Brambleberry House

by RaeAnne Thayne

She sighed, thinking of Grayson Fletcher and her own stupidity and the tangled mess he had left behind.

  She supposed one bright spot from the latest fiasco in her love life was that Julia and Sage seemed to have put any matchmaking efforts on hiatus. They must have accepted the grim truth that had become painfully obvious to her—she had absolutely no judgment when it came to men.

  She trusted the wrong ones. She had been making the same mistake since the time she fell hard for Todd Ashman in second grade, who gave her underdog pushes on the playground as well as her first kiss, a sloppy affair on the cheek. Todd told her he loved her then conned her out of her milk money for a week. She would probably still be paying him if her brothers hadn’t found out and made the little weasel leave her alone.

  She sighed as Conan sniffed a coiled ball of seaweed and twigs and grasses formed by the rolling action of the sea. That milk money had been the first of several things she had let men take from her.

  Her pride. Her self-respect. Her reputation.

  If she needed further proof, she only had to think about her schedule for the rest of the day. In a few hours, she was in for the dubious joy of spending another delightful day sitting in that Lincoln City courtroom while Grayson Fletcher provided unavoidable evidence of her overwhelming stupidity in business and in men.

  She jerked her mind away from that painful route. She wasn’t allowed to think about her mistakes on these morning walks with Conan. They were supposed to be therapy, her way to soothe her soul, to recharge her energy for the day ahead. She would defeat the entire purpose by spending the entire time looking back and cataloguing all her faults.

  She forced herself to breathe deeply, inhaling the mingled scents of the sea and sand and early spring. Since Sage had married and moved out and she’d taken over sole responsibility of Conan’s morning walks, she had come to truly savor and appreciate the diversity of coastal mornings. From rainy and cold to unseasonably warm to so brilliantly clear she could swear she could see the curve of the earth offshore.

  Each reminded her of how blessed she was to live here. Cannon Beach had become her home. She had never intended it to happen, had only escaped here after her first major romantic debacle, looking for a place far away from her rural Utah home to lick her wounds and hide away from all her friends and family.

  She had another mess on her hands now, complete with all the public humiliation she could endure. This time she wasn’t about to run. Cannon Beach was her home, no matter what, and she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  They had walked only a mile south from Brambleberry House when Conan suddenly barked with excitement. Anna shifted her gaze from the fascination of the ocean to see a runner approaching them, heading in the direction they had come.

  Conan became increasingly animated the closer the runner approached, until it was all Anna could do to hang on to his leash.

  She guessed his identity even before he was close enough for her to see clearly. The curious one-handed gait was a clear giveaway but his long, lean strength and brown hair was distinctive enough she was quite certain she would have figured out it was Harry Maxwell long before she could spy the sling on his arm.

  To her annoyance, her stomach did an uncomfortable little twirl as he drew closer. The man was just too darn good-looking, with those lean, masculine features and the intense hazel eyes. It didn’t help that he somehow looked rakishly gorgeous with his arm in a sling. An injured warrior still soldiering on.

  She told herself she would have preferred things if he just kept on running but Conan made that impossible, barking and straining at his leash with such eager enthusiasm that Lieutenant Maxwell couldn’t help but stop to greet him.

  Maybe he wasn’t quite the dour, humorless man he had appeared the day before, she thought as he scratched Conan’s favorite spot, just above his shoulders. Nobody could be all bad if they were so intuitive with animals, she decided.

  Only after he had sufficiently given the love to Conan did he turn in her direction.

  “Morning,” he said, a weird flash of what almost looked like unease in his eyes. Why would he possibly seem uncomfortable with her? She wasn’t the one who practically oozed sex appeal this early in the morning.

  “Hi,” she answered. “Should you be doing that?”

  He raised one dark eyebrow. “Petting your dog?”

  “No. Running. I just wondered if all the jostling bothers your arm.”

  His mouth tightened a little and she had the impression again that he didn’t like discussing his injury. “I hate the sling but it does a good job of keeping it from being shaken around when I’m doing anything remotely strenuous.”

  “It must still be uncomfortable, though.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Back off, in other words. His curtness was a clear signal she had overstepped.

  “I’m sorry. Not my business, is it?”

  He sighed. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m a little frustrated at the whole thing. I’m not a very good patient and I’m afraid I don’t handle limitations on my activities very well.”

  She sensed that was information he didn’t share easily and though she knew he was only being polite she was still touched that he would confide in her. “I’m not a good patient, either. If I were in your shoes, I would be more than just a little frustrated.”

  Some of the stiffness seemed to ease from his posture. “Well, it’s a whole lot more fun flying a helicopter than riding a hospital bed, I can tell you that much.”

  They lapsed into silence and she would have expected him to resume his jog but he seemed content to pet Conan and gaze out at the seething, churning waves.

  It hardly seemed fair that, even injured as he was and just out of rehab, he didn’t seem at all winded from the run. She would have been gasping for breath and ready for a little oxygen infusion.

