Engaging Brooke

Jameson leaned back in his chair. “It’s not like you to ask me to repeat myself.”

“You two were inseparable in school. When she left you...” He sighed and cleared his throat, as if the topic embarrassed him. “We all know how devastated you were because you loved her so much.”

“Don’t talk to me about love,” Jameson said in a tight voice. “I know all about love and what it can do. My feelings for Meredith are strong and deep. She and I are getting married and I don’t have to defend myself against you.”

“Brooke,” Steven corrected in a soft tone.

“What?”

“You just said you were marrying Meredith.”

Jameson felt heat rush to his face, but he kept his gaze steady. He couldn’t back down now. “I meant Brooke.”

“Really? You think making a mistake like that is something trivial?”

Jameson sighed, annoyed by his slip. “No.”

“I hope you’re marrying Brooke for the right reasons.”

“I am.”

“Don’t throw away a lot of money on a gamble you plan to lose.”

“You know I don’t like to lose, so why would I start now?”

But Jameson already knew he had won. Yes, he was helping her, but she was also helping him. But was marrying Brooke a way to avenge himself? Was he ready to be Meredith’s brother-in-law? He’d be rebuilding a bond that had been broken, but it was a strategic tactic he believed his family would eventually understand and respect. However, his father was right—he didn’t love her. But Brooke didn’t love him either. His father was mistaken. It was gratitude he’d sensed, not love. But there was no need to tell him the truth.

Unfortunately, Jameson knew his father knew him too well, and his mother, too. He had to act more like the loving fiancé and later, husband, if he wanted to keep the questions at bay. He was pleased that his actions had alleviated some of the earlier worry they had about the selling of Granger land. He didn’t want them concerned about what Samara was up to. Maybe they should have just eloped, but no, that wasn’t his style. He had to let people know that the Browards were on the defensive. They hadn’t built a fortune by laying low. He wouldn’t be like his brother and disappear when it was time to fight.

* * *

That evening, Jameson went to the Shank of the Evening saloon in downtown Granger to clear his head. He could take the curiosity of the town more than his family’s suspicions. Even his house manager, Cecelia, had had something to say about his upcoming wedding.

“The town is just buzzing about your wedding,” she said one evening as she cleared up Jameson’s dinner dishes. Her spiky red hair matched her ruddy cheeks and hinted at her Irish heritage. “It will be nice to have a woman around the house.”

Jameson picked up a magazine. “I thought you were enough.”

“You know what I mean.”

Her green eyes twinkled. “You are a sly one, seeing a woman on the side without anyone knowing.”

“Hmm...”

“But I’m surprised some woman hadn’t set her sights on you and reeled you in earlier.”

Jameson flipped through the magazine, used to Cecelia’s chatter. “Yes.”

“However, it does seem rather sudden. Is she?”

Jameson stopped and looked at her. “Is she what?”

“Expecting.”

“Expecting what?”

Her face reddened. “Don’t be stupid. You know what I’m talking about.”

Jameson cupped his chin and studied her. “Do I really look like the kind of man who’d get himself into that kind of trouble?”

“No, but—”

Jameson grinned and lifted his paper. He didn’t mind her questions. Cecelia was one of the few people he felt he could trust. She knew his ways and habits and gave him space when he wanted it. “There’s your answer.”

“I’m glad. But I hope you don’t wait too long to fill this big house with children.”

Jameson stopped listening to her after that. There would be no children, not for a long time.

At the bar Jameson sighed at the memory of Cecelia’s hopeful chatter, ordered a drink then took it outside to watch the traffic—what little there was of it—go by. He sat down, balanced his chair back on two legs and pushed his hat down low, ready to relax. Within seconds he saw a shapely pair of legs stop in front of him.

Jameson heard the distinct sound of a camera lens coming into focus. “I don’t want to make you regret taking that picture,” he said.

He heard a gasp of surprise and hid a grin.

“Not even just one?” a feminine voice said.

Jameson pushed his hat back and looked up. The voice belonged to a citified version of a Southern belle, from the French twist in her hair to her expensive leather heels. “No.”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen a real live cowboy before.”

“How do you know I am one?”

“You look the part.”

He sighed. Most people were as shallow as a dried-up creek. “Looks can be deceiving.”

The attractive lady lifted her camera and flashed a flirty grin. “Come on, just one little picture as a souvenir.”

“I’m being polite now, but I can be mean. I can guarantee you don’t want to see that side of me.”

Something in his tone wiped the smile from her face. The woman tucked her camera away in the large designer bag slung over her shoulder and hurried to her car.

Jameson raised his glass, as if offering a silent toast of victory, then took a drink, wishing he could get rid of all the outsiders as easily.

“Don’t you think you’re laying the surly cowboy act on a bit too thick?” Brooke said behind him.

Jameson stiffened, annoyed that the sound of her voice sent a fissure of awareness through him, then he quickly recovered himself. “It’s not an act. It’s how I am.”

Brooke sat down in front of him. “You weren’t always like that.”