Bayou Born(38)

“But aren’t you?” he called from the kitchen.

“I’m the proverbial good girl. I’ve never colored outside the lines until I dumped Steven and moved here.”

“So, you’re saying you hit your rebellious streak late? That happens to the good-girl types. I hear it’s not fatal. Cream? Sugar?” he called over the kettle’s whistle.

No answer.

“Branna? Do you want something in your tea?”

Was that a sob?

“Branna?”

Yep. Definitely a sob.

He moved the whistling kettle from the stove, turned off the gas, and quickly made his way to her.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sitting on the floor, he was eye to eye with her as she lay on her side with only her face peering out from beneath the quilt. She looked like a lost soul.

The depth of her fragility hit him. His gut tightened. Branna’s tears were drops of pain and each one branded his heart.

“You don’t understand anything about my life. Yet you keep judging me. I’m this type or that type. Your low opinion oozes out. You don’t even bother to try to hide it.”

“Wait. Look—”

“Are you always so harsh?” Branna sniffed.

Harsh? No. Cautious. Yes. Judgments weren’t always a bad thing. In the past, an error in judgment had cost him dearly. But Branna wasn’t Caroline. His head had taken a while to catch up with his heart. “I’m sorry I seem harsh.”

Their gazes locked.

Branna nodded. “Apology accepted. One sugar and one cream, please.”

Had that been Caroline... No. He had to stop that. No more comparisons of anyone to Caroline. That was a piece of bad luck he could finally shake off.

He returned with mugs of tea, steam rising from each and curling together. Branna scooted and leaned against the armrest of the couch. She took a mug and blew on the liquid. Traces of tears had made barely visible tracks down her face.

He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch, near her feet. “Branna, if you’d like to talk about...” He started to mention her parents, but changed his mind. “The accident or anything else, I’ll listen.”

“Oh James.” Branna plopped the mug down on the coffee table. Tea sloshed over the side.

She pushed her feet out from beneath her and surprised him by cuddling close, practically gluing herself to his side. Soft sobs started. Her body trembled. Tears soaked the front of his shirt. The helplessness that had engulfed him when Katie died now blanketed his heart.

He put his arm around her and hugged her close. What could he do? What should he do? Was her flow of emotion the result of the concussion? Did he need to call the doctor, or better yet, rush her back the hospital?

“Branna, it’s okay. Whatever it is, I promise, it’ll be fine.” Maybe she needed more rest. A good night’s sleep cured many things. Could make the world a wonderful place.

“I’m here. Let it all go.”

He let her cry. After several minutes, when his shirt was soaked and her tears lessened to a slow dribble, she sniffled. He offered her a tissue from the box next to him, then turned and patted her shoulder as she held the tissue to her nose.

If blowing one’s nose could ever be described as dainty, Branna managed it.

“Another tissue please.”

He pulled four from the box and handed them over.

Branna’s gaze met his. “So what type am I now? The foolish-crying type?” she whispered.

Her accusation stung. “No. Not at all. You have the wrong idea about me. Look, we really don’t know each other that well. Unlike you, I keep my life uncomplicated. By your own admission, yours is not.”

“Humph.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ve been hurt. Now your armor’s hard. Do you have compassion for anyone?”

“What? Yeah I do. If I didn’t, I’d have left you at the door when you said you were fine and could manage by yourself.”

“Maybe you have an over developed sense of...duty, or misguided ideas about honor. Maybe that’s why you’re still here.”

James paused. The last thing he wanted was an argument with her. He softened his tone. “Branna, you needed me. I wanted to be here for you. What you experienced today was scary stuff, life threatening. Someone needed to stay. I decided that someone would be me.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say that the accident scared ten years off his life, and that his heart had fallen in love, even if his brain resisted.

“I’m fine now. Thank you for the use of your shoulder. You can go.”

The flashes of anger in her eyes bothered him more than her punctuated angry tone. Was anger a cover for pain? Fear?

Her blotchy red, tear-stained face wouldn’t win her a beauty contest, but she still looked lovely. The pain in her eyes made him want to hold her. Made him want to be the man that made everything in her life turn out all right.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not that kind of guy, your Highness. I’m not leaving. Tell me what I don’t understand about the complications of your life.”





Chapter 27

Loud banging woke James. Disoriented, he pushed up from the floor to a sitting position, and then rested his back against the couch. Morning rays of light seeped in from around the drapes, but gave no clue as to the time. He glanced at his watch. It showed six thirty a.m. He’d slept all night on the floor.

A soft low groan behind him drew his attention. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Branna appeared deep in sleep, though agitated by a dream. Sleeping had brought color back to her cheeks. She looked irresistible. Sweet. Warm. Womanly. Dare he sneak a kiss? He could enjoy waking up beside her each morning. He craved a deeper connection with the woman who had haunted his dreams.

Running his fingers through his hair, he let out a low growl. Who was he kidding? He wanted more than a kiss. He wanted to pick her up, take her to bed, and make love to her—all day. Some knight in shining armor, taking advantage of a helpless injured woman.

What was wrong with him? She needed help, not lust.

When the banging started again, he jumped up and ran for the front door. Whoever was making the noise had to stop. Branna needed sleep. They’d talked off-and-on until two in the morning, until neither of them could stay awake.

He yanked open the front door, stepped outside, and pulled the door closed. “Stop that!”

The banging continued.

“What the hell are you doing?” he called to Bill, who pounded the rim of a gallon-sized bucket of paint.

The painter stood at the rear of his van, the back doors opened wide. Several five-gallon paint buckets surrounded him like a drum set. Inside the van, a blend of colored paints puddled on the floor.

“Sorry, man. Did I wake you?”

“Never mind me. Branna’s sleeping.”

The painter eyed him up and down. “Yah, man, whatever you say.”

“Don’t give me crap. Paint if you’re going to, but stop the banging noise. The lady’s had a rough night. Yesterday was tough business.”

“Is she doing okay? That was something, though. Did you see the video of the crash on the news last night?”

“No. What video?”

“Some college kid films planes taking off and landing for some docudrama he’s making. He happened to be in the right place at the right time. Got it all on tape. Miss Lind will be the FBI’s star witness in the drug smuggling case.”

“I don’t know if she saw anything other than the plane. Anyway, look, no noise. Okay? Let’s let her sleep.”

“Sure. No noise.”

When he returned to the house, Branna remained asleep on the couch. The aroma of brewing coffee greeted him, and he followed his nose to the kitchen. Last night, he’d set the timer on the coffee maker after Branna directed him to coffee and filters.

Anticipating the hot dark liquid that dripped into a glass carafe, the fog in his brain started to push aside. Black and strong. That’s how he wanted his coffee this morning. He needed a full-caffeine jolt if he intended to make it through the day. Waiting for his liquid addiction-of-choice, he thought about the things Branna had shared between her catnaps and bites of Sadie’s biscuits.

At first, it was uncomfortable to hear such intimate personal information about her. He’d resisted intimacy for so long. He engaged in deep discussions about politics, philosophy, books, and even religion once in a while, though he usually avoided those discussions also. Never had a woman exposed her most deep-seated emotions and layered them with logic as Branna had done.

“I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,” she said.

“Well, this one isn’t silver either. However, the pecan pie is gold-medal worthy. Take a bite.” He held the spoon to her lips, and she tasted the pie.