Coming Home To You

“Bad investments? Gambling? Drugs?”

“Maybe, but his criminal record is pretty clean. A few misdemeanor convictions for brawling but nothing major. He’s supposed to have put money into this orphanage, but I don’t think that would account for all of it. And this sudden streak of generosity bothers me, anyway. From what I’ve pieced together about him, he doesn’t strike me as the type to give money away once he gets his hands on it. Lose it doing something stupid, maybe, but not give it away. Oh, that reminds me. Find out what you can about the cost of breeding quarter horses. And check with the Secretary of State’s office for public records on his business. Let’s try to estimate how much he’s invested in it and what he’s worth.”

“Why the interest in his financial situation? What difference does it make how well-off the brother is?”

“Probably none, but I sure would like to know what I’m dealing with here. If he squandered the fortune his brother left him, it would be some story for the book, don’t you think?”

“Is that what you believe happened?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to make any assumptions before I get the facts, but my gut tells me something isn’t right about this guy. Most of his life he walked in the shadow of an older brother who had everything—looks, money, talent, fame, some say even the woman he loved—but when he inherits money and gets his chance to live the good life he’s always wanted, what does he do? He buys a horse farm in an out-of-the-way place and spends part of the money building an orphanage. No way does that add up.”

“I see your point. I’ll get right on it. But hey, you watch yourself. He won’t like it when he finds out we’re digging around in his finances and his business records. You be careful.”

“I will.”

When Kate hung up, she went back to her computer. Tomorrow she’d spend the day asking questions, but tonight she needed to look through what she had on Bret and refresh her memory. She’d downloaded the files with his name on them into her laptop before she left, the information gleaned from interviews with childhood friends of the brothers and their high-school classmates.

She skimmed it. The stuff was pretty routine, although she’d found it useful while writing the early chapters about James’s life. Bret was five years younger than James. He’d spent less than a year at the University of Tennessee, then gone through one dead-end job after another. More than once his brother had bailed him out of trouble and supported him financially.

She got her pad and made a note to ask Marcus to call some of Hayes’s former employers. Why was he living in Alabama? Why not live in Tennessee where he could be close to his mother and sister? Because of creditors? To get away from the media? The man carried his desire for privacy to extremes, that was for sure. All those signs… That horrible little dog…

Whatever the reason, she was too tired to chase after it tonight. Tomorrow was soon enough. When she had more information from Marcus, she could start to piece things together.

She closed the file and went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. For a long time she lay staring into the dark. She tried to close down her mind, as well, but it ran too fast, presenting her with too many questions and not enough answers.

Hayes would be attractive to the ladies, no question there. That handsome face and dark hair probably sent female hearts fluttering with little effort; that big muscular body no doubt made hormones race out of control.

Restless, she rolled over and punched up her pillow.

He had the same chin as James, slightly dimpled in the center as though someone had stuck a finger there and left a soft impression. And like James, Bret had also inherited his mother’s deep-blue eyes.

But that was where the similarity between the brothers ended. James had been tall, handsome, but thin as straw. Bret was tall and most definitely handsome, but his muscular arms and chest strained against the fabric of his shirt. When he’d dragged her down onto his horse today, his body had felt rock-hard.

An image of his quaint house and vegetable garden off to the side popped into her mind. The garden had a scarecrow dressed in sun-whitened overalls and a plastic Halloween pumpkin for a head. Flowers filled the yard. A nice little farm, but nothing elaborate. His truck was old, and his house was in need of painting and repair. The dirt driveway had potholes.

She’d expected a different lifestyle. Where were the expensive cars? The big house? He’d inherited thirty-six million dollars when his brother died. What had he done with all that money?

HE COULD SHOE a horse, dig fifty fence-post holes by hand in a single afternoon and grow a pretty fair tomato, but he was the worst cook east of the Mississippi. He knew it. Sallie knew it. Even she wouldn’t eat anything he fixed.

