Fay Robinson - Coming Home To You

She stared off into space, apparently deep in thought, then glanced at his horse. “I guess things like that are bred into dogs, like racing and working are bred into horses. That’s what they call a quarter horse, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen an animal so beautiful. Is he your only stallion?”

“No, I have three.”

“Three? Gosh. And I bet they’re all that healthy-looking. And how many mares do you have?”

“Sixteen.”

“So how many of those would you normally breed in a year’s time, and how many babies would you get?”

“Usually I’d breed all of them if they’re—”

He swore, realizing she had somehow dragged him into conversation. Did she know he bred horses for a living or had she made an educated guess?

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Doing what?”

“Chattering. Trying to make me forget you’re not supposed to be here. Confusing me.”

“No, I wasn’t. Are you easily confused? You know that can be one of the first signs of a serious illness. A brain tumor. Alzheimer’s. Dementia. Although I would think you’re too young to have Alzheimer’s. This confusion you have, is it like short-term memory loss or more cognitive?”

He groaned loudly. “You’re the most exasperating woman I ever tried to talk to.”

“Do you have trouble talking to women?” She clucked as if she felt sorry for him. “No need to feel embarrassed. An estimated two million men in the United States have the same problem. There’s even a name for it. It’s called Fe—”

“Stop!” he yelled, holding up a hand.

She casually plucked a pine needle from her skirt. “Are you confused again?”

He eyed her with suspicion. “Are you purposely trying to drive me crazy?”

“Why, heavens, no. Are you paranoid, as well as confused?”

He raised his arms and grabbed her before she understood his intent, lifting her from the branch and setting her sideways on the horse in front of him.

“You’re leaving,” he said gruffly, kicking the horse into a trot. His arm came around her waist to hold her. She clung to it in panic.

Bret pulled her closer, his anger fizzling the moment he felt her fear. He stiffened as he got a stronger whiff of her perfume. The fragrance was exotic, like some delicate flower. He’d forgotten how good a woman could smell, how soft she could feel.

They reached her car, but he didn’t immediately dismount or set her on the ground. She gave him a questioning look. His gaze settled on her mouth, an unusual mouth that curved upward only on the right side when she smiled. When she wasn’t smiling, like now, it dipped only on that side and made her seem younger, even vulnerable.

He knew that mouth from somewhere, and having it inches from his own was making him want to do something crazy.

“Who are you?” he asked, curiosity overpowering his impatience.

“Ah, there is a normal human being beneath that grumpy exterior. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Are you a reporter?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, Mr. Hayes, I’m not a reporter. At least not now. But I have come a long way to talk to you, so I would appreciate a few minutes of your time. I promise I’ll be brief.”

Her use of his name made his eyebrows knit together under the brim of his cap. “Do I know you?”

“No, we’ve, um, never really met in person.” She looked away and fanned her face with her hand. “Could we go into your house where it’s cooler and maybe have a glass of iced tea? Whew, it’s so humid out here. Is it always this hot in August? How many days has it been since you had rain?”

“You’re doing it again.”

She turned to face him. “Doing what?”

“Chattering.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s not intentional. I promise.” She shot him a big lopsided smile in apology. Desire came out of nowhere and slammed him in the gut.

The reaction was understandable, he told himself. He hadn’t had a woman in…hell, too long, and this one was particularly pleasing to look at with her long flowing hair and small well-curved body. She couldn’t be more than five feet tall, but every inch of it appeared soft and feminine.

If he could tape her mouth shut, she’d be perfect!

“Who are you?”

“I think, considering the way things are going, we might get along better if I didn’t tell you that yet.”

“Are you under the impression we’re getting along at all?”

“Well, no, but it’s my nature to be optimistic.”

“That’s too bad. You’ve got five seconds to tell me who you are or I’m putting you on the ground and calling Sallie.”

“Wait, please, that’s not—”

“Two seconds.”

“Oh, no, don’t!”

He loosened his hold on her waist, pushed her forward and acted as though he was going to drop her to the ground.

“All right, all right,” she said quickly. “I’m—” she cringed when she said the name “—Kathryn Morgan.”

“Damn!” She hit the ground, landing on her rear an instant after his expletive rent the air. “Sallie!”

The woman scrambled into her car. She slammed the door before Sallie could grab her.

“You didn’t have to sic that vicious animal on me,” she said through the open window. “All I want to do is talk to you.”

He dismounted. “My attorney has made it clear several times that I’m not interested in talking to you, Ms. Morgan. I don’t want to be interviewed for your book, and I don’t appreciate your sneaking onto my property and interrupting my work.”

“I’m only asking for a few minutes of your time to outline my project.”

“You can’t have it.”

“But by cooperating on the story of your late brother, you’ll have the opportunity to influence what material on James is used. This shouldn’t be an unauthorized biography, Mr. Hayes. Help me. Don’t force me to print his story without your involvement, please.”

“Leave. Now!”

“Won’t you reconsider? The previous books about James and his band, Mystic Waters, have only skimmed the surface of his life. They’ve concentrated on the drinking, the suspected drug use, the women. None have fully explored his music or his gift for composing.”

“He’s been dead six years. Let him rest in peace.”

“But the timing of this biography is critical. The twentieth anniversary of his first album is next year. People will want to know more about him.”

“You’re as bad as those tabloid people, always wanting dirt about people’s personal lives.”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t print innuendo or gossip. I spent years as a journalist. I respect the truth and I always present it fairly.”

He braced his hands on the window frame and leaned down. His anger made his voice shake. “Ma’am, I’m familiar with your reputation, but it doesn’t change the fact that anything you write, no matter how fair or accurate, no matter how well-intentioned, will make my family have to live through the pain of my brother’s death all over again. They’ve suffered enough, and I won’t help you hurt them just so you can make a few bucks or win another damn Pulitzer.”

“I’m not writing this book for the money or for any award,” she said shortly, her composure slipping.

“Why, then?”

“Because it’s a compelling and interesting story. James wasn’t simply a music idol. He represented the emotions and conscience of an entire generation. I want to write his story. I have to write it.”

He straightened and put his hands on his hips in what he hoped was an imposing stance that conveyed his irritation with her answer.

“Everything comes down to what you want, doesn’t it? Well, let me tell you what I want. No contact from you again. Ever. Leave this property and go home where you belong. Don’t harass my mother or my sister with any more phone calls. Don’t write my attorney.” He narrowed his eyes, his expression as menacing as he could make it. “And if you’re crazy enough to come out here again, I’ll feed you to Sallie. I think she’d enjoy that almost as much as I would.”