“Here are some additional boxes. Let me know if you need more.” Timothy dropped the large cardboard boxes on the floor and leaned against the door with one thumb tucked into the front of his jeans. “Place is starting to look great.”

“Thank you.” Wiping the back of a dusty hand across her forehead, she surveyed the room, pleased with the progress. He hesitated at the door, standing straight and filling the space with his tall and lanky frame. “Have you seen Tina today?” She tried for casual but was sure he could read through the innocent-sounding question.

“No, but she does have a way of steering plum clear of me.”

“Why is that?”

He smoothed his beard down with a hand, and one side of his mouth turned up. “I’d like to think she hasn’t come around to my charms yet, but the truth is I might have come on a little strong when we first met.” He dropped his hand and shrugged. “What can I say, it isn’t often a beautiful woman like that walks onto my ranch.”

“Maybe you should tell her that.”

He looked down at his boots and tipped back on his heels. “Eh, I’m not sure what a girl like that would see in someone like me.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she said to his back as he stepped out into the hall. “Thanks for the boxes.”

Sitting on the bed, she took a deep breath and tried to picture what Brecken’s room might have looked like when he was a child. She had found no trace of him as she’d cleaned out the closet and dressers. Not an old yearbook or even a ratty teddy bear. The walls looked as if they had been repainted in recent years, so not even the scratches or holes in the walls left any indication of where he might have hung posters or pictures of friends.

She snapped a picture of herself sitting on the bed in his old room and sent it to him, hoping to break through whatever barrier he had up that wouldn’t allow him to tell her why he’d left home and never returned.

His response was immediate.

Laughing at his candid reply she stood, picked up the boxes Timothy had left, and headed to the master. The wooden door was closed, making it feel like an eerie museum exhibit that had been roped off to preserve. She pushed it open with a creak. The heavy scents of cigar smoke and musk hung in the air as she walked to the center of the room.

Much like the living room of Brecken’s apartment, this room appeared to have been Mr. Blackstone’s haven. Framed pictures of a woman, presumably Brecken’s mom, were set neatly on the nightstand, along with a Bible and a paperback copy of Lonesome Dove.

Moving to the nightstand on the other side of the bed, she picked up a dusty silver frame. The same woman in the other pictures smiled back with a man on either side. Brecken was easily recognizable, even with his youthful face and skinny body, and his jet-black hair stuck out wildly around his head. His smile was large and met his eyes, which sparkled with mischief as if he had said something funny and they all had a good laugh. The smile on the elder Blackstone’s face wasn’t as big, but his face was filled with love and pride, his arm wrapped tightly around the back of his wife.

January’s heart ached, not for Brecken’s loss, but for her own as she stared down at the picture-perfect family that she’d never had. Placing the frame back, she stood and walked to the closet. Starting there seemed far less emotionally draining than dealing with the photos and books that made her long to know more about the Blackstone family. A pair of scuffed boots sat on the floor underneath a rack of men’s clothes. Her heart plummeted at the sad image she was sure would haunt her for days to come.

So much for the closet being less personal.

Pushing aside her emotions, she took a calming breath and began taking flannel shirts off the hangers, folding them, and placing them neatly in the box. As her hands moved in autopilot, she ran through every scenario she could come up with, trying to figure out what might have created a rift between the man that had lived here and the one she’d shared a bed with last night. She had imagined Brecken’s father as disapproving and unloving, but his room spoke to none of that. Was it possible that a family as happy as the one in the picture beside the bed was a total façade? She was no stranger to the lies of perception, but nothing about the house or the rooms inside had hinted at anything but love and comfort.

“Hey.” Brecken’s gruff voice interrupted her thoughts.

Jumping, she let out a small screech. “You scared me.”

He lingered in the doorway, and his eyes darted around the room before settling on her. “I’ve been calling you.”

Taking her phone from her back pocket, she noted the time and call notifications. Three missed calls in the hour since she’d started working in the late Mr. Blackstone’s bedroom. “Weird, I guess I blocked everything else out while I was working. The closet is nearly done.” She motioned to the bare clothing racks in front of her.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and as he scanned what was left of his parents’ belongings, his face became an unreadable mask. “Ready to go?”

“Sure. First, though, what do you want me to do with the personal items in here—books, photos—want me to put those in a separate box for you?”

“No,” he said a bit too sharply.

Her breath hitched, and suddenly, she buzzed with anger at his inability to reason when it came to the ranch and his father. It was an emotion she kept under a tight lid. It wasn’t her place to tell him what he should keep or why.

His voice was quieter when he continued, but his eyes looked toward the empty hallway instead of the bedroom. “Anything that can’t be donated, just throw away.”

January crossed her arms tight against her chest. “What about the pictures?”

“I have copies of any I want. Ready?” He reached out a hand in offering, but she shook her head.

“Give me five minutes.”

Not trusting herself, she bit back the desire to push him into answering all the burning questions raging under the surface. The look on his face told her it would only be met with frustration and anger.

He nodded, and she listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall and stairs. Blowing out a breath, she glanced at the nearly empty closet and bent to pick up the cowboy boots. They were heavier than she’d imagined. They were the type of boots that could, and probably had, withstood more hard work than she could possibly know. Tossing the boots in a separate box, she picked up a Sharpie and wrote Brecken’s name on the front. She knew that whether Brecken would admit it or not—and definitely whether he liked it or not—he was his father’s son. He’d lived his life with the boot mentality, even while scoffing at putting such a thing on his feet. Instead of boots and jeans, he’d chosen fancy suits and ties, but the work ethic and the day in, day out gruel of ranch living hadn’t left him. She’d bet on it.