Two
Although he hadn’t slept in over two days, Brett lay on his back on the feather bed in the room Gayla had prepared for him, wide-awake, his fingers laced beneath his head. He stared at the ceiling, hoping and praying that sleep would come soon. His entire body ached with weariness.
When he’d received the message to call his mother’s attorney, he’d just returned from an exhausting three-state inspection of all the Sinclair department stores. He’d been tempted to ignore the call, at least until he’d gotten some rest, but then had decided not to put it off. Now he wished he had waited.
The attorney was the one who had given him the news of his grandfather’s death. He’d said he’d received a telegram from an attorney in Braesburg, Texas, notifying him of the old man’s death and requesting that Christine, Brett’s mother, come home for the funeral.
Brett had almost laughed at that. So the old man had wanted his daughter to come home. His request had come too late. Christine Sinclair wouldn’t be coming home. Not ever again. Brett had buried her less than six months before.
The attorney had then reminded him that as Christine’s heir, he would inherit his grandfather’s estate.
That was worth a laugh, as well. Brett didn’t want the old man’s money. Why should he? The old man had never bothered to acknowledge his family before.
He would have ended the conversation then and gone to bed, but the attorney had insisted that he attend the funeral, saying that he owed it to his mother to do so. Brett disagreed with that bit of logic, but had finally gotten the attorney off his back by telling him he would give the lawyer in Braesburg a call after he’d had some rest.
But for some reason he’d found he couldn’t sleep. In the end, he’d thrown some clothes into a duffel bag and climbed back into his truck and headed for Braesburg. He’d driven all night and part of the next day, arriving just as the funeral procession was heading for the cemetery.
And now here he was in his grandfather’s house, wide-awake and with his ulcer burning a hole in his stomach. On a weary sigh, he dragged another pillow beneath his head, then leaned to turn on the bedside lamp. He fell back against the pillow and looked around the room. Nice little touches were scattered about, obviously Gayla’s work—a basket of fruit and crackers on the bedside table, a porcelain dish filled with green and pink mints. A pitcher of ice water. A crystal glass. He leaned over and thumbed up the lid on the pitcher, then promptly fell back against the pillows, unconsciously rubbing his hand across his stomach. No, water wasn’t what he needed. He needed milk to ease the burning.
She’d said for him to make himself at home, he remembered. He levered himself from the bed and hoped she’d included raiding the refrigerator in that invitation. He pulled on his jeans, but didn’t bother with his shirt and boots, then headed downstairs.
Careful not to make any noise, he eased down the stairs and across the hall. He was almost to the kitchen door when he heard a noise. He hesitated, listening, and was sure the sound had come from behind the study door. Thinking maybe he’d forgotten to turn off the television, he quickly crossed to the study and pushed open the door but froze when he saw Gayla sitting in an old leather chair by the fireplace, her back to him, bent at the waist, rocking back and forth. White-knuckled fingers clutched the ties of her robe against her mouth, muffling her sobs. He took a cautious step back, meaning to leave her to her grief, but then he stopped, his heart squeezing in time with each rise and fall of her slender shoulders.
She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this, he told himself angrily. She ought to have family or friends here to share her grief.
He took a step closer.
“Ma’am? Is something wrong?”
She whirled at the sound of his voice, then lurched to her feet. “No,” she said, swiping at her tears. “Nothing’s wrong. I couldn’t sleep and I—” She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle the sob that rose.
She looked about ready to collapse. Brett pressed her back into the chair. “You just sit down there and rest a minute. Can I get you something? A glass of warm milk? A shot of whiskey?”
“No—no, really,” she stammered, pulling the folds of her robe across her knees. “I’m sorry I awakened you.”
“You didn’t wake me. I couldn’t sleep, either.” Wearily, he dropped down on the floor beside the chair and pulled his knees against his chest, trying to think what to da. “Is there someone in your family that I can call? You know, to keep you company?”
She squeezed her hands between her knees, unable to meet his gaze. She shook her head. “No. No one.”
A shiver shook Brett clear to his toes at the bleakness in her tone. “It’s cold in here,” he said, blaming his reaction, in case she’d noticed, on the chill in the room.
“I’m sorry,” she said, instantly apologetic. “I turn the heat down on the first floor after I go to bed. But if you’re cold,” she said, rising to her feet, “I can turn it up.”
Brett caught her hand and pulled her back into the chair. He’d never seen a woman so intent to please. “How about if I just light that stack of wood in the fireplace? That ought to take the chill off.”
“I can do it.”
Brett laid a hand on her arm before she could rise. “And so can I,” he said firmly.
Seeing the stubborn glint in his eye, Gayla reluctantly sat. She watched as he carefully prepared the fire. The flame caught, then rose higher. Picking up the poker, Brett punched at the wood, rearranging it on the grate.
The fire’s glow radiated off his bare chest, capturing the gold in a necklace that swung from his neck. From the necklace’s delicate links hung a thin gold band and with each jab of his arm, the necklace swung, the band slapping against first one muscled pec, then the other.
Gayla had never really considered herself sexually deprived, but at the moment she couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of so much raw maleness. His shoulders were broad and muscled, tapering down to a slim waist and hips. A cowboy’s butt, she decided a little breathlessly, noticing the way his jeans cupped his rear end. She’d heard the bawdy phrase at Betty Jo’s Beauty Salon, but had never seen anything that fit the description quite so appropriately.
His skin glowed in the firelight, taking on a coppery hue, and she had the most irresistible urge to lay her hand on his back and feel the play of muscle as he poked and shoved at the dry wood. But thankfully, before she could act on the impulse, he replaced the poker and scooted back to sit beside her chair.
After a few moments, Brett tipped his head up to look at her. “What were you doing down here, anyway?”
His question brought the grief rushing back. “I don’t know,” she replied, swallowing the threat of more tears. “Lonely, I guess.” She dipped her head, embarrassed by the admission. “Ned spent most of his time in this room. Being here just seemed to make him closer.”
Brett turned his gaze back to the fire. “I used to do the same thing,” he replied thoughtfully.
Surprised, she tipped her head to look at him. “Really?”
“Yeah,
