Читать книгу A Willful Marriage - Peggy Moreland, Peggy Moreland - Страница 8

It was a miserable day for a funeral.

Gray skies heavy with the threat of rain loomed overhead while a bitterly cold wind blew from the north, rattling the stripped tree branches like the bones of a dancing skeleton.

Considering the man being buried, though, Brett Sinclair figured the weather was more than appropriate. Coldhearted, stingy, unforgiving. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that the old man deserved just such a day.

He sat behind the wheel of his truck at the end of the line of cars forming the funeral procession, working up a strong defense in favor of staying inside the vehicle instead of joining the mourners graveside. No one knew him, he told himself, so his presence certainly wouldn’t be missed.

While he sat debating, the wind caught a corner of the funeral home’s canvas canopy, inflating its gently sloping roof and dumping sheets of icy rain onto the mourners who stood under its edge. A shiver chased down his spine. That was an even better reason to remain inside—it was colder than a well-digger’s butt out there. Besides, he told himself, he’d had his share of funerals. First his father’s, then his mother’s, and now this.

With a muffled growl, he shouldered open the door. He hadn’t traveled this far to sit in the warmth of his truck. He’d come to witness the old man’s burial. The wind caught his duster and billowed it open, sending icy needles of cold to stab at his chest. He quickly did up two buttons, scrunched his shoulders to his ears and headed for the tight cluster of black umbrellas near the fringe of the funeral home’s canopy. He stopped at the rear of the cemetery plot, close enough to hear, but far enough away to avoid being a part of the ceremony. He listened dispassionately as the minister spoke kindly of the man being laid to rest. The fact that every word coming out of the preacher’s mouth was a bald-faced lie didn’t really bother Brett. After all, how much truth was found in any eulogy?

He soon grew bored with the proceedings and let his gaze wander beneath the canopy. Sprays of gladiolus and carnations propped on easels formed a semicircle around the raised casket, their spring colors a strong contrast to the bleak landscape surrounding it. The casket itself bore a blanket of yellow roses. Inside, he knew, lay his grandfather. Brett waited a moment, testing himself to see if he felt anything. A glimmer of recognition. A stab of grief. A sliver of regret. But nothing came. Not one blessed thing.

With a philosophical shrug, he let his gaze move on. A couple of rows of folding chairs beneath the canopy seated those who had arrived early enough not to have to stand out in the cold. None of the chairs’ occupants appeared to be less than seventy years of age.

Except one.

His gaze settled on the woman in the front row—the area usually reserved for family. Although people stood on the perimeter of the tent huddled under dripping umbrellas and shaking from the cold, the seats on either side of her remained empty. She was a striking woman; young, dressed all in black. Her hair was the color of spun gold, a halo of sunshine riding a sea of black.

Even from his distance, he could see that her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but she kept her shoulders straight, her chin high and her eyes on the minister who was now reading from the Bible. Occasionally, her gaze would slip to the casket and her eyes would fill. Quickly she would look away, back to the minister, in an obvious attempt to keep the grief at bay.

Something about the woman pulled at Brett, and he found he couldn’t look away. Although others might be swayed by the fact that she was crying, he knew that wasn’t what held him. He’d had years to become immune to the debilitating power of a woman’s tears.

What was it about her that was so intriguing? he wondered. Maybe it was the way she held herself, he decided, her chin lifted just a fraction higher than, good posture required. As he studied her, he couldn’t help wondering whether it was pride or defiance that kept her chin at that angle.

Being isolated as she was from the other mourners only added to the mystique that surrounded her. Brett knew if he were sitting in a bar or roaming a cocktail party instead of standing on the edge of a cemetery plot, he would already have made his move.

Who was she? he wondered. As far as he knew, Ned Parker had no relatives to grieve over his passing—other than himself, of course, but Brett didn’t consider himself a relative. It took more than blood to make a family, and blood was all they had between them. By his estimation, the old man would have been about eighty-three, and this woman couldn’t be much more than twenty-five, so it would be ridiculous to think she’d been a friend…Or maybe she had been a friend of sorts, he thought, as a new possibility surfaced. Like a mistress, maybe. From what his mother had told him, it would be like the old goat to keep a young woman around to entertain him.

