by Mia Sheridan
I narrowed my eyes at him. I knew she’d been Amish and therefore came from a very strict religious upbringing. But she’d left that life. “As a matter of fact, I do. But I think I know the nature of what happened between Belle and me better than you, old man, and she’s not expecting anything.”
“You sure about that? You ask her?”
“I didn’t have to. A man just knows some things.” Didn’t I? My skin prickled with something I couldn’t identify. Fear? Excitement? Fuck, I was suddenly so damn confused I didn’t know which way to turn.
He let out a small chuckle. “You’ve been acting like a pretentious prick since you got here. Assuming. Taking advantage.”
Pretentious prick. Buttoned-up blowhard. “The nicknames I’m racking up here will keep me humble for a while at least,” I muttered, massaging the back of my neck. How had I ended up here? Arguing with my dying old man about the expectations of the woman I’d had sex with the night before?
Is that what she is? The woman you had sex with the night before? No, that didn’t feel right. Only . . . what else could she be?
“Good. You could use a dose of humility. She deserves better.”
“She deserves the world,” I said through gritted teeth, mentally adding, And I’m not available to give her the things she needs. But in all actuality, my father was. “She deserves Graystone Hill,” I continued. “She loves this place. Give it to her, Dad. Give her every last acre.”
He was silent for a moment, staring at me with flinty eyes, the tension thick between us. “She won’t take it. She’ll insist it should go to you and remain in the Talbot name. She already told me as much. Said she’d sign over the deed to you and leave here if I did it. Said we would not use her as a means to keep on feuding and that was that. Practically yelled it.” As off-put with my father as I was, I could see Belle saying just that, her chin raised, eyes flashing. Goddammit, Belle. I looked to where she still stood with Detective Miller. It looked like she was laughing at something he’d said. He was standing close. Too close.
“That’s ridiculous,” I murmured. “She’s just being stubborn. I have no use for Graystone Hill and she knows it. My life is in New York.”
He took a few steps to a wrought iron chair next to a small table holding a container of red flowers and sat stiffly. “Suppose you don’t care if I leave the bourbon formula and distillery to someone else entirely then.” My heart careened to a halt as my father continued to stare out at the pastures below us.
“What?”
He looked at me, his jaw rigid. “Yeah, thought you’d care about that. I’ve been made a very generous offer. Man by the name of Edwin Bruce. You know him?”
My blood ran cold and there was a buzzing in my ears. That motherfucking bastard. What the hell was Edwin Bruce doing? And how had he known enough to make my father an offer in the first place? He didn’t. Had my father somehow figured it out and contacted him out of spite for me?
“He’s my competition in New York. And you know I’d put that bourbon distillery to good use. For fuck’s sake, it’s my mother’s family legacy.”
“And yet you couldn’t be bothered with it until you knew I was dying and would be out of the picture,” he gritted out, and I swore I saw a flash of pain in his eyes. Was this hurting him? Well, too fucking bad. Just the thought of that bourbon recipe being in the hands of Edwin Bruce had me seeing red. Even worse that my own father might have orchestrated it. The water under our proverbial bridge was deeper than I thought, and apparently full of sharks and flesh-eating piranhas.
“Edwin Bruce’s business is failing. If he has enough cash to pay you for Caspian Skye, it’ll wipe him out completely, or damn near. He won’t have the funds to create a new batch, much less wait for it to mature.”
My father stroked his chin, stubbly with black and gray hair. “He won’t need to wait for anything to mature. There are seventeen barrels, some that have been maturing for almost twenty years, in the basement of the distillery.”
“What?”
My father looked at me sharply. “Changes things, doesn’t it?”
I gaped at him. “Why don’t you bottle and sell that bourbon? It’s worth a king’s ransom.”
“Never was too interested in the bourbon business.” A cloud passed over his features, but he turned his head before I could fully examine it. “Figured you might be, what with all those bars you own in New York City. Then again, so is Edwin Bruce.” Another hot flash of anger ratcheted through me and I briefly wondered what he knew of my businesses in New York, and how he’d gathered any knowledge of what I did at all. There was silence between us for several beats.
