corners of her mouth. “No perfume smells here, though. Ned smoked the most god-awful-smelling cigars. He was supposed to quit, because of his heart and all, but he’d sneak one every now and then.” She laughed softly. “I don’t know who he thought he was fooling. The foul things stunk up the entire house.” Fresh tears welled and she batted her hand in his direction. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just can’t seem to stop crying.”
“Losing somebody you care for is tough. Sometimes it helps to talk about it,” he offered slowly, thinking that he might learn more about her relationship with his grandfather.
Gayla lifted her head, her cheeks wet with tears, to peer at him in surprise. His offer was as unexpected as his appearance at Parker House earlier that night. She found nothing but sincerity in his blue eyes, and a warmth that pulled at her, teasing her with the promise of much-needed comfort.
Although tempted beyond words to pour out her worries on this man’s shoulders, he was a stranger and a guest. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she murmured, averting her gaze. She stood and swiped the backs of her hands beneath her cheeks. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I made a fresh pot a little while ago.”
Coffee? Damn, the caffeine would keep him up all night, Brett knew, but he could see by the hopeful look on her face that she wasn’t wanting to be alone just yet. He found himself unwinding his long legs to stand beside her. “No coffee for me, but a glass of milk sounds mighty good.”
“A glass of milk it will be, then, Mr. Sinclair,” she said as she turned for the kitchen.
He caught her before she took a full step. “The name’s Brett,” he said firmly as he guided her back to the chair. “You stay here and keep warm. I’ll get our drinks.”
“But you’re a guest,” she objected, her voice rising in panic. “I can’t ask you to wait on me.”
“You didn’t ask, I offered. Now sit right there until I get back.”
In the kitchen, as she’d promised, a pot of fresh coffee sat on the stove. Brett quickly poured her a cup, then filled a glass with milk for himself and headed back to the study. She sat where he’d left her, staring at the fire. He thrust the coffee mug under her nose.
Startled, she lifted her gaze. In the firelight he could see that her cheeks were wet, her eyes red and swollen from her crying. He’d never felt more useless in his life.
More gently, he nudged the mug against her hand. She accepted it, slipping two fingers through the curved handle and wrapping both hands around its warmth. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“You’re welcome.” He eased back down beside her and lifted the glass of milk to his lips. When he’d drained the glass, he set it aside. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth before leaning back with his elbows braced against the carpet and his legs stretched out in front of him.
From the corner of his eye, he watched her. She sat with the mug cradled in her hands, her gaze fixed on the fire, staring, but seeing…what? he wondered. What did she see in the flames? Memories? Regrets, maybe? The sadness, he could understand. But underneath he swore he glimpsed fear. Fear of what? he wondered. Of being alone? Of losing her home, her job?
A stab of guilt made him frown. He wasn’t responsible, he told himself as he rubbed his hand across the burning sensation in his stomach. Not for Gayla Matthews. She’d made her own decisions that had brought her to this point, decisions that he’d had no part in. No, he wouldn’t feel guilty when Parker House was turned over to the city and she lost her job and her home.
For some reason, telling himself this didn’t ease the burning in his stomach any more than the milk.
Gayla closed her eyes and pressed the coffee mug to her forehead to ease the painful throbbing in her head. Catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, Brett turned to her. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”
For a moment Gayla had forgotten Brett still sat beside her. She lowered the cup to her knee, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Brett noticed the trembling in her hand and eased the cup from her grasp and set it aside. “Can I get you anything? An aspirin or something?”
Again she shook her head, even though that simple action was enough to make her head throb even worse. She sank back against the cushions and closed her eyes, smoothing her palms up and down the chair’s arms, seeking comfort in the worn leather. She could feel Brett’s gaze on her, and even though he was a stranger, she was grateful for his company. “Talk to me,” she requested softly. “Please, just talk to me.”
Brett looked at her in puzzlement. “About what?”
“Anything. Your life. Your job. What brings you to Braesburg. Anything.”
Brett pulled himself from his reclining position and draped his wrists over his knees. “I’m here on business,” he finally said and knew it wasn’t a lie. He was in Braesburg on business—of sorts. “My home is in Kansas City.” He stopped, unsure what else to say that wouldn’t reveal his identity.
“Do you have family there?” she asked, encouraging him to go on.
“No. Both my parents are dead.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“No. I was an only child.”
“I have nine. Four brothers and five sisters.”
Brett whipped his head around to look at her. Her eyes were still closed but a soft, wistful smile curved her lips.
“Nine?” he repeated, unable to believe what she’d said.
“Yes, nine. I haven’t seen them in years. They’re scattered all over the United States. I’m the only one who remained in Texas.”
“Nine,” he repeated again as he turned back to the fire, wondering what it would be like to grow up with brothers and sisters. His friends had always considered him lucky, not having to put up with annoying siblings, not having to share toys or the attention of his parents. Of course, they hadn’t known what a living hell his home life had been. He’d often wished for brothers or sisters, anyone to detract from the hate that filled his parents’ home, but never more than now. If he’d been blessed with siblings, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to carry alone the load of family responsibilities that currently weighed so heavily on him.
“What do you do in Kansas City?”
Her question pulled him from his wishful thoughts. “I’m president of Sinclair Corporation, a chain of department stores that my dad owned.”
“Hmm. Sounds important. I’m impressed.”
Brett scowled at the fire, thinking of the frustrations he dealt with daily. “Don’t be. I’m president in title only. The board of directors of the corporation sees to that.”
“And that frustrates you,” she said knowingly, hearing the level of it in his voice.
“Damn right,” he muttered.
She laughed softly. “If I’d been guessing, I’d have guessed you to be a rancher, not a corporate president.”
“A