And now, here the woman sat in front of the whole town, grieving for a man old enough to be her grandfather. His suspicions rose a notch higher. Maybe she was crying because with his death, her life of leisure and luxury was at an end. He knew the old man was worth a bundle. His mother had told him that. But she’d also told him how stingy he was. He wondered if that stinginess extended to his mistresses. If so, then maybe she was putting on a show to win the town’s sympathy in hopes that if the true heirs didn’t show up, she could get her hands on his money.

He turned away in disgust. As far as he was concerned, she could have it all.

At the last amen, signaling the end of the service, Gayla lifted her head and stood on rubbery legs numbed by the cold. She took the hand the minister offered and squeezed her gratitude. “Thank you, Reverend Brown. I know Ned would have been pleased with your remarks.”

The reverend patted their joined hands. “I doubt it,” he whispered for her ears only. “But one can always hope.” The comment was so full of the truth, Gayla couldn’t help but smile, for Ned Parker probably wouldn’t have been pleased to hear kind words spoken over his grave. If he’d had his way, he would have been buried in a pine box with no one but the gravediggers on hand for the ceremony. But Gayla had been equally determined that he would receive a proper and Christian burial, and the Reverend Mark Brown had honored her request.

With a last squeeze of her hand, the reverend stepped aside to let the rest of the mourners pass by the casket for one final view. A few offered their hands to Gayla, but most ignored her presence. Their coolness didn’t offend her; she’d had years to grow accustomed to the town’s constant censure.

The sight of the last man in line, though, drew a quivering smile. John Thomas, Ned’s attorney. John had served as Ned’s attorney for more than twelve years, ever since the death of John’s own father who had originally carried the responsibility.

When John reached her, he not only took her hand, but drew her against his chest for a tight hug. The tears that Gayla had fought throughout the service broke through.

She stepped away, dabbing at her eyes and cheeks. She dragged in a shuddery breath, keeping her arm at John’s waist while angling her body so that they both faced the casket. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Neither can I.” Gayla tightened her hold on him, sharing his sorrow and offering silent support. “The old codger put up a good fight, didn’t he?” he said gruffly.

Fresh tears welled and Gayla could only nod her agreement.

John’s chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. “Heaven will never be the same,” he said with a shake of his head. “He’s probably already got a poker game going and is stripping the angels of their golden harps while he calmly smokes one of those damn stinking cigars of his.”

Gayla couldn’t help but laugh, for John was probably right. She looked up at him, grateful to him for giving her a reason to smile when her world seemed to be crashing down around her. “Thanks, John. You’ve been a good friend, to Ned and to me.”

“And I’m still here for you. Don’t forget that,” he warned, shaking a finger beneath her nose.

“I won’t.”

The gravediggers appeared, anxious to finish their work and get out of the cold. Unable to watch this final scene, Gayla turned away. John seemed to understand her need to escape. He took her elbow and they walked in silence to the waiting car. “Have you heard from Ned’s daughter?” she asked, trying her best to keep her tone light and free of the fears that nagged at her.

John frowned. “No, though I’d hoped she’d at least have the decency to come to the funeral.”

“Ned always said she wouldn’t come, even for that. I guess he was right.” At the car door, she paused, not wanting to ask, but needing an answer to the question that still plagued her. “When will I need to move?”

John opened the door for her, a frown furrowing his forehead. “Don’t you worry about that now. Until Ned’s daughter shows up to claim her inheritance, there’s no need to make any changes. When you feel up to it, open Parker House for guests again. We’ll take care of the rest as the need arises. But for now,” he said, urging her into the car, “why don’t you go home and get out of the cold? You’ll feel better once you’ve had some rest.”

Brett had gone to the cemetery on a whim. Why, he wasn’t sure. The old man meant nothing to him. Yet, for some reason the service had left him restless and out of sorts. Eventually hunger drew him to a restaurant where he stopped to grab a bite to eat before finding a place to stay the night.

On the way inside, he plucked a local newspaper from a rack for company during his meal. Once the waitress had seated him and he’d placed his order, he settled back to thumb through the pages. Most of the front-page news was local stuff. On the second page, though, a headline caught his eye. Services Scheduled For Longtime Braesburg Resident. The obituary carried a picture, although anyone’s photograph could have been placed there and Brett wouldn’t have known the difference. He’d never seen his grandfather in person and if his mother had owned a picture of the man, she’d never shown it to Brett.

