Brant's Return

by Mia Sheridan

  “What doesn’t Isabelle do?” I muttered.

  Gus smiled and I could see the clear affection for Isabelle in his expression. “Not much, I guess. She’s a gem.”

  “What happened to her, Gus? I mean why was she in those classes?”

  Sadness passed through his eyes, but he shook his head. “Figure she should tell you about that.”

  I nodded, knowing Isabelle wasn’t likely to tell me anything other than to fuck off.

  A loud whinny sounded and Gus looked up. “All right, I’m coming, Ms. Impatient.”

  I followed him as he started walking toward the horse stalls. “This girl wants to run.”

  “Could I take her out, Gus? I’m a little rusty, but I think I can still manage to stay in the saddle.”

  Gus looked at me sideways, raising his eyebrows as he took in my jeans and black button-up shirt, eyes landing on my loafers. “In that getup? You sure those duds are meant to get dirty? Dry clean only has no place on a horse, city slicker.”

  “Funny.” I couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped my throat. I glanced at my outfit. Buttoned-up blowhard. Hell, I did look ridiculous, like I’d walked out of the pages of a damn catalogue, hoping to be taken seriously by these tough, sun-browned, hard-working men who didn’t know a designer label from a hole in the ground. Nor cared to.

  “Didn’t you bring any real clothes?” Gus asked.

  Real clothes. “Nope, just these,” I said, but I shot Gus a self-deprecating smile. Okay, I’d grown up on horses. I knew better than to show up in a barnyard this way.

  Gus chuckled as he opened the stall, leading the mare out of the pen. “You want to take this girl out for a ride? She’s real gentle. She’ll be easy on you. Buttons, meet Brant.”

  The pretty gray horse blew a big gust of breath out of her nose, dancing in place. I rubbed her cheek and she leaned into me. Yeah, she was a sweetheart.

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the saddle, clicking my heels on her belly as she trotted out of the pen into the pasture beyond.

  Gus was right. She was gentle, following my commands easily and swiftly, and within a few minutes, it all came back to me as though it were a simple matter of muscle memory, as if the last time I’d ridden a horse had been only yesterday. The wind whipped at my face, a wild rushing thrill cascading through me as the strong, beautiful creature picked up her pace, her hoofs pounding the earth as I let out a crazy whoop of delight. This was the feel of life, of freedom. There was nothing on earth like this. Nothing. It wrapped around your heart, breathed spirit into your lungs, and was such a simple but profound joy.

  How had I forgotten?

  And was there any point in remembering?

  It wasn’t as if I could ride a horse through the streets of New York City. This life . . . this was my past, not my present. Still, it had been nice to remember the good that had shaped me. To remember that my entire past didn’t boil down to that one miserable day. Shouldn’t . . .

  I rode until Buttons was obviously tired and breathing heavily, stopping at the stream that ran through this land, eight hundred acres of wild Bluegrass beauty. I let the horse drink and graze for a while as I sat on the grass, staring at that wide blue sky. The sky I’d believed began and ended in Kentucky once upon a time . . .

  After a while, I got back in the saddle and rode toward the stable, moving at a slow canter. When I was almost there, I swung my leg over, hopping off Buttons and giving her a pat on the neck. “Thanks, girl. I needed that.” Gus must have spotted me returning because a stableman ran out and took Buttons’ reins, leading her into the stable. I acknowledged him with a nod.

  I spotted Isabelle walking toward the training yards and jogged to meet her. She shot me a glance and kept walking. “Isabelle, wait.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to apologize.”

  She stopped, turning and folding her arms over her chest. She tilted her head, her gaze trained on me. For a few beats we stared at each other. “Well, where is it?”

  I looked around. “Where’s what?”

  “Your apology.”

  “That was it.”

  One of the men who worked at Graystone Hill walked past us, leading a chocolate-brown horse. Just as the horse passed, he released a giant pile of horse dung. It hit the ground, splashing on my loafers and the cuff of my pants.

  Isabelle pressed her lips together briefly, obviously attempting to contain a laugh. She looked at my shoes then back at me. “That’s gonna stain.”

