Peggy Moreland - A Willful Marriage

Startled, she lifted her gaze. In the firelight he could see that her cheeks were wet, her eyes red and swollen from her crying. He’d never felt more useless in his life.

More gently, he nudged the mug against her hand. She accepted it, slipping two fingers through the curved handle and wrapping both hands around its warmth. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome.” He eased back down beside her and lifted the glass of milk to his lips. When he’d drained the glass, he set it aside. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth before leaning back with his elbows braced against the carpet and his legs stretched out in front of him.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her. She sat with the mug cradled in her hands, her gaze fixed on the fire, staring, but seeing…what? he wondered. What did she see in the flames? Memories? Regrets, maybe? The sadness, he could understand. But underneath he swore he glimpsed fear. Fear of what? he wondered. Of being alone? Of losing her home, her job?

A stab of guilt made him frown. He wasn’t responsible, he told himself as he rubbed his hand across the burning sensation in his stomach. Not for Gayla Matthews. She’d made her own decisions that had brought her to this point, decisions that he’d had no part in. No, he wouldn’t feel guilty when Parker House was turned over to the city and she lost her job and her home.

For some reason, telling himself this didn’t ease the burning in his stomach any more than the milk.

Gayla closed her eyes and pressed the coffee mug to her forehead to ease the painful throbbing in her head. Catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, Brett turned to her. “Would you like another cup of coffee?”

For a moment Gayla had forgotten Brett still sat beside her. She lowered the cup to her knee, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Brett noticed the trembling in her hand and eased the cup from her grasp and set it aside. “Can I get you anything? An aspirin or something?”

Again she shook her head, even though that simple action was enough to make her head throb even worse. She sank back against the cushions and closed her eyes, smoothing her palms up and down the chair’s arms, seeking comfort in the worn leather. She could feel Brett’s gaze on her, and even though he was a stranger, she was grateful for his company. “Talk to me,” she requested softly. “Please, just talk to me.”

Brett looked at her in puzzlement. “About what?”

“Anything. Your life. Your job. What brings you to Braesburg. Anything.”

Brett pulled himself from his reclining position and draped his wrists over his knees. “I’m here on business,” he finally said and knew it wasn’t a lie. He was in Braesburg on business—of sorts. “My home is in Kansas City.” He stopped, unsure what else to say that wouldn’t reveal his identity.

“Do you have family there?” she asked, encouraging him to go on.

“No. Both my parents are dead.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“No. I was an only child.”

“I have nine. Four brothers and five sisters.”

Brett whipped his head around to look at her. Her eyes were still closed but a soft, wistful smile curved her lips.

“Nine?” he repeated, unable to believe what she’d said.

“Yes, nine. I haven’t seen them in years. They’re scattered all over the United States. I’m the only one who remained in Texas.”

“Nine,” he repeated again as he turned back to the fire, wondering what it would be like to grow up with brothers and sisters. His friends had always considered him lucky, not having to put up with annoying siblings, not having to share toys or the attention of his parents. Of course, they hadn’t known what a living hell his home life had been. He’d often wished for brothers or sisters, anyone to detract from the hate that filled his parents’ home, but never more than now. If he’d been blessed with siblings, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to carry alone the load of family responsibilities that currently weighed so heavily on him.

“What do you do in Kansas City?”

Her question pulled him from his wishful thoughts. “I’m president of Sinclair Corporation, a chain of department stores that my dad owned.”

“Hmm. Sounds important. I’m impressed.”

Brett scowled at the fire, thinking of the frustrations he dealt with daily. “Don’t be. I’m president in title only. The board of directors of the corporation sees to that.”

“And that frustrates you,” she said knowingly, hearing the level of it in his voice.

“Damn right,” he muttered.

She laughed softly. “If I’d been guessing, I’d have guessed you to be a rancher, not a corporate president.”

“A rancher?” he echoed, finding himself amused by her assumption. “Why?”

“The jeans, the boots, the truck. Those are more the trappings of a rancher than a corporate executive.”

Brett couldn’t help but laugh. “My board of directors would probably agree with you. They’re always harping at me to improve my image. They’d prefer I wore starched shirts and three-piece suits.” He wagged his head regretfully. “Unfortunately, that’s not my style. I’m more comfortable in jeans and boots.”

“Ned was that way,” Gayla replied thoughtfully. “Always thumbing his nose at convention.”

Brett frowned at the comparison.

“He caught a lot of flak from the people of the town when he brought me here. There was quite a bit of gossip.”

And no wonder! Brett agreed silently. An old man taking in a young girl more than half his age? Yeah, there was plenty of room for gossip in that arrangement.

His grandfather’s relationship with Gayla was really no concern of his—or so Brett tried to tell himself. But for some reason, he couldn’t seem to shake the need to know if she was really in fact the old man’s mistress. “Did it bother you?” he asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.

“Some.” She smiled sadly, remembering. “But I was accustomed to being the topic of town gossip. Ned, he didn’t give a darn what they thought. Once a group of concerned citizens came here and lectured him on appearances and his moral responsibilities as a leader in the community. He told them they could all go to hell.”

Good for him, Brett applauded silently, then quickly squelched the traitorous thought. He wouldn’t think kind thoughts of the man who had made his own mother’s life a living hell.

“So you weren’t his mistress?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

Slowly she turned her gaze on him. That he’d insulted her was obvious in the lift of her chin, the ice that chilled her reply. “No, but it certainly didn’t stop the talk.”

Brett felt a stab of regret for the callous question, but knew it was too late to take it back. Hoping to change the subject to a less invasive one, he asked, “How did you end up as innkeeper at Parker House?”

Gayla’s chest rose and fell in a deep, shuddering breath. She turned her gaze back to the fire. “It’s a long story.”

Brett lifted his hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She stared at the fire in silence for so long, Brett decided that she wasn’t going to answer his question. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “My family moved around a lot when I was growing up. There were so many of us, and Mother, well, she had a knack for picking the most worthless men for husbands. Each time she married, she promised us that this man would take care of us, that we’d have a home and food and clothes. But they usually ended up taking more than they gave. Wherever we lived, Mother would usually get a job as a waitress or a cook, but with so many of us, what she made was never enough. So we pretty much depended on the kindness and generosity of the townspeople where we lived for our needs. At least we did until we’d worn out our welcome and they ran us out of town.”