He read the article more out of boredom than anything else. Member of the Chamber of Commerce, Kiwanis Club. It appears the old man was at least civically, if not family oriented, he thought with no little malice. Preceded in death by his wife, Marjorie Holmes Parker. No mention of any survivors, but then Brett hadn’t expected the old man to mention his daughter. Why would he claim her after his death when he’d refused to acknowledge her while he was alive?

No. 1 Oak Knoll. The address listed as his residence sounded snobbish. Probably was. The one thing his mother had told him about Ned Parker was how proud he was of that property.

And now Brett owned it and everything else the old man had left behind.

As he stared at the paper, seeing nothing but the headaches associated with the unwanted inheritance, the solution to all his problems slowly came to him. Wouldn’t it be the perfect irony if he gave it all away to some charity? The property that the man had valued more than his daughter’s love? That would surely make the old man turn over in his grave! The thought brought the first smile that had creased his face since receiving the news of his grandfather’s death.

His dinner arrived and along with it, his appetite. He mentally laid out a plan of action while he ate. He would go to the attorney’s office first thing the next morning and get all the legal technicalities taken care of. He would simply give it all to—

He dropped his fork to his plate in disgust, as the need to make yet another decision arose. Which charity should he leave it to? he wondered in growing consternation. There were plenty out there to choose from. He glanced at the newspaper beside his plate and noticed that the city council was meeting that night.

The city, he thought with a satisfied smile. He would give it all to the city. They would probably turn it into a day-care center or a parking lot or maybe even tear it down. That would really get the old man’s goat. The house and whatever property the old man had left meant nothing to Brett. He just wanted to be done with this unwanted responsibility and head back home.

He left the restaurant satisfied with his plan and sure that once he checked into a motel, he would sleep like a babysomething he hadn’t been able to do since he’d received the. news of his grandfather’s death.

He was driving down Main Street looking for a place to spend the night, when he saw the street sign indicating Oak Knoll. Curious, he made the turn.

He assumed the street had received its name from the oaks that lined it. They arched across the wide avenue to form a natural canopy overhead. The houses sat way back on lots of an acre or more, and through the bare tree branches he could see that lights shone from a few of the residences. He glanced at the clock on the dash and was surprised to see that it was almost six o’clock. He hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. He would see the house, he told himself, then he was going to find a place to spend the night.

He followed the street to where it ended in a wide cul-desac. At the curb a stone pillar held a mailbox and below it swung a sign. No. 1 Oak Knoll, Parker House Bed-and-Breakfast.

He puckered his forehead in confusion. A bed-and-breakfast? Surely, he’d made a mistake. The newspaper lay on the seat beside him and he flipped it open to verify the address mentioned in the obituary.

A bed-and-breakfast? He couldn’t believe the old man would share his house with strangers when he wasn’t even willing to share it with his daughter.

He didn’t think twice about turning into the drive. It was a business, after all, so who could complain? Floodlights situated around the perimeter of the house made seeing the two-story native stone structure easy through the light fog and drizzling rain.

All of the mental pictures that he’d had of his mother’s former home slowly went up in smoke. He’d expected something dark and menacing, straight out of a gothic novel—nothing at all like this. Even through the rain and gloom that hung over it, the house still managed to look homey, even cheerful.

Wicker furniture was scattered about the wide front porch and the balcony above it. Dark green shutters flanked the windows that stretched from the floor of the porch to its ceiling. Through them, he could just make out the glow of a light coming from the rear of the house.

He’d meant to drive up to the house, take a quick look, then head out. If asked later, he couldn’t have said what made him climb out of his truck and approach the house. He rang the doorbell and waited, hunching his shoulders against the cold, wondering if anyone would respond to the bell and what he would say if they did.

Light from fixtures on either side of the door popped on and the door swung open. A woman stepped into the wedge of light. Although her face was washed free of makeup and her hair pulled up in a disheveled knot, he immediately recognized her as the young woman he’d seen at the cemetery.

The sight of her drew the same knee-jerk response he’d experienced earlier when he’d seen her at the funeral. Rather than the all-black garb she’d worn then, she now wore a shapeless denim dress that hung nearly to her ankles. The toes of her bare feet curled against the cold.

“May I help you?” she asked politely.

“Yes,” he replied. “I’d like a room for the night.”

She seemed startled by the request, then gestured to a white bow adorning the door. “I’m sorry, but we aren’t open for business,” she said in apology. “Mr. Parker passed away and was buried just this afternoon.”

