I figured the point of that was for word to get back to Delaney, which won’t happen if you don’t talk about it.”
“That had nothing to do with Delaney,” he said.
Her bottomless brown eyes glanced past him again. “Your mom’s looking for you.”
He looked over his shoulders to find his mother standing under the roof overhang, and just like that, Marissa was in the cab. The door slammed, then the engine turned over with a gruff roar. No girly Ford Ranger for Walkers Ford’s tough girl. She was driving a two-ton diesel dualie, and the truck’s momentum displaced the air millimeters from his ear as she cruised out of the lot. Hands on his hips, he watched her drive away, like the conversation was over.
It wasn’t.
5
N IGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Marissa gunned her truck up the semicircular driveway and into her customary parking spot under the oak tree sheltering Brookhaven’s north side. Prickles of pain bloomed in her back when she jogged through the rain that lashed the back meadow to the servants’ quarters’ tiny entryway. She’d driven through the mist and rain to the house with the paneling, then sat at the end of the driveway for another two hours, trying to force herself to get out of the truck. She couldn’t do it.
Oncoming darkness drove her to turn around and return to Brookhaven, letting the whap of the windshield wipers and the patter of rain on the truck’s roof dissolve all thought from her brain. The end was in sight, a century of Brooks dreams fulfilled. Even with time allowed for courtesies, the transaction should have taken just a couple of hours, but she couldn’t get out of the truck.
Inside her tiny apartment, cold settled into her bones, and another shiver rippled through her. The prohibitive cost of heating the main house wasn’t the only reason she stayed in the tiny servants’ quarters; the first summer she began renovations she’d slept in the great room, drawn to the spectacular view of rolling prairie and Dakota sunsets, but as the work progressed, the big space created odd resonances of her emotions, distorting what felt true and real outside the house, giving it back to her with sharp edges and eerie echoes. Lately her ears rang even in the snug, shiplike apartment.
The galley kitchen held a dorm-sized refrigerator, a two-burner stove, and a half-sized oven. She’d bought the appliances from sailing outfitters catering to boatbuilders and renovators who felt that smaller, not bigger, was better. She heated a can of soup on the stove, ate while sorting her mail into bills and non-bills, then went into the bathroom and ran hot water into the tub. Steam rose into the cool air while she flicked on the light, turned her back to the full-length mirror on the back of the door, and pulled three layers of shirts free from her pants. Her plain white bra strap bisected her back just under her shoulder blades, and what she saw reflected in the mirror made her blow out her breath in disgust.
The hard rap on her door came unexpectedly. She let her shirts fall back around her waist as she walked into the kitchen, pulled back the curtain, and saw heavy shoulders that could only belong to Adam. Clouds scudded across the sky behind him, and a steady breeze bent the leafless branches of the trees lining the creek at the bottom of the meadow. Anger flared, sweeping through her, making her movements jerky as she flipped on the porch light and opened the door.
He stood on the painted wood porch, wearing a three-button henley shirt loose over a pair of jeans and motorcycle boots; his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans were the only hint he found it cold. Round dark spots dotted his shoulders, and drops gleamed on his bristling jarhead haircut. As she watched, he wiped his hand over his skull and flung the collected water to the side. The open collar of his shirt exposed his throat and nape, the tanned smooth skin oddly vulnerable compared to the braced stance.
“I’m
“That had nothing to do with Delaney,” he said.
Her bottomless brown eyes glanced past him again. “Your mom’s looking for you.”
He looked over his shoulders to find his mother standing under the roof overhang, and just like that, Marissa was in the cab. The door slammed, then the engine turned over with a gruff roar. No girly Ford Ranger for Walkers Ford’s tough girl. She was driving a two-ton diesel dualie, and the truck’s momentum displaced the air millimeters from his ear as she cruised out of the lot. Hands on his hips, he watched her drive away, like the conversation was over.
It wasn’t.
5
N IGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Marissa gunned her truck up the semicircular driveway and into her customary parking spot under the oak tree sheltering Brookhaven’s north side. Prickles of pain bloomed in her back when she jogged through the rain that lashed the back meadow to the servants’ quarters’ tiny entryway. She’d driven through the mist and rain to the house with the paneling, then sat at the end of the driveway for another two hours, trying to force herself to get out of the truck. She couldn’t do it.
Oncoming darkness drove her to turn around and return to Brookhaven, letting the whap of the windshield wipers and the patter of rain on the truck’s roof dissolve all thought from her brain. The end was in sight, a century of Brooks dreams fulfilled. Even with time allowed for courtesies, the transaction should have taken just a couple of hours, but she couldn’t get out of the truck.
Inside her tiny apartment, cold settled into her bones, and another shiver rippled through her. The prohibitive cost of heating the main house wasn’t the only reason she stayed in the tiny servants’ quarters; the first summer she began renovations she’d slept in the great room, drawn to the spectacular view of rolling prairie and Dakota sunsets, but as the work progressed, the big space created odd resonances of her emotions, distorting what felt true and real outside the house, giving it back to her with sharp edges and eerie echoes. Lately her ears rang even in the snug, shiplike apartment.
The galley kitchen held a dorm-sized refrigerator, a two-burner stove, and a half-sized oven. She’d bought the appliances from sailing outfitters catering to boatbuilders and renovators who felt that smaller, not bigger, was better. She heated a can of soup on the stove, ate while sorting her mail into bills and non-bills, then went into the bathroom and ran hot water into the tub. Steam rose into the cool air while she flicked on the light, turned her back to the full-length mirror on the back of the door, and pulled three layers of shirts free from her pants. Her plain white bra strap bisected her back just under her shoulder blades, and what she saw reflected in the mirror made her blow out her breath in disgust.
The hard rap on her door came unexpectedly. She let her shirts fall back around her waist as she walked into the kitchen, pulled back the curtain, and saw heavy shoulders that could only belong to Adam. Clouds scudded across the sky behind him, and a steady breeze bent the leafless branches of the trees lining the creek at the bottom of the meadow. Anger flared, sweeping through her, making her movements jerky as she flipped on the porch light and opened the door.
He stood on the painted wood porch, wearing a three-button henley shirt loose over a pair of jeans and motorcycle boots; his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans were the only hint he found it cold. Round dark spots dotted his shoulders, and drops gleamed on his bristling jarhead haircut. As she watched, he wiped his hand over his skull and flung the collected water to the side. The open collar of his shirt exposed his throat and nape, the tanned smooth skin oddly vulnerable compared to the braced stance.
“I’m
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