So once a week, when his stomach rebelled at the thought of eating another bite of his own cooking, Bret drove to town and ordered breakfast. His mouth started watering when he pulled out of the driveway, and by the time he parked the truck in front of the Old Hickory, he’d worked up a powerful hunger.

Man, oh, man, real coffee, instead of that instant stuff! And gravy that tasted like gravy, instead of lighter fluid! He could already taste it.

He sat down in his favorite booth in the back corner, the one people rarely used because one of the seats was ripped and had been mended with silver tape. He liked the corner because it was far from the jukebox and out of the stream of traffic from the kitchen. He could eat in peace. He didn’t have to nod or say, “Hey, how ya doin’?” to people who passed by his table.

He even liked the smell of this place in the morning, with bacon browning on the grill and coffee perking in aluminum coffeepots, instead of those drip machines.

He ordered his usual, opened his newspaper to the sports section and folded it so he could read and eat at the same time. When his order came and he bit into those perfectly prepared eggs, a bulldozer couldn’t have moved him out of that seat.

He hadn’t counted on a 110-pound bulldozer with a smart mouth.

She sneaked in while he was reading about the Braves, and he didn’t notice her until some guy let out a long low whistle. He looked up to see her threading her way through the tables toward him. She moved with the confidence of a woman who knows she’s beautiful and doesn’t try to pretend otherwise.

The moss-green dress was the same color as her eyes. The skirt stopped at midthigh and swished enticingly around her slender legs when she walked.

She slid into his booth with a cheery “Good morning,” as if they were old friends meeting for a pleasant breakfast. He could feel the envy of every man in the place.

He threw down his fork and it clattered on the plate. He gave her a look that said she was about as welcome as tight boots on a blood blister, but she just grinned at him and stole a piece of his bacon with her fingers.

“What are you doing?” he asked, annoyed at having the best hour of his week ruined by Kathryn Morgan.

“Eating breakfast.” She turned around and signaled to the waitress.

“Not with me.” When she reached over to get more bacon, he covered it with his hand. “And stop eating my bacon.”

She laughed at him then. Laughed at him! As if she found him amusing!

“Okay, stingy, I’ll get some of my own.” She turned to the waitress who had appeared with a menu and coffee. “Hi, Marleen. I’ll have the same thing he’s having, and bring us an extra order of bacon.”

“No,” Bret said.

“No, you don’t want extra bacon?”

“No, I don’t want to have breakfast with you.”

“Oh, don’t be such a grump. Eating with me won’t kill you.”

“Ms. Morgan, why are you bothering me again? I told you I wasn’t going to talk to you. Now leave, or I will.”

“If you want to leave, go ahead, but I’m planning to enjoy my breakfast. I’m absolutely starved.”

She poured cream in her coffee and casually stirred it with her spoon. She had the look of someone who was settling in.

Marleen waited for him to make up his mind. She glared at him, which made him feel like a first-class jerk.

“Bring her the stupid food,” he said with a growl, snatching up his folded newspaper. “And go ahead and start cooking my extra order.”

He’d ignore the pushy ratchet-jawed woman. That was what he’d do. Just pretend she wasn’t there, finish his breakfast and do his errands in town. Maybe she’d get the message and leave if he acted like she didn’t exist.

But that wasn’t easy to do. She had started watching him—no, studying him. She’d propped her elbows on the table and her chin rested on top of her clasped hands. He could almost feel her gaze touch his hair, his chin, his chest, and he didn’t like what it was doing to him.

That he found her physically attractive only increased his irritation with her. That he wondered if she found him attractive made him angry at himself.

He was glad he’d just shaved, had on a pair of his newer jeans and one of his good shirts. And yet he hated being glad. He hated that he could see, even without looking at her, the soft curve of her lips and how her eyes sparkled when she was amused—like now.

The harder he tried not to look at her, the harder it became. When he took a sip of coffee, he stole a glance over the top of the newspaper, and she smiled at him.

“You clean up real nice,” she said as if she’d read his thoughts. “But you need to learn not to grind your teeth when you’re irritated. You’ll give yourself a headache.”