  I shook my shoe, clenching my jaw. “Anyway, I meant what I said. I owe you an apology.”

  She stared at me again, apparently waiting for something, but I had no clue what. “I sincerely hope you’re better at bartending than apologizing.”

  “What? I’m not a bar—” I shook my head. “Listen, we got off on the wrong foot. I said some things I shouldn’t have, and, well, you did call me a buttoned-up blowhard.”

  “I’m sure you’re used to it.”

  I almost let out a surprised laugh but managed to hold it back, squinting at her instead. “No one else has ever called me a buttoned-up blowhard.”

  “Hey Isabelle, you coming?”

  Isabelle looked over her shoulder at the man in the training pen, holding the reins of a massive stallion. She looked back at me. “They probably wait to say it behind your back.”

  Despite myself, the laugh I’d held back a moment before burst forth. I thought I saw a tiny lip quirk as she walked backward, but I couldn’t be sure. “I have to go,” she said. Then she turned and jogged the rest of the way to the training pen. Well, fuck. That hadn’t exactly gone the way I’d hoped. And yet . . . even if she hadn’t accepted the entire olive branch I’d offered, maybe she’d taken a leaf. Hell, the truth was, I was out of practice. Most people apologized to me these days—even if not necessarily warranted. I sighed, walking to the fence rail, my eyes locked on Isabelle as she led the massive, majestic animal around the pen while he shook his head, chuffed and whinnied angrily, and put up an all-around horse fit. She was the picture of patience though, unruffled, serene as she ignored his antics, stepping deftly out of the way when he attempted to assert his dominance.

  She was beautiful—not only her looks, but the glow she carried from the obvious fact that she was in her element. I couldn’t look away.

  Her long auburn hair was braided loosely; wisps that had slipped free of the frayed blue ribbon she’d used to secure it framed her face. Jeans encased her slim legs and the white T-shirt she wore was baggy, oversized, as if she’d tumbled out of bed and grabbed her man’s shirt from the bedroom floor. Simple. Messy. Sexy as all hell.

  “You still here?” I glanced to my right to where my father stood, leaned against the same fence. He didn’t look my way, his eyes locked on Isabelle in the pen with the wild black stallion.

  “I guess I am.” I moved my gaze to her as well, taking in the horse. So damn strong. He could kill or maim her with one swift kick. I gripped the fencepost in my hands, the wood warm and rough beneath my palms.

  “Figured you’d be halfway to New York by now.”

  “I will be. I had an apology to make to Isabelle before I left.” I wasn’t sure why I said it. Maybe I’d been caught up in watching Isabelle, or maybe I wanted the old guy to know that despite our own differences, despite the fact that there was too much water under the bridge where we were concerned, I wasn’t a total jerk. I acknowledged when an apology needed to be made and sucked up my pride enough to deliver one. Would he care?

  Probably not.

  I felt the weight of his stare but I didn’t turn my head. “Are you supposed to be out of bed?” I asked.

  I heard the scowl in his words when he spoke. “I’m supposed to do whatever the hell I feel up to doing.” I nearly laughed out loud. Nothing had changed.

  We watched Isabelle with the horse for a few minutes, the silence more comfortable than I would have imagined.

  “That one’s full of piss and vinegar,�
� my father muttered.

  “Isabelle or the horse?”

  My father chuckled, a low, raspy sound. “Not Isabelle. Oh, she’s got backbone, I think that’s clear. But piss and vinegar? Nah. Not her. Nothing sour about that girl.” He was quiet for a moment. “She’s a natural.” He sounded reverent, and I glanced at him, surprised by how much the look in his eyes matched his tone.

  He loved her. Maybe not as a partner, or a lover, but he cared about Isabelle and saw her as more than just a secretary. That was clear. Emotions churned inside me, feelings I didn’t know how to categorize or identify. Questions better left unanswered.

  Who is she? Where did she come from?

  I looked back to the pen where Isabelle had retreated to the other side, leaned against the fence casually. The stallion pawed the ground with his front hooves, shaking his head back and forth as Isabelle merely watched him, crinkling something in her pocket. Some sort of horse treat? Peppermints maybe? He took a minute to simply watch her then pounded at the ground again, stirring up dust, but taking a step toward her, then two.