  “It looks like it’s shaping up to be a gorgeous day, doesn’t it?” she said. “Forecasters are saying we should have clear and sunny weather for the next few days. You picked a great time of year to visit Cannon Beach.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to notice this yet but on one of the bookshelves in the living room, I left you a welcome packet. I forgot to mention it when I stopped to say hello last night.”

  “I didn’t see it. What kind of welcome packet?”

  “Not much. Just a loose-leaf notebook, really, with some local sightseeing information. Maps of the area, trail guides, tide tables. I’ve also included several menus from my favorite restaurants if you want to try some of the local cuisine, as well as a couple of guidebooks from my store.”

  She had spent an entire evening gathering and collating the information, printing out pages from the Internet and marking some of her favorite spots in the guide books. All right, it was a nerdy, overachiever thing to do, she realized now as she stood next to this man who simmered with such blatant male energy.

  She really needed to get a life.

  Still, he didn’t look displeased by the effort. If she didn’t know better, she would suspect him of being perilously close to a surprised smile. “Thank you. That was...nice.”

  She made a face. “A little over-the-top, I know. Sorry. I tend to be a bit obsessive about those kinds of things.”

  “No, it sounds perfect. I’ll be sure to look through it as soon as I get a chance. Maybe you can tell me the best place for breakfast around here. I haven’t had much chance to go shopping.”

  “The Lazy Susan is always great or any of the B and Bs, really.”

  Or you could invite him to breakfast.

  The thought whispered through her mind and she blinked, wondering where in the world it came from. That just wasn’t the sort of thing she did. Now, Abigail would have done it in a heartbeat, and Sage probably would have as
well, but Anna wasn’t nearly as audacious.

  But the thought persisted, growing stronger and stronger. Finally the words seemed to just blurt from her mouth. “Look, I’d be happy to fix something for you. I was in the mood for French toast anyway and it’s silly to make it just for me.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes wide with surprise. The silence dragged on a painfully long time, until heat soaked her cheeks and she wanted to dive into the cold waves to escape.

  “Sorry. Forget it. Stupid suggestion.”

  “No. No, it wasn’t. I was just surprised, that’s all. Breakfast would be great, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Not at all. Can you give me about forty-five minutes to finish with Conan’s morning walk?”

  “No problem. That will give me a chance to finish my run and take a shower.”

  Now there was a visual she didn’t need etched into her brain like acid on glass. She let out a breath. “Great. I’ll see you then.”

  With a wave of his arm, sling and all, he headed back up the beach toward Brambleberry House.

  With strict discipline, she forced herself not to watch after him. Instead, she gripped Conan’s leash tightly so he wouldn’t follow his new best friend and forced him to come with her by walking with firm determination in the other direction.

  What just happened there? She had to be completely insane. Temporarily possessed by the spirit of Abigail that Sage and Julia seemed convinced still lingered at Brambleberry House.

  She faced what was undoubtedly shaping up to be another miserable day sitting in the courtroom listening to more evidence of her own foolishness. And because she felt compelled to attend every moment of the trial, she had tons of work awaiting her at both the Cannon Beach and Lincoln City stores.

  So what was she thinking? She had absolutely no business inviting a sexy injured war veteran to breakfast.

  Remember your abysmal judgment when it comes to men, she reminded herself sternly.

  It was just breakfast, though. He was her tenant and it was her duty to get to know the man living upstairs in her home. She was just being a responsible landlady.

  Still, she couldn’t control the excited little bump of anticipation. Nor could she ignore the realization that she was looking forward to the day more than she had anything else since before Christmas, when everything safe and secure she thought she had built for herself crashed apart like a house built on the shifting, unstable sands of Cannon Beach.

  * * *

  THIS MIGHT BE easier than he thought.

  Fresh from the shower, Max pulled a shirt out of his duffel, grateful it was at least moderately unwrinkled. It wouldn’t hurt to make a good impression on his new landlady. So far she didn’t seem suspicious of him—he doubted she would have invited him to breakfast otherwise.

  Now there was an odd turn of events. He had to admit, he was puzzled as all hell by the invitation. Why had she issued it? And so reluctantly, too. She had looked as shocked by it as he had been.

  The woman baffled him. She seemed a contradiction. Yesterday she had been all prim and proper in her business suit, today she had appeared fresh and lovely as a spring morning and far too young to own a seaside mansion and two businesses.

  He didn’t understand her yet. But he would, he vowed.

  Not so difficult to puzzle out had been his own reaction to her. When he had seen her walking and had recognized Conan, he had been stunned and more than a little disconcerted by the instant heat pooling in his gut.

  Rather inconvenient, that surge of lust. His unwilling attraction to Anna Galvez. He would no doubt have a much easier time focusing on his goal without that particular complication.

  How, exactly, was he supposed to figure out if Ms. Galvez had conned a sweet old lady when he couldn’t seem to wrap his feeble male brain around anything but pulling all that thick, glossy hair out of its constraints, burying his fingers in it and devouring her mouth with his?

