how many generations are living right now on my mother’s side?”
“No.”
“Four. We’re a huge group. I have a sister and brother. Then, there are five cousins. There’s my parents’ generation, a total of eight adults. My grandparents’ generation. There are three of them. And finally, there are the Old Aunts. My great grandmother and her twin sister are the matriarchs of our family.” Branna pointed at the family photo on the table next to him. “And I’m expected to run Fleur de Lis and pass it on to future generations. Until me, every previous Keeper had the benefit of the Old Aunt’s wisdom. In my lifetime, at some point, the Old Aunts will pass away. They are, after all, in their nineties.”