Brant's Return

by Mia Sheridan

  After a moment, or maybe hours, I felt Brant’s hand on my shoulder and turned my face to his. Whatever was in my expression caused sorrow to fill his eyes. “Come on. The old distillery buildings are about ten minutes that way,” he gestured his head over his shoulder. “We’ll get the horses warm and dry and us too, okay?”

  I barely registered his words, but I nodded, so filled with gratitude that he had come with me, that he was taking charge where I could not.

  I didn’t resist when he pulled me up on Newton, cradling my body in front of him and cresting the ridge. He held Mona Lisa’s reins in his hand, and Starshine followed her mother, staying as close as she possibly could. I glanced back at them every minute or so to make sure they were okay and each time I did, Brant leaned slightly to the side, allowing me to see.

  Knowing I needed to see.

  My body relaxed into his, finding comfort in the rain-drenched male scent of him, in the solid surety of his chest, in the way he’d readily taken the lead . . . but also given me what I needed so desperately.

  There was goodness in this man. I felt it in every fiber of my grief-filled being.

  The old distillery buildings that I’d only glimpsed from afar as they were at the edge of the property, came into view, two dark, hulking shadows. We moved toward them, the knowledge that we’d be out of the rain in a minute or two bolstering my strength and breaking the daze I’d been in.

  “Is either one unlocked?” I asked, raising my face to his.

  “I don’t know,” Brant said, his voice rising to be heard over the rain. “We’ll break a window if we have to.”

  I settled back into his chest as we rode the last couple of hundred feet to the door of one of the buildings, where Brant dismounted. I breathed out a sigh of relief when he pushed the front door and it creaked open. Brant looked back at me and grinned, and my heart did a somersault in my chest. He was my hero. Maybe not tomorrow, not forever, and that was okay. But for tonight, for now, that’s exactly what he was. And it felt so good—so vital—to have one . . . even for a moment. And moments were all I asked for anymore.

  “There’s a big overhang on the back of the building. Let’s get the horses dry and then we’ll go inside.”

  I nodded, taking a deep breath and dismounting Newton. We led all three horses to the back of the building. Brant had remembered well—again—as there was a large overhang that gave the horses plenty of dry area where they could move around.

  Brant removed his jacket and though the outside was soaked, he used the inside to rub Starshine down vigorously. Her trembling ceased after a few minutes and I was sure the warm milk was helping as she latched on to her mother, finding safety and comfort.

  I took off my jacket as well and rubbed it over Mona Lisa and Newton, getting most of the water off them. Now sheltered, their body heat would dry them the rest of the way.

  There was grass just beyond the roofline and we left plenty of tether on their tied-up reins—and the rope Brant removed from his saddle to tether Starshine—so they could graze and drink from the large puddles directly under the overhang. By the time we were done, I was trembling so hard, my teeth were chattering, but my heart felt calm, soothed.

  We entered through the front door again, our footsteps echoing in the mostly empty building.

  “There’s a room my grandfather used as an office once upon a time,” Brant said, taking my hand and leading me through the dark building, the only illumination the moonlight shining through the windows high up on the wall. Our footsteps echoed and I gripped Brant’s hand, again trusting him to lead me to safety.

  He pushed open a metal door, the hinges squeaking loudly. Brant took his phone from his pocket and used the flashlight to shine around the space. It was a smallish room, a large fireplace on one wall, and a wooden desk off to one side. There were file cabinets against the opposite wall and a few other odds and ends. I was still shivering, but at least we had shelter. “There’s wood in the fireplace,” Brant said. “And if we’re lucky . . .” He reached into a canister on top of the stone structure and produced a bundle of matches.

  I laughed with happiness. “Oh sweet Jesus. We can light a fire.”

  He set his phone on the mantel and his grin flashed white in the semi-illuminated room. I sat in front of the fireplace and watched as Brant crumpled some old newspaper on the hearth, placed it under the wood, and lit it. Within minutes, the wood was glowing red and warmth was flowing toward me. I groaned with pleasure, moving closer, reaching out my hands as a deep shiver ran through me, the cold seeping from my bones and leaving my body.

