Page 87

“It’s the only thing that makes any sense—”

“You mean it’s the only way you can absolve yourself of the guilt.”

Becca’s slim shoulders sagged, as if an insurmountable weight had been placed upon her. The reasoning she had hoped would prove false came easily to her lips. “You were the one who had invested all the money in Sentimental Lady’s training, and you were the one who received the lion’s share of the insurance against her,” Becca pointed out. When Brig tried to interrupt, she ignored him, allowing the truth to spill from her in an unbroken wave. “If Sentimental Lady hadn’t broken down, but gone on to win that race, you knew that she would be disqualified because of the drugs. They would have shown up in the post-race urine sample. Winsome would have come out the victor. Either way you won. Once again, the stables of Brig Chambers would have come out on top!”

“You scheming little bitch!” he muttered through tightly clenched teeth. “You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you? It may have taken you six years to come up with an alternative story, but I’ve got to give you credit, it’s a good one.”

“Because it’s true.”

It was difficult to keep his anger in check, especially under the deluge of lies Becca had rained on him, but Brig Chambers was usually a patient man and he forced himself to remain as calm as possible under the circumstances. He told himself to relax and with the exception of a tiny muscle working in the corner of his jaw, he seemed outwardly undisturbed. He watched Rebecca intently. Damn her for her serene beauty, damn her for her quick mind, and damn her for her pride, a pride that couldn’t suffer the pain of the naked truth. He hoped that he appeared indifferent when he spoke again.

“You’ve convinced yourself that this story you’ve fabricated really happened.

“It did.”

“No way. If I wanted Winsome to come out a victor, I wouldn’t have spent so much money on the Lady.”

“And if you hadn’t spent so much time with her, with me, there wouldn’t have been all of the hype. The press and the public might not have demanded a match race.”

“What good was the race to me? I had the best three-year-old colt of the year. If it was money I was after, I could have sold Winsome to a syndicate and put him out for stud, instead of gambling on another race.”

“But he wouldn’t have been nearly as valuable.”

“What if he had lost?”

“You made sure that he didn’t.” Her voice was cold and nearly convincing.

“I didn’t touch Sentimental Lady—”

“But you know who did,” she cut in quickly, sensing his defeat. “You paid them off.” Her eyes, lifted to his, were glistening with tears.

For a moment his fists doubled and he slammed one violently against a cedar post supporting the roof of the porch. Startled birds flew out of a nearby bush. He stopped, and restrained his fury before walking back to her. When his hands lifted to touch her chin, they were unsteady, and when his thumbs gently brushed one of her hot tears from her eye, she thought she would crumble against him. She wanted to tell him nothing mattered, that the pain of the past should be forgotten; but pride forbade her.

“Don’t twist the truth and let it come between us,” he pleaded, his voice as ragged as Becca’s own fragile breath. He gently took her into his arms and folded her tightly against his chest. “It’s kept us apart too long.”

Pressed against him, Becca could hear the steady beat of his heart. She could feel the comfort and strength of his arms around her, shielding her from the pain of the past. She understood his need to be one with her, but she couldn’t forget what had held them so desperately apart. Perhaps it was because she had been so young and vulnerable. Maybe she hadn’t had the maturity or courage to handle the situation surrounding Sentimental Lady’s death.

When Brig’s uncompromising silence had condemned her for allowing someone to drug her horse, she should have been more vocal in her denial. When the press had hounded her for the truth, she should have held a press conference to end the brutal conjecture about the accident. If she had, perhaps the newspapers wouldn’t have had such a field day with the coverage of the tragic incident. As it was, it had taken months for the story to die down. Even after the investigation, when Ian O’Riley had proved by a preponderance of evidence that he made every reasonable effort to protect the horses in his care from any foul deed, the reporters wouldn’t give up.

If Becca had been stronger, she might have been able to deny, more vehemently, any knowledge of the crime. As it was, with the death of the great horse and the pain of Brig’s accusations, Becca had taken refuge from the public eye. Her brother Dean had helped her piece together her life and slowly she had regained her courage and determination. The gossip had finally quieted. She and Dean had survived, but Brig’s brutal insinuations hung over her head like a dark, foreboding cloud.

The worst part of it was that Brig knew she was innocent. He had to. As Becca’s tired mind had sifted through the evidence of those last painful days before the race, it became glaringly apparent that Brig Chambers was the one who would most benefit by drugging Sentimental Lady. Only one reasonable solution could be deduced: Brig Chambers paid someone to inject the horse.

In the first few weeks after the race, Becca thought she would die from the torture of Brig’s deception and accusations. She hadn’t been interested in anything in her life when she realized that Brig, or someone who worked for him, had purposely set her up. Because she had been so devastated by Brig’s ruthlessness, and because she didn’t know how to defend herself, Becca had unwittingly taken the blame for the deed by her silence. There hadn’t been enough evidence to indict anyone in the crime, but the scandal and mystery of Sentimental Lady’s accident remained to cripple Rebecca’s career. If it hadn’t been for her brother Dean and his care for her, Becca doubted that she would have ever gathered the courage to return to horse racing and the life she loved.

As she stood in the shelter of Brig’s arms, she knew that she should hate him, but she was unable. Her bitterness toward him had softened over the years, and then, when for a few lonely, wretched hours she had thought him dead, she finally faced the painful truth that she still loved him. As she gazed upward at him, wondering at the confusion in his brow, she agonized over the fact that he had treated her so callously. How could he have abused her? After all, she had held her tongue and when the press had accused her unjustly, she hadn’t defended herself by smearing his name. Despite the silent rage and humiliation, she hadn’t lowered herself to his level nor dragged his famous name through the mud. Meticulously, she had avoided fanning the fires of gossip as well as steadfastly refusing to give the columnists the slightest inklings of her side of the argument. It was no one’s business. Her affair with Brig had been beautiful and intimate. She wasn’t about to tarnish that beauty by making their personal lives public. Her dignity wouldn’t allow it. Instead she had gone home and licked her wounds with the help of her brother. Dean was right; by all reasonable standards she should loathe Brig Chambers for what he did to her.

Why then did the feel of his arms around her give her strength? Why did the steady beat of his heart reassure her? Why did she secretly long to live in the warmth of his smile?

They stood holding each other in the autumn sunlight, as if by the physical closeness of their bodies they could bridge the black abyss of mistrust that silently held their souls apart. They didn’t speak for a few breathless moments, content with only the sound of their hearts beating so closely together and the soft whisper of the cool breeze rushing through the pines.

“I’ve never stopped loving you,” Brig whispered in a moment of condemning weakness. The muscles in his arms tightened around Becca with his confession. He hated himself intensely at that moment. For six years he had ignored his feelings for Rebecca, hidden them from the world and from himself. In one night of revived passion, she had managed to expose his innermost secrets.

Becca’s knees sagged. So long she had waited to hear those words of love from this proud man. She had yearned for this moment, and when it was finally hers, she grasped it fleetingly, only to release it. The words sounded too hollow, a convenient excuse for a night of passion. “I don’t think we should talk about love,” she managed to say, though her throat was unreasonably dry.

His hands moved upward to her chin and tilted her face to his. Dark eyes, gray as the early morning fog, gazed into hers. “Why not?”

“Because you and I have different meanings for the word. We always have.”