course,” Briana said, eyes on the road. “I had to tell them as soon as Nealie knew. She couldn’t keep it secret. Not possibly.”
“Do they know why I’ve come?”
Briana shook her head. Her dark hair swung about the shoulders of her white sweater. “No. I told everybody your assignment was done and you wanted to come back to the States to see Nealie. That’s all.”
He cocked his head, examining her. Oh, she was still something, all right, with her golden skin and exotic eyes. When she was serious, like now, she was a pretty girl. But when she smiled, he remembered, she was dazzling. She had the best smile he’d ever seen. He wondered how long it had been since she’d really used it.
“So,” he drawled, “how’d your family take the news I’d be here? Great wailing and gnashing of teeth?”
“Poppa was polite,” Briana said. “He said you could stay in his guest room if you want.”
“No, thanks,” Josh said and looked out the window on the passenger’s side. Leo Hanlon was a deceptively amiable man, but his true feelings for Josh were as cold as the ice that glittered in the trees.
Josh had almost succeeded at the unthinkable—he had almost taken Briana away from Leo. But the old man had won. He’d won with one of the oldest plays in the game—just when Briana had to choose between the two men, Leo had gotten sick.
“How’s his health?” Josh asked. This time he couldn’t keep the edge out of his tone.
She stared straight ahead. “He’s doing well. He went to the cardiologist last week. His heart’s good. He hasn’t had any episodes lately.”
Episodes, Josh thought sourly, are what you have on soap operas. “But,” he said, “I suppose he can’t work much.”
“No,” she said.
“So Larry oversees the farm.”
“Larry’s a physical guy. He likes it.”
He turned to Briana. “And what about Larry? Did he offer to let me use his guest room?”
“No.” She cast him a cool look. “He hasn’t got one. All his rooms are full of kids.”
“He still thinks of me as the guy who deserted his big sister?”
“He doesn’t change his mind easily.”
No. He’s like a Rottweiler or a water buffalo that way. Once an idea worked its way into his thick skull, it seldom found its way out again.
Josh didn’t really care about Larry’s opinions. But he knew down the line he’d have to grapple with them. As well as the far more complex ones of Leo Hanlon.
“Just when do you plan to tell them?” Josh asked. “About her?” He nodded toward Nealie, who was sleeping with her head on his shoulder. “And about—us?”
Every visible muscle in Briana’s body seemed to tighten. “I don’t want to discuss it now.”
“Have you thought about it? How you’re going to tell them? When?”
Her chin was stubborn. It was a look he knew well. “I said not now. She might wake up.”
As if to prove Briana right, Nealie stirred, rubbed her eyes, murmured something incomprehensible, then nestled against him.
She’s so small, Josh thought, so thin. She wasn’t this thin last time I saw her. She was light as a bird, like a creature with air in its bones.
“You and I,” he told Briana, his voice hard, “have to talk soon. And for a long time. I didn’t come all this way to be stonewalled.”
She nodded without looking at him. “Tonight. When she’s in bed.”
He frowned. “This thing you want to do—another baby—it’s going to cause all kinds of—”
“Shh. Tonight.”
“Fine,” he countered. “Tonight. And where am I supposed to stay? Am I invited to use your guest room?”
She shot him a look. “I don’t have one, either.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No. People would talk.”
He sighed in exasperation. She was worried what people thought? She wanted him to father another child for her—like that wasn’t going to make people talk?
She said, “If you don’t want to stay with Poppa, you can stay at the motel. I’ll loan you my truck to get back and forth.”
He groaned. He remembered Illyria’s motel from the photo shoot when he’d met Briana. It was a far cry from the five-star Kempinski in Moscow. Instead of private bars in every suite and a view of the Kremlin, it had a soda machine at the end of the hall and a view of a cornfield.
But that wasn’t what bothered him. What bothered him was that he and Briana had spent their wedding night there. They’d married in a kind of ecstatic haste, too hungry for each other to go anywhere else. They’d made love, then dozed, woke, made love again, and when the sun came up, they made love again.
If Briana remembered, she didn’t show it.
He tried to steer the conversation to neutral ground, not sure they had any.
“The farm’s a success?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said, businesslike. “These days people are careful about what they eat. The more particular they get, the more they like us.”
“No preservatives,” he quoted from memory. “No additives. No artificial fertilizers. Only natural pesticides. No hybrid or patented seeds. The heritage of pure, old-fashioned food.”
“You’ve got it,” she said with a hint of the smile that used to make him crazy with wanting her.
“As George Washington said, ‘agriculture is the most healthful, most useful and most noble employment of man.’”
“Wow,” Briana said. “You really do remember.”
I remember much more. Too much.
“Yeah. I remember,” he said.
“In growing season, we do well at the farmers’ market,” she said. “We always sell out. We have buyers from restaurants as far away as St. Louis.”
He thought about this past growing season. During it he had traveled over half the earth. She’d stayed home and tended her garden. And their child.
She said, “Was it a problem, getting time to come here?”
He shook his head. “No. Gave up a couple of short assignments. Nothing major.”
“Where do you go next?”
He
