Picnic in Someday Valley (Honey Creek #2)(47)

She hung up without another word, but he hung on to the phone for a while. Then he smiled and called the Honey Creek florist. A dozen yellow roses would be on her desk in an hour.





Chapter 28


Marcie


Marcie spent twenty minutes moving into the small quarters behind the kitchen in Mr. Winston’s house. She guessed the room had been a maid’s quarters years ago. There was a little seating area with two beautiful old chairs and a tiny table between them, a bathroom with a big claw-foot tub, and a nice bedroom. Best of all were the high windows, too small for anyone to break and crawl through. She would be safe here.

Mr. Winston had explained that he always locked all the doors at sunset. She’d have her own key if she needed in, and he’d leave the porch light on for her. Plus she had a lock on her door. If for any reason she was afraid, just use the broom to bang on the ceiling and he’d come down.

She hadn’t said anything about being afraid, but Marcie guessed the old man could read people about as easy as Charlotte Jordan from the flea market could read palms.

After Marcie was settled in and had paid her first month’s rent, she decided to go out to Brand’s place and warn him. The idea of him living out there all alone frightened her. Men could sneak up on him, ambush him, and leave him for dead. If they brought weapons, it wouldn’t be a fair fight.

Maybe the bald man had simply wanted to frighten her. He’d done a good job of that. He probably figured if she told anyone, it would just be her word against his, and everyone knew she was a con’s girlfriend. No one would believe her. He could say he was just joking around like people do.

She couldn’t protect Brand, even though it was her fault he was mixed up in this. All she could do was warn him.

The day was growing cold as she drove out to his place, but she kept the window down in case panic visited her again. She parked in front of the house and hurried up the steps, surprised he hadn’t met her at the door when he heard her drive up. Her light knock was met with silence.

No worries, she decided, he was working somewhere on his land, of course. She wasn’t exactly sure what he did. Raise horses. Breed horses. Train horses. The man never talked.

Fifty yards away from his house was a huge barn surrounded on two sides by corrals. It had been built on an incline, making the front thirty feet tall and the back only fifteen. Marcie thought she heard music coming from the barn. Odd. She’d never heard him play music in his house or in the truck. Maybe he played it when he worked.

She followed a worn path in the grass and stepped through the back doorway of the barn. In front the barn had a thirty-foot ceiling with wide lofts built beneath the overhangs of the roof. By stepping in the back entrance, she found herself in the loft. Brand could easily haul in hay and supplies for the horses below.

She walked along the railing, looking down on the main part of the barn.

There were stalls for two dozen or more horses; most looked empty. Hay stacked above and beside the stalls. Near the front she saw what looked like a blacksmith forge and a tack room without a top, so she could look down and see saddles and all the gear he’d need.

At one time this ranch had been a huge operation, but now it must have hit lean times.

She could hear the music. Country. But she saw no sign of Brand. As she circled so she could see the other side, something strange came into view. First, she saw long racks of weights lined up like she’d seen in gyms. The equipment was orderly and formed a circle on a foot-high platform. This was heavy, expensive workout gear.

Then she saw Brand stripped to his waist and wearing tight shorts that went to almost his knees. His body looked carved in stone. Big, but toned like a runner. All muscle as he moved as fast and liquid as water. He worked hard, pushing himself. The day was cold, but she watched him wipe the sweat away as he moved from one piece of equipment to another.

For a few minutes all she saw was the beauty, the fluidity of his movements. He wasn’t building his body up like a weightlifter. He was toning it as if it were a machine and needed to be in perfect working order.

Then, suddenly, as she studied him, she saw the scars. His back. His chest. His legs. All deep and jagged. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d done, there had been pain involved. She had the feeling that sometime in his life Brand hadn’t been the hero, he’d been the prey. She remembered someone saying he’d been in the service. Had he been in a battle?

For a while she stood perfectly still and watched him. When he put on gloves and began attacking a bag hanging in the center of the area, Marcie realized he could take care of himself. Four fools coming at him hadn’t been a challenge.

As he moved around the outer circle, running, dropping to do sit-ups, jumping up to do pull-ups, boxing, kickboxing, she couldn’t help but wonder why a small-time rancher would need this kind of training.

Suddenly the quiet cowboy didn’t seem boring at all. When he darted down steps to a room near where the saddles were stored, he disappeared. She thought she heard a shower come on.

Marcie walked back around the loft and silently opened the door she’d come in. Retracing her path to the porch of his house, she tried to put all the pieces together. He’d said he’d grown up here. Someone had told her he’d been a marine in his twenties. He kept to himself. But the scars? They spoke of so much more she didn’t know about Brand Rodgers.

As Marcie stepped on the porch, she doubted the front door was locked. He wouldn’t have minded if she’d gone inside to wait, but she wanted to stand in the fresh air and watch him walk toward her.