by Carol Grace
She tried to turn the knob. It didn’t budge. She knocked again. No answer. She peered in the window. The living room was exactly the way she’d left it—could it be only a few days ago? Not a sign that anyone had moved in. The same chairs flanking the fireplace at exactly the same angle, the ones she’d chosen the fabric to recover, the pictures on the wall that had hung there for twenty years or more. Wasn’t he going to change anything?
Desperate, she knocked louder. What if Dylan had come down and was looking for her? What if her aunt had called the sheriff’s office to report her missing? She pressed her shoulder against the door and looked over her shoulder in the direction of the tree house, just in case. When Brandon opened the door she lurched forward into the room. She gasped in surprise as he caught her in his arms before she fell. Two things registered—he’d changed into a dry shirt and pants and he smelled like leather and expensive shaving lotion. For the third time that evening she’d come into intimate physical contact with this man and this time, not only did her heart race, her knees buckled.
“No one ever locks their doors,” she blurted, jerking backward, hoping he couldn’t see her cheeks flame with embarrassment.
“Is that so?” Obviously, by the dour tone of his voice, having a woman fall into his arms had no effect on him, while her heart was going a mile a minute.
“They even leave their car keys in the ignition,” she added. “You’re in the country now.”
“Thank you for that information. Now if that’s all…”
“No, no, it isn’t. I came to use your phone just for a moment, if I may.”
“Can I assume your son is still in the tree?”
“Yes, he is. But he’ll be down soon. Any minute. I promise I won’t bother you again if I can make one phone call. You see, my aunt expects us for dinner and it’s getting late and…”
Brandon reached into his back pocket and pulled out the smallest cell phone she’d ever seen. Wordlessly he handed it to her.
“Thank you.” She punched in the numbers with fumbling fingers. He made her nervous, standing there staring at her. Since he seemed to have every intention of staying right there and listening to her conversation, she’d make it brief.
“Aunt Emily, I’m sorry I’m late, but…”
“What happened?” her aunt asked anxiously. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“No, no, you mustn’t worry about me. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m out at the ranch.”
“The ranch? Why? Where’s Dylan?”
“He’s here, too.”
“But how did that happen? What are you doing there?”
She glanced at Brandon, who was standing at the window looking out at the shadows falling over the meadow, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression void of any interest in her conversation, almost as if she wasn’t there, which he probably wished she wasn’t. On the other hand, he might be taking in every word she said, processing it and finding her lacking for one reason or another.
“It’s a long story, Aunt Em,” Laura said patiently.
“Does it have something to do with the new owner?” her aunt asked eagerly.
“No. Not at all,” Laura said firmly.
“Too bad,” her aunt murmured. “But he is there, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Laura admitted.
“I happened to hear some news about him today when I ran into Buzz, the Realtor, in the bank.”
“Oh? Well, I won’t keep you, Aunt Em. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time to toss the salad.”
“No, no, I’ve already taken care of it. Don’t hurry home,” the older lady instructed. “You just stay there until you do whatever it is you have to do.”
“All right, if you’re sure,” Laura said with relief. After all, she had no idea how long it would take to get Dylan out of the tree. She said goodbye and handed the phone back to Brandon.
“And now I’ll get out of your way,” she said, and turned toward the door.
“So everything’s fine,” he said, a trace of sarcasm in his voice. So he had been listening to her conversation. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I’m going out to wait,” she said. As if he cared.
“How long?” he asked.
“As long as it takes,” she said, turning to face him. “Look, I’m sorry that once again I’ve intruded. You’ve made it quite clear you don’t want me or my son around and I don’t blame you. It’s your house and you’re entitled to your privacy. It’s just…it’s just…” She swallowed hard and forced herself to continue. She wouldn’t play the role of the female in distress; she wouldn’t.