  “How long has she been training this one?”

  “Couple of weeks.” He chuckled, and it sounded raspy. “Big fool has already been broken, and he doesn’t even realize it,” my father said, inclining his head. “But watch. She’s going to make him think it’s all his idea. Poor bastard never stood a chance.”

  Something about his words made my own hackles rise, though I couldn’t say exactly why. I narrowed my eyes at him, wondering what he was playing at.

  “Not too long now and he’ll be eating out of her hand, praising himself for his flexible personality and generous spirit.” He let out another throaty-sounding laugh. “It’s a push and pull, isn’t it? All part of the dance. They’ll both have to work for it.” For a moment his voice took on a note of some emotion I couldn’t name. He was still watching Isabelle and the horse, though I couldn’t read his expression as I could only see his profile. “She’s as stubborn as he is and not afraid to let him know. How many rounds do you think they’ll go?” he asked, and when he looked my way whatever had been in his voice a moment before hadn’t lingered in his eyes.

  I didn’t answer the question he posed, instead murmured, “She’s good.” Unconventional, but good. I’d watched enough horse training growing up to spot a natural when I saw one. The old man wasn’t telling me anything I couldn’t see with my own eyes. “To break a wild thing, but keep his pride intact? It takes skill.”

  He nodded. “And the patience of a saint. Watched her stand just like she is now for half a day once before that stubborn horse gave in. Red Ticket they called him.”

  I looked at him, surprised. “Horse that won the Kentucky Derby last year?”

  My father looked at me, head tilted. “So you do still follow the races.”

  I looked to where Isabelle leaned casually against the fence, the horse halfway to her. I shrugged. “Not really. That kind of stuff tends to show up as headlines on the Internet.”

  “Ah. Course it does.”

  I ignored the sarcasm in his voice. Isabelle looked off into the pasture, not giving the horse any attention at all, at least seemingly. “You’re grooming her,” I stated. “To take over Graystone Hill. She knows every part of this operation. You have her doing a little bit of everything, and she’s damn good at it.” I considered him for a minute. “Does she know?”

  He paused for a second. “No. I don’t think she’d do it all if she did.”

  I watched him for another few seconds. He looked troubled as his eyes remained on Isabelle. After a moment, I looked to where she was too.

  “That horse she’s training reminds me of Challenger,” I said. Challenger was a thoroughbred I’d helped train when I was a teen. I’d loved that horse. Loved his power and his feisty nature. He’d been a winner, almost taking the Triple Crown. So close.

  “We bought Challenger a few years back,” my father said. “He’s at the new stable, enjoying his second career.” I caught his meaning and chuckled. So Challenger was a breeding horse now. Not a bad job if you could get it. Lucky bastard.

  “Lots of changes around here. I didn’t know you bred horses and offered therapy classes.”

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t.” His eyes met mine, his gaze sharp right before pain flashed in his expression. He stumbled backward, clutching at his heart as his eyes widened in terror. He gasped for breath. I caught him before he hit the ground, going down onto my knees as I held his struggling body in my arms. He wheezed out a panicked breath, his face stricken, hands clasping at my shirt.

  “Help! Someone help!” I yelled. Footsteps came running from every direction, then three people were kneeling beside us as I heard someone calling 9-1-1.

  My father lay in my arms struggling to breathe, his eyes locked on my face, his mouth moving in silent communication, saying words I couldn’t hear.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Isabelle

  The hospital chapel was dim and plain, two tall oil paintings done to look like stained glass hanging on the wall behind the lectern.

  The door opened and closed behind me, and I lifted myself off my knees, scooting backward onto the wooden bench. “This seat saved?”

  I looked up, surprised to see Brant standing at the end of the pew. I opened my mouth to tell him it was all his, that I was leaving anyway but paused when I saw his expression. He looked . . . uncertain, off balance, sort of like a kid asking a new friend if he could sit at her lunch table. “No. Be my guest.” I scooted down, even though the pew was long enough to fit five people and I was in the middle. He slid in beside me and for a moment we both stared straight ahead, the air weighty and full of that something that seemed to follow us wherever we went.