  Brant opened a chest of some sort against the wall and brought out what looked like old fabric tarps. He used one to wrap around my shoulders, and though it smelled sort of musty, it felt too good to have something dry against my skin. I wasn’t about to complain.

  “You should get out of those wet clothes,” he said. “I’m going to text Mick and let him know we’re safe and that we’ll head back in the morning.”

  I nodded and when he turned I used the rough fabric as a shield and removed my shoes, socks, saturated jeans, and T-shirt. My bra and underwear were damp too, but I only removed my bra. My cotton underwear was a small piece of fabric. It would dry quickly with the heat of the fire.

  When I turned around with the tarp held around me once more, Brant was stoking the fire, his phone back on the mantel. “Did they text back?” I’d heard a soft ding as I’d been removing my clothes.

  “Yeah. He said my father was throwing a tantrum, but they all agreed it was too risky to ride home. And apparently the dirt road that leads here from the other direction was not only closed years ago, but it’s washed out. They agreed since we were safe and warm . . .”

  I nodded. I could imagine Harry’s face well. The idea of him huffing and puffing in anger made me feel strangely comforted—it meant he was feeling his old, fiery self. “You should get out of your wet clothes too, Brant. Is there another tarp in there?”

  “Yeah. I will in a minute.”

  I pulled what looked like an old trunk of some sort in front of the fire and sat. I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment, reveling in the feeling of being dry and warm. Safe.

  “Who’d you lose, Belle?” His voice was soft, his tone solemn, and I appreciated his obvious grasp of the gravity his question posed.

  The question echoed inside me, the one I’d known was coming. I opened my eyes to see Brant still stoking the fire, though he was now looking at me, his eyes deep and fathomless in the dim light of the room. Shadows danced and retreated on the walls, as if they were trapped souls waiting to be set free. “My daughter,” I answered, the word slipping from my lips.

  Brant continued stoking the flames, the poker moving rhythmically, the fire dancing. I felt sort of hypnotized by the twisting, turning light and the warmth penetrating my skin. But I also felt chilled, seeing terrified, lifeless eyes against pallid skin. Then there was this weird calm, as if I felt . . . safe. With Brant. “Will you tell me?” he asked, his voice throaty.

  I was quiet for a moment, picturing wispy blonde angel hair, eyes as pale blue as a springtime sky. “It was a home invasion.” I pulled the tarp more tightly around my naked skin, my fingers clasped at my neck, the fabric squeezed in my grip. “We were sitting down to dinner when he . . .” I paused, waiting for the terror, the memory of that horrifying moment, to steal my words. But it didn’t. I continued to watch the flames, strangely lulled. I needed to talk about this, didn’t I? Isn’t that what the grief counselor had told me? I hadn’t been able to . . . then. The horses had helped. The horses had been my lifeline when the words were locked inside. Or maybe . . . maybe there just hadn’t been words. Until now.

  “He kicked in the kitchen door. It hadn’t even been locked, truth be told. But . . . he kicked it in. He led us to the basement. He tied our hands. My husband, me, and my . . . my little girl. She was only four years old.” Grief clogged my throat then, but still the words flowed past it, through it
. “I couldn’t reach for her. I couldn’t . . .” I clenched my eyes closed, but there were no tears. Sometimes I swore I’d cried myself dry. Until earlier tonight when I’d cried for Mona Lisa’s lost baby. My lost baby. I knew that. I knew I’d made it about me. I wasn’t blind—and yet the need to reunite them when I had been denied that possibility had been too strong to ignore. An overwhelming need to provide a mother with what I had begged God for and never received. Provide a baby comfort, the thing I’d pleaded for my daughter to be given. I opened my mouth and spoke the words, “He shot us. One.” Bang. “Two.” Bang. “Three.” Bang. “Three merciless, inhumane shots. Inexplicable cruelty. I was the only one who . . . survived.”