Just because she’d lost her husband and her farm, she still had her dignity. A few shreds of it. Or she had had it before today. Before she’d been forced to come back to her home as an interloper, forced to beg to stay long enough to coax her son to return home with her. Home. Where was home? How could she blame an eight-year-old for not understanding that he had no home anymore, that a stranger had taken it over. A stranger with a lot of money and nobody to share it with. Or did he?
She took a deep breath. “I’ll be gone just as soon as I get Dylan down. I’ll be very quiet. You won’t even know I’m out there,” she said. She hesitated a moment, expecting him to make another caustic remark about her or Dylan, but he only shrugged, so she walked out into the dusk without another word.
She used to love this time of day on the ranch. As the cattle came meandering back to the barn in the evening, Dylan would come in from his tree house or the rubber tire swing under the oak tree and Jason would join them from his office where he was wheeling and dealing some business deal.
That was then, this was now. The ranch had dwindled to almost half its original size. And it wasn’t even hers. Her family was down to the two of them. She and Dylan. He was all she had. Except for her aunt. Thank heavens for Aunt Em. Despite her busybody manner, her nose for gossip and her eagerness to find Laura a good husband this time around, she was as good-hearted as they came. She truly wanted the best for Laura, and the best included another husband.
Aunt Emily couldn’t get it through her head that Laura’s future was decided and it didn’t include another marriage. Her future revolved around supporting herself and her son. She always knew it wouldn’t be easy to leave the ranch. She had no idea it would involve sitting at the foot of the old oak tree, her back against the rough bark, hungry and tired, waiting for her son who was waiting for his daddy to come back.
BRANDON HAD WORK to do. His goal in moving to the ranch was not to cut himself off from his clients; it was to cut himself off from well-meaning friends. But tonight his clients and his work were the farthest thing from his mind. All he could think about was that woman and her son out there in the tree. He couldn’t relax until they’d left. Which hadn’t happened yet. He’d know if they’d gone, because her truck’s engine made such a God-awful noise. That vehicle was a disaster waiting to happen.
That meant the kid was still there, up the tree, and the woman was begging, coaxing, threatening—whatever it took—to get him down. She was right. He didn’t know anything about parenting. If he had, he wouldn’t have lost his own son. He would have stopped Jeanne from taking him out in the car that foggy day. He knew instinctively it was too dangerous. But Jeanne laughed off his fears and went anyway. She’d been strong-willed. Knew exactly what she wanted. She’d wanted him and she’d wanted a baby.
So he didn’t know anything about parenting. But he knew that it was dinnertime and the kid had to be hungry. And as much as he didn’t want to see the woman again, he couldn’t stand there doing nothing when he knew she and her son were on his property. Brandon didn’t have much in the large, old-fashioned pantry or in the freezer. Only the supplies he’d stocked up on at the supermarket on the highway on his way to town, but maybe the boy could be tempted by a peanut-butter sandwich. At this moment, it even sounded good to Brandon. He went to the kitchen and made three sandwiches on whole-grain bread. Before h
e could change his mind, he piled them on a paper plate and walked out the front door, leaving it not only unlocked, but wide open. Point taken. He was in the country now.
When he saw her there, sitting on the ground, her arms around her knees, her face hidden by her dark hair, his gut tightened with an unfamiliar emotion. It was part sympathy for her plight, part annoyance at her stubbornness, part admiration for her determination and something else. Something that was buried deep inside him. Something he was afraid to probe any further to discover. Something that caused him to be more brusque than he’d intended.
“Not down yet.” It was a statement, not a question. If he’d come down, they’d be gone. Obviously.
She looked up, and even in the gathering dusk he could see the faint lines in her forehead deepen, notice smudges under her eyes. He had a wild, crazy desire to smooth those wrinkles, to erase those smudges. Where was Dylan’s father when he needed him, when she needed a man? He could hear her take a deep breath and see her make a visible effort to pull herself together. He hardened his heart. She didn’t want sympathy from him and truthfully, he had none to give. He was hollow inside, stripped bare of any remaining emotion.
“No, but any minute…” she said hopefully.
“You said he’d get hungry.” He held out the plate. “I thought maybe a sandwich might encourage him.”