  Even church. Apparently.

  Or maybe it was only me. Most likely it was only me. I doubted he felt the way the molecules in the air shifted when we were together. But if he did . . . did it bother him the way it bothered me?

  My hands fidgeted in my lap. I wasn’t sure why I’d come here—the doctors had told us Mr. Talbot was going to be fine. Too much fluid had built up in his tumor-ridden lungs and the medical staff had drained them, fixing the problem temporarily, though it was bound to happen again. At least he was comfortable now, safely tucked in upstairs for a night of observation before he was sent home tomorrow.

  “You a religious person?”

  I glanced at Brant who was staring at the large crucifix hung on the wall to the left of the podium. Was I religious? The question felt like a sort of reaching out, an attempt at small talk, perhaps even a new start. But the question he’d chosen was more complicated than he knew. “I was raised to be.”

  He tilted his head, his lips tipping in the first sincere smile I thought I’d seen on his far-too handsome face. He ran a hand over his jaw. “Preacher’s daughter?”

  “Deacon’s daughter actually. My family is Amish.”

  He looked genuinely surprised as he gazed at me, running a finger under his bottom lip. “You don’t say. Are you still . . . Amish? I mean . . . can you be Amish outside an Amish community?”

  My lips tipped into a smile that felt sort of sad. “It’d be very difficult. I no longer consider myself Amish, but in any case, I was excommunicated.” I looked at the cross on the wall, my gaze moving over the solid lines of the symbol.

  “You? Excommunicated? Why?”

  He sounded so shocked that it made me smile. I had to say I was enjoying this moment of truce—whether temporary or not—with Harrison Talbot’s son. In fact, in so many ways he reminded me of his father. Wouldn’t he hate to know that? “I’d like to say it was an exciting story, but alas, all I can offer is the old cliché of a girl who fell for a boy she shouldn’t have.”

  Brant’s expression was enigmatic, that finger still moving under his lip. “Ah. That story. What happened to the boy?” His tone was casual, but there was something underlying it that I didn’t know how to read.

  “I married him,” I sai
d softly, rallying a smile. Why was I talking about this? I never talked about this. My heart picked up speed, mouth growing dry, mind searching for an escape.

  “But . . . you’re no longer married.”

  I shook my head swiftly. “No. And what about you? No Mrs. Talbots on the horizon?”

  He winced slightly. “God, no. Marriage is not for me.”

  I released a breath. I could relate . . . though I wouldn’t rule love out forever. Maybe it was just the fighter in me who refused to believe that no matter how bleak or unlikely something seemed, there was always a smidgen of hope. I wondered if Brant’s aversion to marriage had anything to do with his own parents’ relationship, or if he just preferred to live the life of a consummate bachelor. The page of Google images with his countless women came to mind and brought a strange prickly feeling under my skin.

  “Is that why you don’t drink? The whole . . . Amish thing?”

  Amish thing. I knew what he meant and took no offense. “I suppose. I don’t have anything against those who do.” I fiddled with the ring on my right hand. “But I guess in some ways you can take the Amish girl out of Amish country but . . .” I waved my hand in the air, to indicate the rest of that particular expression.

  He smiled and we were both silent for a moment.

  “Isabelle . . .” At the sound of the hesitation in his voice, I looked at him, taking in the seriousness of his expression. “You were right. I was an arrogant asshole.” He laughed sort of self-consciously and helplessly, and I felt a twinge of sympathy in my chest. This obviously wasn’t easy for him. And yet, this was a true apology, and I appreciated it.

  “I shouldn’t have called you a name. I was angry,” I admitted.

  “You had a right to be,” he murmured. “I made assumptions. Acted like an idiot.”

  “True on both counts.”

  He laughed, shooting me a look. I gave him a quirk of my lip. “It’s a difficult situation . . . with your father. Emotions are understandably high.”

  He seemed to consider that for a moment, finally blowing out a breath as if there was too much to think about in this exact moment. “My father had an affair with his secretary before my mother . . . died. It’s part of why we haven’t spoken in thirteen years. I only tell you that to explain my rush to judgment. I was wrong and I’m sorry. I really am.”