Peggy Moreland - A Willful Marriage

But for some reason he’d found he couldn’t sleep. In the end, he’d thrown some clothes into a duffel bag and climbed back into his truck and headed for Braesburg. He’d driven all night and part of the next day, arriving just as the funeral procession was heading for the cemetery.

And now here he was in his grandfather’s house, wide-awake and with his ulcer burning a hole in his stomach. On a weary sigh, he dragged another pillow beneath his head, then leaned to turn on the bedside lamp. He fell back against the pillow and looked around the room. Nice little touches were scattered about, obviously Gayla’s work—a basket of fruit and crackers on the bedside table, a porcelain dish filled with green and pink mints. A pitcher of ice water. A crystal glass. He leaned over and thumbed up the lid on the pitcher, then promptly fell back against the pillows, unconsciously rubbing his hand across his stomach. No, water wasn’t what he needed. He needed milk to ease the burning.

She’d said for him to make himself at home, he remembered. He levered himself from the bed and hoped she’d included raiding the refrigerator in that invitation. He pulled on his jeans, but didn’t bother with his shirt and boots, then headed downstairs.

Careful not to make any noise, he eased down the stairs and across the hall. He was almost to the kitchen door when he heard a noise. He hesitated, listening, and was sure the sound had come from behind the study door. Thinking maybe he’d forgotten to turn off the television, he quickly crossed to the study and pushed open the door but froze when he saw Gayla sitting in an old leather chair by the fireplace, her back to him, bent at the waist, rocking back and forth. White-knuckled fingers clutched the ties of her robe against her mouth, muffling her sobs. He took a cautious step back, meaning to leave her to her grief, but then he stopped, his heart squeezing in time with each rise and fall of her slender shoulders.

She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this, he told himself angrily. She ought to have family or friends here to share her grief.

He took a step closer.

“Ma’am? Is something wrong?”

She whirled at the sound of his voice, then lurched to her feet. “No,” she said, swiping at her tears. “Nothing’s wrong. I couldn’t sleep and I—” She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle the sob that rose.

She looked about ready to collapse. Brett pressed her back into the chair. “You just sit down there and rest a minute. Can I get you something? A glass of warm milk? A shot of whiskey?”

“No—no, really,” she stammered, pulling the folds of her robe across her knees. “I’m sorry I awakened you.”

“You didn’t wake me. I couldn’t sleep, either.” Wearily, he dropped down on the floor beside the chair and pulled his knees against his chest, trying to think what to da. “Is there someone in your family that I can call? You know, to keep you company?”

She squeezed her hands between her knees, unable to meet his gaze. She shook her head. “No. No one.”

A shiver shook Brett clear to his toes at the bleakness in her tone. “It’s cold in here,” he said, blaming his reaction, in case she’d noticed, on the chill in the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, instantly apologetic. “I turn the heat down on the first floor after I go to bed. But if you’re cold,” she said, rising to her feet, “I can turn it up.”

Brett caught her hand and pulled her back into the chair. He’d never seen a woman so intent to please. “How about if I just light that stack of wood in the fireplace? That ought to take the chill off.”

“I can do it.”

Brett laid a hand on her arm before she could rise. “And so can I,” he said firmly.

Seeing the stubborn glint in his eye, Gayla reluctantly sat. She watched as he carefully prepared the fire. The flame caught, then rose higher. Picking up the poker, Brett punched at the wood, rearranging it on the grate.

The fire’s glow radiated off his bare chest, capturing the gold in a necklace that swung from his neck. From the necklace’s delicate links hung a thin gold band and with each jab of his arm, the necklace swung, the band slapping against first one muscled pec, then the other.

Gayla had never really considered herself sexually deprived, but at the moment she couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of so much raw maleness. His shoulders were broad and muscled, tapering down to a slim waist and hips. A cowboy’s butt, she decided a little breathlessly, noticing the way his jeans cupped his rear end. She’d heard the bawdy phrase at Betty Jo’s Beauty Salon, but had never seen anything that fit the description quite so appropriately.

His skin glowed in the firelight, taking on a coppery hue, and she had the most irresistible urge to lay her hand on his back and feel the play of muscle as he poked and shoved at the dry wood. But thankfully, before she could act on the impulse, he replaced the poker and scooted back to sit beside her chair.

After a few moments, Brett tipped his head up to look at her. “What were you doing down here, anyway?”

His question brought the grief rushing back. “I don’t know,” she replied, swallowing the threat of more tears. “Lonely, I guess.” She dipped her head, embarrassed by the admission. “Ned spent most of his time in this room. Being here just seemed to make him closer.”

Brett turned his gaze back to the fire. “I used to do the same thing,” he replied thoughtfully.

Surprised, she tipped her head to look at him. “Really?”

“Yeah, after my mother passed away, I’d slip into her bedroom, just to get the scent of her. Eased the loneliness a bit.”

She nodded knowingly, a wistful smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “No perfume smells here, though. Ned smoked the most god-awful-smelling cigars. He was supposed to quit, because of his heart and all, but he’d sneak one every now and then.” She laughed softly. “I don’t know who he thought he was fooling. The foul things stunk up the entire house.” Fresh tears welled and she batted her hand in his direction. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just can’t seem to stop crying.”

“Losing somebody you care for is tough. Sometimes it helps to talk about it,” he offered slowly, thinking that he might learn more about her relationship with his grandfather.

Gayla lifted her head, her cheeks wet with tears, to peer at him in surprise. His offer was as unexpected as his appearance at Parker House earlier that night. She found nothing but sincerity in his blue eyes, and a warmth that pulled at her, teasing her with the promise of much-needed comfort.

Although tempted beyond words to pour out her worries on this man’s shoulders, he was a stranger and a guest. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” she murmured, averting her gaze. She stood and swiped the backs of her hands beneath her cheeks. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I made a fresh pot a little while ago.”

Coffee? Damn, the caffeine would keep him up all night, Brett knew, but he could see by the hopeful look on her face that she wasn’t wanting to be alone just yet. He found himself unwinding his long legs to stand beside her. “No coffee for me, but a glass of milk sounds mighty good.”

“A glass of milk it will be, then, Mr. Sinclair,” she said as she turned for the kitchen.

He caught her before she took a full step. “The name’s Brett,” he said firmly as he guided her back to the chair. “You stay here and keep warm. I’ll get our drinks.”

“But you’re a guest,” she objected, her voice rising in panic. “I can’t ask you to wait on me.”

“You didn’t ask, I offered. Now sit right there until I get back.”

In the kitchen, as she’d promised, a pot of fresh coffee sat on the stove. Brett quickly poured her a cup, then filled a glass with milk for himself and headed back to the study. She sat where he’d left her, staring at the fire. He thrust the coffee mug under her nose.