“Course if you married Isabelle, you could share Graystone Hill, and the distillery would be yours. Seems like a good deal to me. She gets her horses without feeling she’s taking something that’s not hers, and you get the distillery and everything that comes with it.”
“Are you bribing me into marrying Isabelle?” I asked, the shock clear in my voice. “If you hate me so much, why stick her with me?”
“Ah, Christ, I don’t hate you, Brant. I just hate . . . well never mind.” He shook his head. “In any case, it seems Isabelle has feelings for you. And she’s had enough pain in this lifetime.”
And what about me, old man? Haven’t I had my share of pain? Wasn’t I the one who found my own mother dead in a bathtub full of blood? My chest felt so tight it was a wonder I was still breathing. And yet we’d already said all that needed saying as far as that went, hadn’t we? During the years apart, I’d fostered the hatred that still lived deep in my bones for what he’d done to my mother. There was no point in going there with him again.
I shook my head, utterly confused by this whole conversation. “Marrying me—or anyone—isn’t going to take away Isabelle’s pain. And as far as I can see, she’s holding up pretty damn well for a woman who survived what she did.”
“And how long will that last? Who’s going to take care of her when I’m gone?” he rasped and the raw emotion in his voice shocked me.
I stared at him for a moment, and what I saw surprised me. I had hated this man for years, but for many before that, I’d loved him. Respected him. Being here, recalling so many moments when he’d ensured I was looked after, or May, or the other workers, I couldn’t refute that he had always been that sort of person. Isabelle had defended him as a good man who’d provided a place of refuge and healing. And I couldn’t deny that. I couldn’t deny how I still recognized so many faces around the place after all this time. He cared. He loved deeply and generously. Even if he’d let me go. “You really do love her, don’t you? You can’t bear the thought of her leaving here.” Something akin to jealousy trickled through me. He was fighting for Isabelle.
When he’d never fought for me.
Of course . . . I’d made it clear that I was severing our relationship for good when I’d left here so many years before. Had there been anything to fight for? Maybe not.
My stubborn old father grunted, looking off into the horizon again.
I ran my hand through my hair. “I don’t even know her.”
“You know what you need to know.”
I shook my head, feeling weary, sad, angry, frustrated. I couldn’t marry Isabelle. It was ridiculous. We’d spent one night together, and she lived here and I lived in New York. Nothing was going to change that. Hell, I didn’t want to change that, not for either of us. It simply wouldn’t work. Nor did I want it to. “Isabelle belongs here at Graystone Hill,” I said. “I hope you find a way to convince her to accept it. That’s how you can take care of her. She’ll have a home, stability, something to call her own, and she’ll have the horses she loves.” I paused. “What you do with the bourbon is up to you. I won’t beg for it.”
My father and I locked eyes for a few tense beats before he finally looked away. “All right then,” he said, his tone dismissive, final.
“All right then,” I repeated. I hesitated a brief moment. This was it. The last time I
’d see Harrison Talbot. There should have been stories to swap, memories to reminisce, plans to make. But there was nothing. There was nothing left to say. All right then. I turned on my heel and walked toward the front door.
“Look her up,” my father said from behind me.
I paused, knowing the “her” was Isabelle. “I already know what happened to her,” I answered.
“You don’t know everything,” he mumbled. He was wrong, though. She’d been honest with me. I knew it in my gut. If there were details she’d left out, it was because they weren’t important.
“Goodbye, Dad,” I said, opening the door and closing it behind me. Two words. Two final words to the man I’d once admired and loved dearly. The sum of his life with me had been finalized in two words. I felt like shit, but I also felt too angry to say more.
Fifteen minutes later I was showered, shaved, and packed. I went to the kitchen where May was at the counter writing out what looked to be a list. I set my travel bag by the door. May looked up, furrowing her brows when she glanced at my bag. “Are you leaving, Brant?”