Brett tried his darnedest to look remorseful. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. And I was looking forward to staying here.” He hunched his shoulders closer to his ears as a gust of wind swept across the wide porch. “I don’t know my way around town, so if you would be kind enough to direct me to a hotel or motel where I might get a room for the night, I’d be obliged.”

She hesitated only slightly, then opened the door wider, inviting him in. “It’s a nasty night to be out,” she said and closed the door behind him.

“Yes, ma’am, it is,” he agreed as he took this unexpected opportunity to look around. The entry was wide and welcoming, with a long upholstered bench along one side and a library table on the other. In front of him a staircase stretched upward into the darkness. He looked for some sign that his mother had once lived there—a photograph, anything—but saw nothing.

“We keep a phone here for the convenience of our guests,” she told him as she crossed to a table and pulled open a drawer. She took out a thick directory, flipped to the Yellow Pages, then gestured for him to join her. “Other than Parker House, Braesburg only has a motel, and unfortunately, it’s closed for repair. The closest place will be in Austin and that’s a good hour’s drive.” She frowned and tapped the page of the Austin directory. “But you might have a difficult time driving there tonight. I heard on the news a few minutes ago that they’re predicting an ice storm. Unusual for this part of Texas, but coming our way nonetheless.”

He tried to appear properly crestfallen. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“Not really,” she said, worrying her lower lip as she stole a glance his way. She must have noticed the weariness of his stance or the dark circles under his eyes, for she closed the book with a decided snap. “I can’t very well send you out on a night like this. You can stay here.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Your staying here wouldn’t be an imposition.” She pushed back a wisp of hair that had escaped her bun, exposing a wan smile shaped by full, moist lips. “In fact, I’d welcome the company.”

“You’re sure?” he asked hesitantly.

“Positive.” With the decision made, she replaced the directory and shut the drawer. She angled the guest book his way. “If you’ll sign in here, Mr.—” She looked up at him inquiringly.

“Sinclair,” he said without thinking. “Brett Sinclair,” he finished more slowly. He extended his hand, watching her face for some sign of recognition.

But her facial expression never changed. She simply accepted his hand, smiled softly and replied, “Gayla Matthews. It’s nice to meet you.”

After he’d entered his name, she closed the register. “If you’d like, you can park under the portico in the back and get your things while I prepare a room for you.”

“No need to go to any trouble.”

“No trouble. Use the kitchen door just off the portico. There’s a pot of coffee on the stove in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

Without further ado, she caught up the fabric of her dress and climbed the stairs. Brett stood at the foot of the staircase and watched, her every step awarding him a more revealing view of her bare legs. Long, graceful, well shaped, he could almost imagine the feel of them wrapped around him. He shook his head, dispelling the image. What in the world had come over him? This woman was his grandfather’s mistress, for God’s sake!

He continued to watch until she reached the landing and disappeared down the dark hall, and wondered at his own sanity.

A night in his grandfather’s house with his grandfather’s mistress. What in the hell had possessed him to ask for a room? He shook his head at his own stupidity and headed out the front door.

Brett poured himself a cup of coffee, nursing its warmth between his hands as he rested a hip against the countertop and stared over his shoulder out the kitchen window. Outside sleet fell, exposed in the glow of the security light above the garage. The weatherman had been right, he acknowledged ruefully. The ice storm had arrived and in a matter of hours, the roads would be closed. Thanks to Gayla’s generosity, though, he wouldn’t be caught out in it.

Gayla? Generous? He sipped his coffee, puzzling over that particular possibility. At least in this instance she was, he amended. She might not be so accommodating when she learned who he was and his plans for Parker House.

He shook his head as he thought about her. It was hard for him to believe that she was his grandfather’s mistress, but he couldn’t think of any other plausible explanation for her presence at Parker House or the extent of her grief. Although he didn’t have much to commend his grandfather for, he could certainly salute his taste in women. Gayla was slender—he had detected that much through the shapeless dress—yet blessed with enough curves to satisfy any man’s tastes.

“I see you found the coffeepot.”

Brett jumped at the sound of her voice, fearful that somehow she’d managed to read his thoughts. He forced himself to take a deep breath before he turned to fully face her. He shifted the small of his back to rest against the countertop and lifted the cup in salute. “I did. And thanks.” He tipped his head in the direction of the window behind him. “It seems the weatherman was right, for a change. It’s already sleeting.” He offered her a grateful smile. “If not for you, I’d probably be stuck on the side of some road out there, freezing.”

