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“And I couldn’t live with myself if I took your money. Don’t you see what I’m trying to say to you—that I love you and that what I have is yours. I don’t want your money, Rebecca. I want you.”

“Then stay with me,” she pleaded, searching his face to try and understand him. If only she could believe that he loved her with the same intensity she felt for him.

He took her hands in his. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “As soon as I can . . .”

Their last embrace was a surrender to the doubts that kept surfacing in her mind. She held him as if she were afraid he would step into the dark night and never return.

Chapter 12

It was the second day affer Brig had departed that Becca’s worries began to affect her work. The first night she had been anxious, but slowly her worry had developed into fear. Not only had she not heard from Brig in the last forty eight hours, but also Dean hadn’t returned, and she couldn’t track him down. She had known that Dean was angry when he left the farm, but she had expected him to show up before now. This wasn’t the first time he had taken off in an angry huff, but it was surprising that he hadn’t come home with his tail tucked between his legs and a sheepish grin on his face after he had cooled off. This time it was different.

Ian O’Riley had shrugged off her concern with a dismissive shake of his balding head. Ian figured that Dean probably just needed to go somewhere and let off steam. He would return again, the old man assured Becca, like a bad penny. Becca wasn’t so sure. In her anxiety, she had called Dean’s favorite haunts in the nearby town. No one had seen him since the night he had driven into town like a madman.

She was working on the books when she heard the familiar sound of Dean’s pickup rattling down the drive. A smile of relief curved her lips as the truck came to a halt near the stables. Dean was known for his theatrical entrances. She closed the general ledger and was about to head outside when she heard the clatter of his boots pounding on the stairs. He flew into the office at a dead run. Breathless from his sprint across the parking lot, wearing the same faded jeans and work shirt he had donned on Sunday, he looked tired and drawn. There was the faint smell of alcohol mingled with sour sweat on his clothes. A tender bruise blackened one of his cheeks.

Becca tried to make light of the situation, though her suspicion could not be denied. “You look like something the cat dragged in and then kicked back out again,” she teased, though her green eyes reflected her concern for her brother. “But I’m glad you’re back. I was really beginning to worry about you.”

“I’ll bet,” Dean ground out caustically. It was then she noticed the look of contempt that darkened his icy blue eyes.

“Is something wrong? What happened to you? Where have you been? I called all over town, but no one knew where you were. I even thought about calling the police . . .” she tried to touch him on the shoulder, but he shrank away like a wounded animal.

“The police?” he echoed. “That would have been great. Jesus, Becca, you don’t have to pretend any longer. I know how you feel about me.”

The sarcasm in his voice made her smile disappear completely. What had gotten into him? He acted as if she intended to hurt him. “Dean, are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, dropping his insolent attitude for a second. It was replaced immediately, as if he suddenly remembered that she was the enemy. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “And if I am in trouble, I know who to blame.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at . . .”

“Don’t give me that line, Becca. You know as well as I do that Chambers isn’t going to let up on me for a minute, is he?” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his grimy hand as if he were trying to erase a haunting memory.

“What has Brig got to do with any of this?” she asked, her voice tight, her mouth dry. Apprehension slowly began to grip her heart. Dean was in trouble—big trouble—and Brig was involved. The bloody memory of Sentimental Lady’s last frantic hours kept surfacing in her mind. Dean couldn’t meet her eyes.

“Ah, hell, Sis. I don’t have time to sit around here and swap stories with you now. I just came back for a few of my things and a couple of bucks . . .”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper filled with dread.

Dean looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time since entering the room. He ran his hand against the corner of his mouth as he studied her. He was skeptical. “You mean you don’t know?”

She shook her head, her green eyes beseeching him as she attempted to understand the brother who had once been so dear to her. He was a stranger . . . a frightened stranger carrying a heavy burden of guilt. She could read it in his eyes.Good Lord, Dean must have known all along what had happened to Sentimental Lady!The brother she had known had changed more than she had been willing to admit. Her heart froze.

“Then, I’ll tell you. Chambers is responsible for this,” Dean stated as he pointed angrily at his discolored cheek.

“Brig?” Becca mouthed the word. She was incredulous. It was then that she noticed the dried blood smeared on Dean’s plaid shirt and the slight swelling of his lower lip.

“That’s right! Your friend, Brig Chambers, champion of all that is good and right with the world,” he snarled. “Defender of the little people and the big bucks. That’s how you see him, isn’t it? As some modern-day Prince Charming?”

“I . . . I see Brig as a man, a good man . . .”

“Ha!”

“. . . and I find it difficult to believe that Brig got into a fistfight with you.”

“Of course you do. Because it’s not his style, right? How many times have I told you that you get crazy when you’re around him? Well, you’re right; Chambers didn’t beat me up. He wouldn’t dirty his hands. One of his goons got hold of me the other night and decided to teach me a lesson.”

“Why didn’t you come home?” she cried.

“Because this guy, he wouldn’t let me . . .”