“Yeah, May. Pretty sure I’ve worn out my welcome.”
“Nonsense. This is your home.”
Not anymore. “In any case, business calls.” I gave her a smile and it was sincere. I’d always liked May. “I’ve gotta get back to New York.”
She got up from the stool she was sitting on. “When will you be back?”
I shook my head. “I won’t be back, May.”
She put a hand to her cheek. “Oh dear. That can’t be true.”
“It is. I’m sorry. I’ll miss you.”
Tears welled in May’s eyes, but she didn’t try to convince me to change my mind, and I was grateful. I felt like I was on a razor’s edge at the moment. She put her soft hand on my cheek and gave me a smile. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”
“I will.”
After a quick hug, I left May standing in the kitchen. I considered going upstairs to see if Isabelle was there, but figured if she was, she was sleeping. And that’s what she should be doing. Or maybe I was just a coward making excuses. You going to marry her? As if marriage was something I’d ever consider after what I’d seen of the institution. As if moving back here was even a remote possibility . . . no. I’d enjoyed rediscovering this land, and it had been a good way to say goodbye. I cared about Isabelle, but she and I were an impossibility. She’d be fine here, better than fine. She was a survivor and had everything she needed right here.
I ducked quickly into the office, grabbing a piece of paper from the printer and a pen from a holder on the desk. I scrawled a note to Isabelle, folded it up, and left it on the computer keyboard.
Then I gathered my things and headed to my rental car. A few minutes later, Graystone Hill was nothing more than a fading dot in my rearview mirror.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Isabelle
“How’s he doing this morning?” May asked as I took a seat at the counter, wrapping my hands around the mug she slid in front of me.
“Pretty good, I think, though his lungs sound a little congested again. I put in a call to his doctor but I’m still waiting for a call back.”
May nodded. “And how’s the other man in your life?”
For a moment my heart clenched as my mind went immediately to Brant.
“He try to bite you again yesterday?”
A laugh bubbled up my throat and May gave me a confused glance. She was talking about Scout Leader, the generally pissed-off stallion I was still training. “No, I think we’re past that.”
“Well good. Onward and upward. He’ll be putty in your hands in no time at all.”
If only men of the human variety were as easy to read. I nodded distractedly, taking a sip of my coffee. I wanted to ask May if she’d heard from Brant but refused to. I was still hurt and angry—confused—about the way he’d left without saying goodbye, the way he’d snuck out like some sort of thief, leaving me two scrawled lines on a piece of printer paper. Belle, I’m sorry for not saying goodbye in person. Something came up. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me.
That was it. That was it? After the night we’d shared together? After I’d bared my heart to him, he couldn’t even be bothered to seek me out and say a proper farewell? He hadn’t even signed his name, and why that made it all the more offensive, I wasn’t sure, but it did.
Still . . . I didn’t regret sharing my tragedy with him. In fact, since I’d done so, my heart had felt . . . lighter. Stronger. And I didn’t regret sharing my body with him either. It’d been, well, truth be told, it’d been glorious. I’d never known sex could be like that.
My husband had rolled over, done his thing, a few pleasure-filled grunts, and then rolled off, all in the span of about three minutes, maybe less. But I hadn’t known to expect more. When I’d met him, the extent of my sexual knowledge had been watching the animals in the field, and they seemed to make it a pretty perfunctory experience too. It was just what sex was, I supposed. And yet, even so, I’d been . . . disappointed each time. I’d lain there in the dark, time after time, listening to him snore, my blood pulsing, a pent-up frustration coiled inside me. No wonder.
Sex with Brant had been an awakening. A revival. Brant’s pleasure had also included mine. Was that normal? Even though I was hurt and angry at Brant, a shiver of remembered pleasure rolled through my body each time I thought of that night in front of the fire. If I never had sex again, that night would see me through to my old age.