  He yanked off the pain-in-the-ass waterproof covering he had to use to protect his most recent cast from yet another reconstructive surgery and carefully eased his arm through the sleeve of the shirt. He was almost—but not quite—accustomed to the pain that still buzzed across his nerve endings whenever he moved the arm.

  It wasn’t as bad as it used to be. After more than a dozen surgeries in six months, he could have a little mobility now without scorching agony.

  He had to admit, he couldn’t say he was completely sorry about his unexpected attraction to Anna Galvez. In some ways it was even a relief. He hadn’t been able to summon even a speck of interest in a woman since the crash, not even to flirt with the pretty army nurses at the hospital in Germany and then later at Walter Reed.

  He had worried that something internal might have been permanently damaged in the crash, since what he had always considered a relatively healthy libido seemed to have dried up like a wadi in a sandstorm.

  He had even swallowed his pride and asked one of the doctors about it just before his discharge and had been told not to worry about it. He’d been assured that his body had only been a little busy trying to heal, just as his mind had been struggling with his guilt over the deaths of two members of his flight crew.

  When the time was right, he’d been told, all the plumbing would probably work just as it had before.

  It might be inconvenient that he was attracted to Anna Galvez, inconvenient and more than a little odd, since he had never been attracted to the prim, focused sort of woman before, but he couldn’t truly say he was sorry about it.

  And if he needed a reminder of why he couldn’t pursue the attraction, he only needed to look around him at the familiar walls of Brambleberry House.

  For all he knew, Anna Galvez was the sneaky, conniving swindler his mother believed her to be, working her wiles to gull his elderly aunt out of this house and its contents, all the valuable antiques and keepsakes that had been in his father’s family for generations.

  He wouldn’t know until he had run a little reconnaissance here to see where things stood.

  His father had been the only child of Abigail’s solitary sibling, her sister Suzanna, which made Max Abigail’s only living relative.

  Though he hadn’t really given it much thought—mostly because he didn’t like thinking about his beloved great-aunt’s inevitable passing—he supposed he had always expected to inherit Brambleberry House someday.

  Finding out she had left the house to two strangers had been more than a little bit surprising.

  She must not have loved you enough.

  The thought slithered through his mind, cold and mean, but he pushed it away. Abigail had loved him. He could never doubt that. For some inexplicable reason, she had decided to give the house to two strangers and he was determined to find out why.

  And this morning provided a perfect opportunity to give Anna Galvez a little closer scrutiny, so he’d better get on with things.

  Buttoning a shirt with one good hand genuinely sucked, he had discovered over the last six months, but it wasn’t nearly as tough as trying to maneuver an arm that didn’t want to cooperate through the unwieldy holes in a T-shirt or, heaven forbid, a long-sleeved sweater, so he persevered.

  When he finished, he put the blasted sling on again, ran a comb through his hair awkwardly with his left hand, then headed for the stairs, his hand on the banister he remembered Abigail waxing to a lustrous sheen just so he could slide down it when he was a boy.

  Delicious smells greeted him the moment he headed downstairs—coffee, bacon, hash browns and something sweet and yeasty. His stomach rumbled but he reminded himself he was a soldier, trained to withstand temptation.

  No matter how seemingly irresistible.

  He paused outside Abigail’s door, a little astounded at the sudden nerves zinging through him.
>
  It was one thing to inhabit the top floor of Brambleberry House. It was quite another, he discovered, to return to Abigail’s private sanctuary, the place he had loved so dearly.

  The rooms beyond this door had been his haven when he was a kid. The one safe anchor in a tumultuous, unstable childhood—not the house, he supposed, as much as the woman who had been so much a part of it.

  No matter what might be happening in his regular life—whether his mother was between husbands or flushed with the glow of new love that made her forget his existence or at the bitter, ugly end of another marriage—Abigail had always represented safety and security to him.

  She had been fun and kind and loving and he had craved his visits here like a drunk needed rotgut. He had looked forward to the two weeks his mother allowed him with fierce anticipation the other fifty weeks of the year. Whenever he walked through this door, he had felt instantly wrapped in warm, loving arms.

  And now a stranger lived here. A woman who had somehow managed to convince an old woman to leave her this house.

  No matter how lovely Anna Galvez might be, he couldn’t forget that she had usurped Abigail’s place in this house.

  It was hers now and he damn well intended to find out why.

  He drew in a deep breath, adjusted his sling one more time, then reached out to knock on Abigail’s door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHE OPENED THE door wearing one of his aunt’s old ruffled bib aprons.

  He recognized it instantly, pink flowers and all, and had a sudden image of Abigail in the kitchen, bedecked with jewels as always, grinning and telling jokes as she cooked up a batch of her famous French toast that dripped with caramel and brown sugar and pralines.

  He had to admit he found the dichotomy a little disconcerting. Whether Anna was a con artist or simply a modern businesswoman, he wouldn’t have expected her to be wearing something so softly worn and old-fashioned.

  He doubted Abigail had ever looked quite as appealing in that apron. Anna Galvez’s skin had a rosy glow to it and the friendly pink flowers made her look exotically beautiful in contrast.