Brannigan's Baby

The wide shoulders—snap!

The narrow hips—snap!

The long, powerful legs—snap!

At seventeen, Luke had been tall; now he was well over six feet, but the cockiness that had been his trademark as a teenager had been replaced by something more dangerous—

‘Lucas!’ The lawyer’s voice wobbled. ‘Oh, dear. I tried to contact you—I wanted to let you know—’

‘Let me know what?’

Something infinitely more dangerous. Whitney winced as she saw the steely menace in his eyes. Maturity had brought hard arrogance to the man and an aura of intensity that crackled. He’d have turned heads anywhere. Not that he was any advertisement for GQ—he most definitely was not! His jaw was stubbled, his shirt sweatstained, his blue jeans ragged, and worn almost white at the knees. But still—

A flash of movement over one of his shoulders caught her attention. Her gaze sliced up...and her mind reeled.

A baby?

He’d brought home a baby?

Oh, yes—she fought to retain her grip on reality—Luke Brannigan had indeed brought home a baby.

She could see a small fisted hand waving ferociously over Luke’s shoulder—the infant must be in some kind of a backpack; she could also now see a blue hat, rakishly askew, and beneath its floppy brim part of a small face.

‘I said—’ Luke’s tone was grim ‘—let me know what?’

He still hadn’t noticed her; hadn’t for a second removed his searing gaze from the lawyer. She swiveled around to stare at Edmund Maxwell, waiting for his reply...

Only to be met with a look of mute appeal... and a pointed nod in her direction. Dismayed, she pressed a fist to her breast. Me? she mouthed back.

He nodded.

Whitney swallowed. She wanted to shrink back in her seat; wanted never to have Luke Brannigan’s eyes find her...

But there was no way out; she was, after all, in charge here—at least until after the reading of the will, when the new owner of the estate was named. Which would, of course, be Luke. He was a Brannigan and—as far as Cressida had been aware—the last of the line; so, despite their estrangement, she’d never have left the estate to anyone but him.

Whitney wriggled her feet back into her pumps, dragged her palms down her black linen skirt and stood up.

She turned to face her old enemy. His eyes had never looked bluer; against his tan, they dazzled like sapphires. Sapphires that had been dipped in ice water.

He blinked. Looked at her blankly. And blinked again.

Whitney knew the exact second he recognized her...and knew, by the sneer that swiftly curled his upper lip, that nothing had changed.

Between them, nothing had changed.

She took in a deep breath.

‘Your grandmother,’ she said, ‘died three days ago. The funeral was earlier this afternoon. And now Mr. Maxwell is going to read Cressida’s will, so if you’ll find yourself a seat, we can continue—’

‘Dead?’ Luke’s face had paled. ‘You mean, I’m too late to—’

‘Yes, yes.’ The papers in Edmund Maxwell’s hands shook. ‘Yes, too late, I’m afraid. And now...the will. If we are all ready, shall we get on with it?’

Luke seemed too stunned to answer.

Whitney nodded and sat down. She twined her fingers together in her lap, and desperately tried to ignore the man behind her, and focus her attention on Edmund Maxwell.

The lawyer began by reading out details of bequests to Cook and Myrna, both in their early seventies. Then he read out a list of smaller bequests—to several old friends; to her church; to the Emerald Valley Elementary School.

‘And to Whitney McKenzie—’

Whitney swallowed to relieve the aching lump that had risen in her throat. Whatever bequest she received would never make up for the loss of this woman she’d loved so dearly. She blinked back threatening tears...

‘—to my beloved Whitney, I leave Brannigan House, the Emerald Valley Vineyards and the remainder of my estate.’

Her mind went blank...other than one single question that rocketed about, back and forth, in her brain, making her dizzier and dizzier by the moment: Why not Luke?

The lawyer continued to talk, but she assimilated nothing. Her mind was in overload, unable to cope with the enormity of what had just happened—

‘Miss McKenzie?’

She came to with a jump, and realized Edmund Maxwell must have finished. He was standing leaning over her.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘if you would see me to the door, I should like to talk with you...privately... before I leave.’

Somehow Whitney managed to rouse herself, even managed a weak smile as the staff murmured words of congratulation. Distantly she was aware Luke was no longer in the room. Had he taken off, as soon as he’d discovered there was nothing for him here? Oh, God, she prayed, let it be so.

She said her final goodbyes to Cook and Myrna, who had a taxi waiting and were about to leave Brannigan House for good. Once they had departed, Whitney escorted the lawyer through the front hall and out to the heavy oak door.

He stood on the stoop, his frail body bowed, his coat collar turned up against the brisk spring breeze.

‘It’s a burden,’ he said, ‘and of course Cressida herself was to blame. She’s kept the house up these past years, but as for the vineyards... well, she didn’t move with the times. There was little money coming in latterly, and I’m afraid she used up all her capital. Her death, to be blunt, was timely. After honoring the bequests she specified, there won’t be one red cent left in her account.’

‘I had no idea.’ Whitney shivered as the wind cut through her black silk blouse. ‘She was always so lackadaisical about money...I assumed she had plenty of it!’

‘At one time she did.’ He tucked his briefcase under his arm while he pulled on a pair of worn black leather gloves. ‘You must think over your options very carefully, my dear. Best to sell, but Lucas’s turning up right now ... well, that is a complication. You’ll have to talk things over with him. And let me know what you decide.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘of course.’

But even as she spoke, relief trembled through her. Edmund Maxwell had obviously not noticed that his own car was the only vehicle left in the forecourt. He’d been wrong in thinking Luke’s arrival presented a complication.

The man—thank the Lord!—had already gone.

The funeral reception had been held in the drawing room.

Whitney had replenished the fire there earlier, before going with the lawyer and the servants to the library. Now, lost in her troubled thoughts, she made her way back there. She closed the door behind her, and with a sigh, crossed to the hearth, seeking warmth and comfort from the flames.

With her arms clasped around her waist, she stared down unhappily into the leaping orange and yellow tongues.