CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Isabelle

 

The hospital chapel was dim and plain, two tall oil paintings done to look like stained glass hanging on the wall behind the lectern.

The door opened and closed behind me, and I lifted myself off my knees, scooting backward onto the wooden bench. “This seat saved?”

I looked up, surprised to see Brant standing at the end of the pew. I opened my mouth to tell him it was all his, that I was leaving anyway but paused when I saw his expression. He looked . . . uncertain, off balance, sort of like a kid asking a new friend if he could sit at her lunch table. “No. Be my guest.” I scooted down, even though the pew was long enough to fit five people and I was in the middle. He slid in beside me and for a moment we both stared straight ahead, the air weighty and full of that something that seemed to follow us wherever we went.

Even church. Apparently.

Or maybe it was only me. Most likely it was only me. I doubted he felt the way the molecules in the air shifted when we were together. But if he did . . . did it bother him the way it bothered me? 

My hands fidgeted in my lap. I wasn’t sure why I’d come here—the doctors had told us Mr. Talbot was going to be fine. Too much fluid had built up in his tumor-ridden lungs and the medical staff had drained them, fixing the problem temporarily, though it was bound to happen again. At least he was comfortable now, safely tucked in upstairs for a night of observation before he was sent home tomorrow.

“You a religious person?”

I glanced at Brant who was staring at the large crucifix hung on the wall to the left of the podium. Was I religious? The question felt like a sort of reaching out, an attempt at small talk, perhaps even a new start. But the question he’d chosen was more complicated than he knew. “I was raised to be.”

He tilted his head, his lips tipping in the first sincere smile I thought I’d seen on his far-too handsome face. He ran a hand over his jaw. “Preacher’s daughter?”

“Deacon’s daughter actually. My family is Amish.”

He looked genuinely surprised as he gazed at me, running a finger under his bottom lip. “You don’t say. Are you still . . . Amish? I mean . . . can you be Amish outside an Amish community?”

My lips tipped into a smile that felt sort of sad. “It’d be very difficult. I no longer consider myself Amish, but in any case, I was excommunicated.” I looked at the cross on the wall, my gaze moving over the solid lines of the symbol.

“You? Excommunicated? Why?”

He sounded so shocked that it made me smile. I had to say I was enjoying this moment of truce—whether temporary or not—with Harrison Talbot’s son. In fact, in so many ways he reminded me of his father. Wouldn’t he hate to know that? “I’d like to say it was an exciting story, but alas, all I can offer is the old cliché of a girl who fell for a boy she shouldn’t have.”

Brant’s expression was enigmatic, that finger still moving under his lip. “Ah. That story. What happened to the boy?” His tone was casual, but there was something underlying it that I didn’t know how to read.

“I married him,” I said softly, rallying a smile. Why was I talking about this? I never talked about this. My heart picked up speed, mouth growing dry, mind searching for an escape.

“But . . . you’re no longer married.”

I shook my head swiftly. “No. And what about you? No Mrs. Talbots on the horizon?”

He winced slightly. “God, no. Marriage is not for me.”

I released a breath. I could relate . . . though I wouldn’t rule love out forever. Maybe it was just the fighter in me who refused to believe that no matter how bleak or unlikely something seemed, there was always a smidgen of hope. I wondered if Brant’s aversion to marriage had anything to do with his own parents’ relationship, or if he just preferred to live the life of a consummate bachelor. The page of Google images with his countless women came to mind and brought a strange prickly feeling under my skin.

“Is that why you don’t drink? The whole . . . Amish thing?”

Amish thing. I knew what he meant and took no offense. “I suppose. I don’t have anything against those who do.” I fiddled with the ring on my right hand. “But I guess in some ways you can take the Amish girl out of Amish country but . . .” I waved my hand in the air, to indicate the rest of that particular expression.

He smiled and we were both silent for a moment.

“Isabelle . . .” At the sound of the hesitation in his voice, I looked at him, taking in the seriousness of his expression. “You were right. I was an arrogant asshole.” He laughed sort of self-consciously and helplessly, and I felt a twinge of sympathy in my chest. This obviously wasn’t easy for him. And yet, this was a true apology, and I appreciated it.

“I shouldn’t have called you a name. I was angry,” I admitted.

“You had a right to be,” he murmured. “I made assumptions. Acted like an idiot.”

“True on both counts.”

He laughed, shooting me a look. I gave him a quirk of my lip. “It’s a difficult situation . . . with your father. Emotions are understandably high.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment, finally blowing out a breath as if there was too much to think about in this exact moment. “My father had an affair with his secretary before my mother . . . died. It’s part of why we haven’t spoken in thirteen years. I only tell you that to explain my rush to judgment. I was wrong and I’m sorry. I really am.”

Oh. I gave my head a slight shake, not knowing what to feel about that information. “I didn’t know.” We were both quiet for a second. “I can’t say whether you and your father can make peace, Brant. But I hope you know that my intention was only to allow you both that opportunity. I have no personal stake in this, other than, well, I care about your father. He’s been good to me, and he helped me at a time when I needed it very much.”