  “Belle . . .” Brant rasped, setting the poker down and moving toward me. He took me in his arms and I let him, burrowing into his chest, willingly taking the comfort he offered.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Brant

  It felt like my heart was in a vise, squeezing slowly, painfully. My God. What this woman had endured. What she’d survived. I wasn’t a father—had no personal knowledge of that particular bond from the point of view of a parent—and yet I could hardly fathom how she was still standing. I pulled her closer, breathing in the warm, sweet scent of her, wanting to do anything to minimize the pain reliving that memory must be causing her.

  “When?” I finally managed to ask.

  She pulled in a shaky breath. “Three years ago.” I’d bet anything that she knew how many months, days, and hours came after that simplified answer, but I didn’t ask.

  I’d known there was something more going on the second she came bursting into the barn, her eyes filled with such raw agony, it had stunned me. And then the way she’d sobbed into Mona Lisa’s neck when we’d found her baby . . . Fuck. I’d never forget the sight of her body wracked with grief as the rain pummeled the earth all around her. It’d branded me in some way I couldn’t even put into words.

  “Did they catch him?” I held my breath as I waited for her answer.

  “Yes.”

  My breath rushed out on an exhale of relief. At least, at the very least, she didn’t have to fear that her personal monster was still out there somewhere.

  “Is he in prison?”

  She pulled back slightly, looking up at me. Her face was bathed in firelight, her eyes wide with sorrow, but also with . . . strength. I felt humbled to be in her presence, and so deeply ashamed as well. I’d thought I was the victim and she was my adversary when I first met her. What an idiot I’d been. When did I become that man? When had I become so used to game playing—manipulation—that I’d never imagined her intentions were based solely on kindness, on her own terrible understanding of what loss could do to a person, and nothing more?

  “He resisted arrest and was killed.”

  “Good,” I said, not intending for the word to come out with quite as much rage. “Did they establish a motive? Anything?”

  “No. He was a drifter. He’d been in and out of prison, had drugs in his system. They said it was random.” She shook her head. “Just a random crime.”

  The way she said it made my heart squeeze. Just? Had the police explained it to her that way? So . . . matter-of-factly? Maybe the murderer hadn’t picked them based on anything other than the geography of their house, or the privacy of the back entrance, something of that nature. But Belle’s family was dead and to explain it that way felt criminal somehow. How could your whole life implode based on something random?

  I moved a piece of hair back, tucking it behind her ear. “I’m so sorry, Belle.” I cupped her cheek in my hand and she leaned into it. “So sorry. What you lost . . . it’s unimaginable.”

  She breathed out a shaky breath, but lifted her head. “The truth is, my husband and I hadn’t had a great marriage.” Her lips trembled as she smiled sadly. “It took me a long time to say that afterward, even to myself. I knew it beforehand, but to think about it later felt . . . I don’t know, sort of like I was betraying him somehow.” Her grip on the material at her throat had loosened and I noticed her fingers move under the fabric, wrapping around the chain of her necklace. “I mourned him. I did.” She fell silent for a moment and I waited for her to gather her thoughts. “I was so young when I married him. He worked at a bank in town and my father took me with him to do business one day. I saw him and . . .” She shrugged, her smile sweet but sad. “He was just beginning his own investment company and he’d visit my community. I had so many stars in my eyes. So many dreams. And he promised to make them all come true. He swept me off my feet, and when I discovered I was pregnant, he suggested we get married and run away together. He would start again, he said, for me. And I thought it was the only way. I couldn’t bear the thought of feeling like an outcast every day of my life—of my child feeling like an outcast too, or worse, a mistake. We’d start fresh, somewhere new. I’d learn about the world, about motherhood, about love . . .”

  “It didn’t work out that way?”

  She stared at her lap for a moment. “No. It was okay at first. There were so many new things to see and explore. We didn’t move far, just a couple of hours away. And I was fascinated by the world outside the community I’d lived in all my life. But Ethan, he . . . changed.” She frowned, looking sad, alone. “He became distant, dissatisfied with everything I did. After Elise was born, he started staying out all night, telling me he was working late. I suspected he was cheating, but by that point, I almost didn’t care. He didn’t love me, but . . . I didn’t love him anymore either.”