Or maybe I’d want more. Now that I knew what it could be like, why not experience it as much as possible? My upbringing had taught me that sex was there strictly to serve a purpose—the begetting of children—but now that I realized how wonderful it could be, I just couldn’t accept that. Certainly a merciful God wouldn’t make something so pleasurable and only mean us to do it every two years or so. Oh, who was I kidding? Even as wonderful as it’d been, I would never be a girl who shared my body with just anyone for the fun of it. No, the truth was, I wanted more of Brant, and that made me angry right to the tips of my hair.
So no, I didn’t regret it. I’d just thought what we’d experienced together warranted more than a scrawled note and a quick getaway.
“Earth to Belle.”
I shook my head, clearing the Brant fog I’d been in. “Sorry, May.” I let out a small laugh. “There’s a lot to do today, and I’m trying to sort through it in my mind before I get started.”
“Why don’t you take the weekend off?” she said. “You’ve been working like a dog these past couple of weeks. I could stay here this weekend in case Harrison needs anything and you take a rest. See if Paige wants to join you for a spa day or something.”
I took the last sip of coffee. “I really don’t need a rest, May. I’m fine. You know I like to stay busy, and Harrison depends on me.”
“Too much,” May mumbled.
“Oh I know,” I said. “It’s true, May, he does, but . . .” My eyes welled with sudden tears. It wouldn’t be forever. He likely wouldn’t be here at all this time next year.
The truth was, he was a persnickety, crotchety, grumpy old fool, but I loved him. I loved him like a father—maybe because I missed my own so much. Harrison Talbot had burrowed his way into my heart like one of those stubborn, cantankerous horses and remained there.
I chatted with May for a few more minutes and then bid her a good day, heading for the office. I fired up the computer and answered a few emails regarding Graystone Hill business. My finger hovered over the mouse, white arrow poised on the tiny x in the corner of the screen when I brought the cursor to the search bar and typed in Brant’s name. I knew it was a bad idea, I knew it, and yet I seemed unable to stop myself. I’d just been thinking about him and he was still tickling the edges of my mind. A quick look at his picture would remind me that he’d gone back to his life being that untouchable businessman with the distant eyes and reserved smile. I’d brush my hands—and clear my brain—of him
and feel better.
Instead, my heart plummeted when I saw a new picture at the top of Google images—a picture of him with the same woman he’d been in the other recent pictures with, the pictures I’d looked at before I’d ever met him. Sondra Worthington. Was she also the woman who’d answered his phone when I’d called?
I clicked on the web page and read that he’d been at some sort of celebrity fundraiser. My throat felt clogged and my skin felt prickly as I zeroed in on Brant in a tux, looking . . . completely gorgeous. And Sondra next to him, wearing a gold dress that dipped so low I could almost see her navel. Her arm was looped through Brant’s, her head tilted as she flirted with the camera.
That was his life. His life was not here. Not in an old bourbon distillery on a rainy night. Not with a bedraggled, unworldly woman who would never be the glamor girl he expected on his arm. That was not reality—only a misty dream, part of his past now. Just like me.
I shut down the computer, feeling sad, bereft, but even so, my mission had been accomplished. There was no point in pining for Brant Talbot. He was clearly not pining for me.
Had he taken her home and made love to her after the fundraiser? Had he dragged his tongue down her stomach like—
“Stop it, Isabelle,” I hissed softly to myself. A sudden knock at the front door jolted me from my masochistic thoughts, and I stood quickly, furrowing my brow. The people who worked here just let themselves in.
“I’ve got it, May,” I called before walking to the front door and pulling it open. Paige stood there. “Paige,” I greeted, pulling her in for a hug. “This is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you were driving out here.”
“I wasn’t sure I was, actually. I just—” Her face crumpled slightly and I pulled her into the house, shutting the door behind us.
“Paige, what’s wrong?”
“I left Aaron.”
“Oh my God. Why? What happened? Come with me.” I looped my arm with hers and led her to the office where we could have privacy.