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“Brig’s only trying to help.”

“The hell he is,” Dean cursed with an impudent snarl. “I’ll tell you what he’s done, Becca: He’s managed to turn this entire operation around until we don’t know whether we’re coming or going—”

“What are you talking about?” Dean wasn’t making any sense whatsoever.

“Just look at yourself, Becca! You’re dancing around with a satisfied gleam in your eye, wearing aprons and smiles like some stereotyped housewife in those fifties movies!” He stared at her fresh apron and her recently curled hair in disgust. “You’re a Thoroughbred-horse breeder, Becca, not some silly woman who can’t think twice without asking for a man’s advice!”

An embarrassed flush crept up Becca’s neck and her eyes sparked dangerously. “I haven’t neglected my responsibilities, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I’ve been working with Gypsy Wind every day.”

“When you’re not mooning over Brig.”

“Brig is helping me, Dean, and I’m not going to apologize for that! Neither am I going to deny that I care for Brig.”

“And you’ve changed, sis. You let Brig Chambers get under your skin again. I never thought you’d be so stupid!”

“You’re acting like a threatened child. What is it about Brig that intimidates you?”

Dean rose to the challenge and his icy blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I’m not threatened, Becca, I’m just worried—about you. I don’t want to see you hurt again, that’s all. I was with you the last time. Remember? I know what Brig Chambers can do to you if he wants to,” Dean warned with a well-practiced frown.

“The past is gone . . .”

“Until you start resurrecting it by breeding a horse like Sentimental Lady and then add insult to injury by getting involved with Brig Chambers all over again. You’re not asking for trouble, Becca, you’re begging for it!”

Becca’s small fists clenched. “I think you’re wrong.”

“Time will tell . . .”

Brig entered the room noiselessly and the conversation dissolved. If he had heard the tail end of the argument, he gave no indication of it, nor did he comment on the deadly look in Becca’s green eyes and the telltale blush on her cheeks. He strode across the room to lean against a counter near Rebecca. After casting her a lazy, I’m-on-your-side wink, he crossed his arms over his chest and smiled tightly at Dean. Brig seemed relaxed and comfortable, except for the glitter of expectation in his stormy gray eyes.

Dean took a chair and shifted his weight uneasily under the power of Brig’s silent stare. Becca could feel the tension electrifying the air of the small country kitchen. Ian O’Riley sauntered into the room and seemed to notice the undercurrents of strained energy. The wooden match between his teeth moved quickly back and forth in his mouth.

“Brig asked me to stay for dinner,” Ian remarked to Rebecca. “Said he wanted to talk about the horse . . . but if it’s too much bother . . .”

“Nonsense. We’d love to have you,” Becca replied quickly, destroying the old man’s attempt at escape. Becca thought the conversation would be less strained with Ian involved.

Ian cast Becca a rueful glance before motioning toward the hallway. “I’ll just give the missus a jingle. You know, check it out with the boss.” His light attempt at humor did nothing to relieve the tension in the room. He shrugged his bowed shoulders and exited as quickly as he had entered, glad for his excuse to find the telephone in the hall.

“Haven’t seen much of you around,” Brig observed, looking pointedly at Dean.

“Been busy, I guess,” Dean retorted as he half-stood and swung the chair around in order to straddle it backward. He rested his forearms on the chair back, and Becca wondered if her brother felt shielded with the tiny spokes of polished maple between himself and Brig.

Brig nodded as if he understood. “There is a lot of work around this place,” he agreed complacently. Too complacently. Becca could sense the fight brewing in the air.

“I can handle it.”

The affable smile on Brig’s face faded. “Ian mentioned that it was your decision not to tell Rebecca that I had called her several times after Sentimental Lady’s death.”

Defensively, Dean managed a strained smile. “Is that what he said?”

Becca’s breath caught in her throat.

“Uh-huh. And I suppose that woman . . . what was her name?” Brig squinted as if he were trying to remember something elusive.

“Martha?” Becca whispered.

“Right. Martha—she would confirm Ian’s story, no doubt.”

Dean seemed to pale slightly under his deep California tan. Becca’s fingernails dug into her palms.What was Brig doing?It was as if he and Dean were playing some slow-motion game that they alone could understand. With a dismissive shrug of his broad shoulders, Dean answered. “I suppose she might.”