She stood and brushed off the seat of her skirt with one hand and took the paper plate with the other. “Thank you. That’s very…but I…I don’t know. I’ve been calling him, but he hasn’t made a sound since I came back.”
Brandon looked up at the tree house. No shoes hanging over the edge of the platform. “Mind if I try?” he asked.
“Go ahead.”
“Dylan, come on down and have a peanut-butter sandwich with us.” It might have been his imagination, but he thought he detected a slight movement in the tree house, a faint creaking of the boards. Laura met his gaze and he saw a flicker of hope in her eyes.
There was a long silence. Then another sound. This time it was definitely a creaking board. Then thumping. The boy was on his feet, his chin on the rickety railing, his arms dangling over the railing. Brandon glanced at Laura. Her eyes were wide, but she wasn’t as frightened as Brandon was. He knew how fast accidents happen. He knew that a life can be snuffed out in seconds. Just one false step. Just one careless act. She didn’t know that. She’d never lost a son.
“No. If I come down you’ll tear my tree house down.”
“Not now. Not until we have a deal,” Brandon said.
“What kind of a deal?”
Brandon exhaled loudly. How did he know what kind of a deal? “We’ll work it out. I won’t tear down the tree house if you’ll promise to stay out of it.”
There was a long silence. He could almost see the wheels turning in the kid’s head.
“What kind is it—smooth or crunchy?” Dylan asked, his eyes on the sandwiches.
“Smooth,” Brandon said.
“Bring it up here,” the boy said.
“Nope. You’ve got to come down,” Brandon insisted, keeping his voice calm. He inhaled deeply. “Can’t you just smell it now? I can.”
“It’s not that all-natural kind Mom gets, is it?” he asked.
“Not on your life. I wouldn’t have that stuff in my house,” Brandon said. “It’s full of preservatives and additives.” He felt Laura’s questioning gaze on him, but he didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on the boy. Pictured him scrambling down the ladder, wolfing down his sandwich and then agreeing to some kind of deal—if not the one he’d mentioned, then one in which Brandon had the tree house removed to some location in town, near their house if the boy agreed not to trespass ever again.
Finally these two would disappear out of his life forever. Then at last—peace and quiet. The solitude he’d been seeking. The only time he’d have to see anybody would be on his terms, when he wanted to. That was the reason he was here. Not for the scenery, not for the horses or the colorful small-town characters. For the right to be alone. Come on down, he willed. Come on.
“Well…okay.”
Brandon heaved a sigh of relief when he heard those words. The next thing he knew the boy was down from his perch and was devouring not only his sandwich, but the other two, as well.
“You got any milk, mister?” Dylan asked, peanut butter smeared across his face.
“Dylan,” his mother said sternly, “you can have milk when you get home. You’ve bothered Mr. Marsh enough for one night.”
For one night? He’d been bothered enough for a lifetime.
“If I had it, I’d get it for you, but I don’t,” Brandon said.
“You’re not gonna tear down my tree house?” Dylan asked, his stubborn lower lip jutting out.
Brandon looked up at the tree then down at the boy. “I’ll leave it where it is for the moment. If you promise not to come back here unless there’s an adult with you. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
Dylan didn’t look happy, but after Laura nudged him a few times he agreed and thanked Brandon for the sandwiches. Brandon nodded and turned to go back to the house. But Laura touched him on the shoulder—such a gentle touch, he thought he might have imagined it.
“Wait,” she said. “I have to thank you. I’m sorry for what I said about parenting. I owe you an apology. You obviously have a knack for it that I’ve lost along the way. This is the second time you’ve gotten him out of his—I mean your tree—and I’m grateful to you.”
He shrugged off her thanks. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
“It won’t. Will it, Dylan?”
This time she had a firm grip on the back of his dirty T-shirt and Dylan had no choice but to agree with her. Brandon wasn’t so sure, however. He wanted to ask just how she intended to prevent her son from returning on his own, but not in front of him. Right now he was just grateful the episode was over. Or it would have been over if Dylan hadn’t suddenly remembered he really had left his baseball cards there, but they weren’t in his room. They were in a cigar box behind the house.