  “I’m sorry about that too, Belle.” Something about what she’d said—about feeling as if she was betraying her husband to think of him in negative terms—poked at an old bruise deep inside. Something I’d think about later, but not now when the woman in front of me was baring her vulnerable, scarred heart.

  She played idly with the necklace between her breasts, something she’d been doing since we’d begun talking about her husband. “Did he give you that?” I asked, nodding toward where her index finger wrapped around the delicate silver chain.

  She glanced down as if she hadn’t even realized what she was doing and frowned. “No. This key, it was in the pocket of the coat he’d been wearing the day he died.” She stared off behind me for a moment. “I carried so much guilt where my husband was concerned—not just to admit the truth about how I’d come to feel about him, but for the fact that the crippling grief I experienced wasn’t for him, but for my daughter.” She gave her head a small shake, looking at where her fingers held the chain, rubbing it between her thumb and index finger. “I found this key afterward and for a long time, I just carried it with me in my pocket. It felt . . . I don’t know . . . like a sort of tribute to him. Penance. A way to keep him with me, even when my mind and my heart were somewhere else. It assuaged my guilt so I could focus on my grief in the way I needed to. Later I bought a chain and started wearing it around my neck and I suppose it became habit to put it on each morning. I always wear it.” She gave a small laugh. “I suppose that doesn’t make much sense.”

  “It makes sense to me. Do you know what the key is for?”

  “No. It’s probably nothing very important. Just some random key he had in his pocket.”

  I nodded. I guessed we all had odd keys lying around here and there. I had one in my gym bag that went to my locker at the gym . . . there was one in a kitchen drawer that went to the storage space assigned to me in the basement of my building. “It was more about the symbol than its use. I get it, Belle.”

  I looked to the key, the metal glinting in the firelight. There was a small logo of some sort almost completely faded away on the top and I picked it back up between my fingers, bringing it closer to my eyes, familiarity niggling at my mind.

  “You know what this looks like?”

  “Two horses? I never could figure out what that might be—a club of some sort maybe? A racetrack?”

  I shook my head. “This looks like the logo of a storage facility off Legendary Run. I used to t
hink the sign made it look like some fancy place when I was a kid and we’d drive by it, but then it was really just a big lot of silver sheds.” I looked closer. “Might not be it, but it reminded me of that just now.”

  I watched her for a second as she looked at the key, her eyes lingering on it for a second and then letting go of it. “Do you still hurt all the time, Belle?” How could she not?

  Her lips trembled into a small, beautiful smile. “I’m usually okay, you know? I didn’t think it would, but the pain has dulled over time. I’ve never talked about any of this . . . and maybe I needed to. No, I . . . I definitely needed to. Thank you for”—her eyes shifted to the side for a second and she bit at her lip—“being here. Thank you for everything tonight.”

  I leaned in and kissed her once on the lips, but chastely. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “You should get out of those wet clothes too. You’re getting me wet again.”

  I followed her glance to the tarp and cringed. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  I stood. “I’ll just step over here and get these off. I think if we hang them up, they’ll be at least mostly dry by morning.”

  I grabbed another tarp, stepping out of the firelight and quickly discarding my wet shoes and clothes, wrapping the tarp around my waist and rejoining Isabelle. Her eyes lingered on my chest for a moment, and though it was dim, I could see the flush on her cheeks. I cleared my throat, not wanting to make her feel uncomfortable, seeking to distract with conversation. There was nothing much I could do about my state of undress if we were going to dry out our clothes.

  I needed my hands free to hang our stuff. I started moving the available furniture closer to the fire, draping our clothes on it. I swallowed as my eyes snagged on Isabelle’s bra, the knowledge that she was mostly bare under the tarp causing my body to infuse with heat that had nothing to do with the blaze jumping and crackling in the fireplace. I cleared my throat, tamping down my own internal flames. “That’s how you first came here then? The equestrian therapy program?”