He tilted his head, his eyes boring into me, and some crazy part of me felt as if his gaze could peel back my layers if I wasn’t very careful. This man who I’d thought was so full of artifice . . . so adept at playing games. And maybe he was. No, he definitely was. I had the feeling it was all part of his world. But . . . there was more there too. Or there had been once upon a time. Maybe he was only beginning to remember. He gave a small shake of his head as if his own thoughts had been moving in the same direction and instead of continuing on, he had chosen to step off that particular path. “Do you really have no interest in Graystone Hill?”

“Of course I have an interest in Graystone Hill. I love it there. I love everything about it. But do I have designs on owning it—?”

“Hey, that’s not what I meant. I don’t think you have designs on it. I was wrong about that, and I was sincere about my apology on that front. But what if my father actually wants to leave it to you? I saw you with the horses today, Belle. Are you telling me you wouldn’t want to do that full-time?”

“Your father’s offered to let me work at the stables full-time.”

He tilted his head. “Then why don’t you?”

I shrugged, blowing out a breath. “Horse training can be . . . emotional work. For me at least. I love it for that reason.” I needed it for that reason. “But the paperwork at the house, crunching numbers, organizing schedules, it’s a good balance. It works well for me.” I hoped to God I wouldn’t have to find another job after Harry died, but if I did, I now had more employable skills. And there was no lack of horse farms in Kentucky. I held on to that small comfort like a life preserver in the turbulent sea of Harry’s diagnosis and my own uncertain future.

“You could work as little or as much as you wanted if you owned Graystone Hill.”

The truth was, I liked to stay busy, needed to stay busy. A life of leisure would not benefit me in any regard nor was it something I aspired to. I shook my head. “I would never allow your father to leave me Graystone Hill. It should be yours, or belong to someone who has the first clue how to run a business. I wouldn’t accept it. It would feel wrong. But this is all a moot point anyway, Brant. Your father is not leaving Graystone Hill to me. If he mentioned that as a possibility, it was only to raise your hackles. Your father likes to do that, and I’m sure you know it as well as I do.”

He was quiet for a moment, something in his expression that I couldn’t quite discern. “Maybe.” He put his arm on the back of the pew, his long legs obviously cramped in the small space in front of us. “You have horses growing up?”

I smiled, picturing the barn of my childhood, the places I used to hide, the secret corners I’d made my own. The smell had brought such peace to my heart. The same way the scents of the Graystone Hill stable did for me now. “Yes. All kinds. Plowing horses, carriage horses. I learned to ride at Graystone Hill though, because where I come from, people don’t ride much.” I shook my head. “It’s just not done. It’s too much like a sport, and that’s not acceptable. But . . . you can’t grow up Amish without knowing a thing or two about horses.”

Brant grinned and my heart gave a small jolt. That smile. Good Lord, what couldn’t a man get with a smile like that? Nothing. There’s nothing he couldn’t get, and you’d be wise to remember that. You were led astray by a pretty smile once before . . . I pictured that smile now, twisting my hands in my lap as that old familiar pain buzzed through me.

“I’d say you know more than a thing or two, Belle.”

Belle. The first time he’d called me Belle, he’d said it mockingly. Now respect laced his tone. I liked the nickname as it rolled off his tongue. And I knew I shouldn’t.

I’d always been reckless though, hadn’t I? At least that’s what Mamm would say. At the thought of my mother, my lungs ached. Lord, but I missed her, even now, almost eight years since I’d last seen her. I’d been eighteen years old, a newly married woman, but I’d still needed her even as I’d watched her grow smaller and smaller through the back window of my husband’s car. “We should go,” I said, standing. “I have some things to do at the house and I’m sure you do too.” I stood and Brant followed suit, looking a tad confused by my abrupt need to leave. There were suddenly too many emotions swirling in this small space, too many memories that had been set free from the vault where I usually stored them. How funny that I’d done so with this man—the man who wasn’t even close to being a friend—when I didn’t revisit my past with anyone who didn’t already know about it. Maybe that was the reason I’d gone there at all. Maybe Brant was safe in some regards. But in any case, I needed to take a step back now. “Did you decide how long you’re staying?”

He ran a hand through his thick brown hair, leaving it slightly mussed. He’d taken off his long-sleeved shirt and was now wearing only the white T-shirt he must have had on beneath. It had a smear of dust on it and he looked nothing like the buttoned-up blowhard he’d been the night before. At the thought, I almost smiled, but held it back.

“I was going to leave today actually. But . . .” He looked off behind me as if he was just now considering the question I’d asked. “Another day or two wouldn’t hurt.” The corners of his eyes tightened and he looked sort of taken aback, as if he’d surprised himself and didn’t exactly know how or why. He looked at me again. “Yeah. I’ll be staying.”