While the boy ran to get them, in the opposite direction from his tree house, Brandon followed Laura to the truck. She got in and lowered the window.
“Were you serious about the deal you made with him?” she asked.
“Of course. I’m in the business of making deals.”
“With eight-year-olds?” she asked.
His mouth turned up in a rueful half smile. “My usual clients are a little older, but a deal is a deal. I said I wouldn’t tear it down and I won’t. Maybe we need to put it on paper. But not now. We’re all tired and hungry. Well, some of us are hungry. I’ll be in touch.”
She gave him a quick appraisal with her wide eyes, which made him slightly uncomfortable. He wondered if she interpreted that as a “Don’t call me, I’ll call you” brush-off. That wasn’t how he meant it.
She turned on the ignition. He should have kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t stop the words that came out. He told himself it was her business if her truck was in bad shape. That she wouldn’t appreciate hearing what he had to say. But he couldn’t resist.
“Don’t you hear that grinding sound?” he demanded. It was so loud they could have heard it in the next county.
She tilted her head. “I—I’m not sure.”
“How can you not hear it? Don’t you know that’s your water pump wearing out?”
“It is? Is it serious?” she asked, her eyebrows puckered together.
“Yes, it’s serious. It could last a year or it could go out suddenly and you’d lose all your water. The engine would seize up and you’d really be in trouble, stuck on a road somewhere. You need to get a new one.”
“How much do they cost?”
“Water pumps? A couple of hundred dollars.”
“Then I’ll have to take a chance on it lasting a year.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t have enough money for a water pump when you just sold your ranch for
the hefty sum I paid for it.”
She gave a quick glance over her shoulder toward the house. “This is between you and me, but since you asked, the ranch was mortgaged to the hilt. I’m back to ground zero and living on my salary, which doesn’t go very far even here in Silverado,” Laura said. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep what I’ve just said to yourself. I’m not looking for sympathy, not from you or from anybody in town.”
Brandon nodded slowly. “I can understand that.”
“You can?” She gave him a sideways glance out of the corner of her eye. To her it must look like he had everything. He had an expensive car and he had her ranch. She had no idea that she had the most valuable possession in the world, what he’d give anything for—a son.
There was a long silence. She was waiting, he sensed, for him to elaborate on his statement, but he wasn’t ready to do that. He would never be ready to spill his guts to a stranger, to burden someone else with his problems. Instead of waiting here in the driveway, he should just go back to the house. But he didn’t do that. Instead he changed the subject. To something else. Something that was on his mind. Would always be on his mind.
“When was the last time you had your brakes relined?”
She blinked. “Uh…”
He shook his head. “Never mind. You don’t remember and you can’t afford it. Am I right?”
She nodded.
“Is there a decent garage in town?”
“Scotty’s,” she answered. “But…”
“One of these days when the roads are slick and your brakes fail, you’re going to be sorry you didn’t pay a visit to Scotty’s,” he warned.
“Aren’t you being a little obsessive, worrying about my truck?” she asked.
He bit back a bitter reply—Better to be obsessive than dead. “Well, at least you’ll have your cell phone to call for help. No, don’t tell me you don’t have one.”
She shot him a look that would have curdled cream. Before she could follow up with an answer, they both heard Dylan’s footsteps. Just in time. The boy got into the car, Dylan and Laura both thanked Brandon and they drove off. At last.
But standing in the driveway, listening to the grinding sound of the water pump and the knocking of the poorly tuned engine, he felt strangely alone. He reminded himself that was what he wanted. To be alone. But this feeling of emptiness was not what he wanted. Back in the house he kept the lights off. The better to ignore the furniture, the rugs and the pictures on the wall that gave evidence of better times, of the family that once lived here. Maybe he’d been wrong to buy somebody else’s furnished house.