She waved away his thanks. “Never turn away a guest,” she said as if quoting some unwritten law. At his puzzled look, she explained, “An innkeeper’s rule for survival.” She crossed to the coffeepot and poured a cup for herself. “Have you eaten? I could prepare something for you, if you like.”

“Thanks, but I grabbed a bite at a café on Main Street before I came here.”

“Dessert, then?” she asked. “I made a pound cake this morning, just in case—” She stopped herself before confessing she’d baked the cake in hopes that Ned’s daughter would show up for the funeral. When Brett continued to look at her, waiting for her to finish the statement, she blushed and turned away.

“In case what?” he pressed.

“In case any of the mourners came by after the funeral,” she finished lamely. She set her cup aside and busied herself gathering plates and silverware.

Brett couldn’t resist asking, “Did anyone come?”

“No,” she replied, her voice carrying a tinge of disappointment. “I’m sure it was the weather that kept them away.” She turned to him and forced a cheerful smile. “But you’re here, so it won’t go to waste. If you’ll have a piece, that is?”

And how could he refuse when she looked at him that way, obviously not wanting to be alone? He nodded his agreement. “Can’t let a good pound cake go to waste, now, can we?”

He pushed away from the sink and followed her to the table. She lifted off the domed top of a crystal cake plate, cut a generous slice of cake and levered it onto a dessert plate. Her movements were graceful and sure as she moved to the refrigerator and removed two bowls. From one she poured a measure of thick strawberry sauce onto the cake and from the other, a dollop of whipped cream. In spite of the fact that he wasn’t one bit hungry, Brett’s mouth watered as she slipped the plate in front of him. She stepped back, folding her hands neatly at her waist. “Would you care for anything else?”

Brett picked up his fork and gestured to the chair opposite his. “Sit down and join me. I hate to eat alone.”

She sat—although he could tell she would rather have fussed around the kitchen—and twisted a napkin she plucked from the table between her fingers. He toyed with his fork and tried like hell to think of something to say to fill the awkward silence. He finally took a bite of the cake. “This is real tasty. Do you do the cooking around here?”

“Thank you and, yes, I’m the cook.” She laughed softly. “And the upstairs maid and the downstairs maid and the concierge and the gardener.”

He lifted his gaze, his jaw slack with surprise. “You mean you do it all? There’s no staff?”

“No one other than myself, but really there’s no need. Business is usually slow in the winter months. In the summer, if we are booked for several weeks, I’ll hire a temporary to help out with the cleaning, but for the most part, I can handle the work.

“That’s what makes a bed-and-breakfast so appealing,” she explained. “People want to feel as if they are staying in a home, not a hotel. And that’s what I try to provide. Home-cooked meals, served in a warm and homey environment.”

Her sincerity and enthusiasm for Parker House and her job surprised him. It also drew a few questions. Like, how did she find the time—or the energy, for that matter—to serve as the old man’s mistress if she had all the responsibilities of running the place? From what he could see, the place was huge. -

“How many guests can you put up at a time?”

“There are six guest rooms, plus, last year we remodeled the carriage house and turned it into a bridal suite for honeymooners. It’s more private and there is a little sitting area off the back with a hot tub. It makes a romantic setting on a summer night.”

He absorbed all this, wondering how he could establish her relationship with Ned without asking outright. “Has the house been in your family long?”

She looked surprised, then quickly shook her head. “The house doesn’t belong to me. I just work here. The house is—” She swallowed and amended, “Was Mr. Parker’s.”

“The man who was buried today?”

“Yes.” She rose, picking up her still-full coffee cup, and carried it to the sink.

“What will happen now that he’s gone?”

Her back to him, she lifted a shoulder. “That’s up to his heirs.”

“Do they live in Braesburg?” Brett asked, wanting to see how much Gayla knew about his family.

“No,” she replied as she ran water into the cup. “I’m not sure where they live. Mr. Parker never spoke much about them. His attorney is handling all that.”

She finished washing out the cup and laid it gently on the drainboard. She stared out the window for a moment, her wrists resting on the sink’s edge, her shoulders slumped as if weighted by an unusually heavy burden. Then she seemed to shake herself from whatever thoughts she’d been focused on, and plucked a dish towel from the drainboard. She slowly dried her hands as she turned. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” she asked, all signs of the melancholy gone. “I can give you a quick tour, then show you your room.”

Brett shoved back from the table, anxious to see more of the house his mother had grown up in. “Yes, ma’am, I would.” He retrieved his duffel bag from where he’d left it by the back door, then followed her through the kitchen door and out into the hall.

“The house was built in the 1830s,” she told him, as they walked to the front entry, “by Mrs. Parker’s family. They were of German descent, as were most of the town’s residents.” She stopped at the arched doorway that led into the living room and flipped on a light switch. A grand piano dominated one corner, while the rest of the space was sectioned into several cozy sitting areas, each with an antique sofa and a couple of overstuffed chairs.

“The furnishings, for the most part, are all original pieces, some brought to this country from Germany by Mrs. Parker’s family. Our guests are free to gather in here…play the piano, read, or just relax.” She switched off the light and crossed the hall to a large dining room, with Brett following close at her heels.

She flipped another switch and twin chandeliers flickered on above a long mahogany table.

“Most of our more formal meals are served in the dining room, although when the weather is nice, I like to serve breakfasts in the garden room.” She switched off the light and motioned for Brett to follow her. “The garden room is my personal favorite. It’s smaller and more intimate. When we decided to convert Parker House into a bed-and-breakfast,” she explained as she pushed back pocket doors, “I had the back porch enclosed.” She switched on the light.

Brett felt as if he’d stepped into a summer garden. Floorto-ceiling windows dominated three walls. The fourth was painted a pale yellow. Trails of hand-painted ivy framed the windows and crept onto the ceiling, giving the room its garden theme. Three round tables filled the center of the room, each draped with brightly colored floral cloths. The same fabric was swagged above each window, giving the effect of flowers coming into full bloom. An antique buffet stretched the length of the only solid wall, holding place mats, a coffee maker and a wooden basket filled with silverware and napkins.

Brett looked at Gayla and noticed the pride that showed in her eyes. “You did this, didn’t you?”

“The remodeling?” She shook her head. “No, I’m no carpenter by any stretch of the imagination. I just did the painting and sewed the drapes and the tablecloths. We hired a local man to enclose the room.”

She made her contribution sound so slight, but Brett could see that it was her touch that gave the room its ambience.

“Would you like to see the upstairs now?” she asked politely.

Brett shifted his duffel bag to his other hand. “Yes, ma’am, if you don’t mind.”

He followed Gayla back into the hall and then up the stairs.

On the landing, Gayla stopped in front of the door at the top of the stairs. “This will be your room, but I’ll save it for last.” She turned down the hall to her left. “There are three rooms in this wing of the house and four in the other, with your room separating them.”

She stopped in front of the first, chuckling, and tapped a finger on the brass plate attached to the front of the door. “It was Ned’s idea to name each room after Texas politicians. He insisted on putting all the Democrats on the left and the Republicans on the right, to keep them from fighting, he said.”

So he had a sense of humor, Brett thought, unmoved by this new knowledge. He followed Gayla into the right wing, only half listening as she expounded on Parker House’s history. At the end of the hall she stopped, her hand resting on the knob of the last door. Unlike the other rooms, no brass plate marked this door. Brett looked at her inquiringly.

Gayla dropped her hand to her side, her eyes bright with tears. “This was Mr. Parker’s room,” she said in explanation, then turned away.

She quickly moved to the door at the head of the stairs that she had told Brett would be his for the night, appearing anxious now to end the tour. “This room was named for Ned’s wife, Marjorie. Ned always referred to her as ‘the peacemaker,’ thus her placement here between the two parties. From what I’ve learned about her from Ned and others, she was a gentle woman, soft-spoken, but with a knack for handling even the most stubborn individuals. Being married to Ned, I’m sure that came in handy. He was devoted to her.”

A devoted husband? Brett thought, stifling a snort of disgust. Not according to the stories he’d been told by his mother.

Gayla opened the door and quickly crossed to switch on the lamp beside the bed. “I think you’ll be comfortable in this room. You have a private bath, there,” she told him, pointing to a door at her right. “Linens are in the closet behind the door.”

She turned to him, looking suddenly tired and anxious to escape his presence. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said as she twisted her hands at her waist. “I think I’ll go on to bed now. Help yourself to more coffee in the kitchen. There’s a television in the study. Stay up as late as you’d like. We like our guests to feel at home.”

Brett watched her until she closed the door behind her, blocking his view. At home? he thought with a snort. Not in this lifetime, and certainly not in this house.