Satisfying ones.”
“I’m not crying for any specific reason.” Her chin jutted out. “I just couldn’t sleep.”
He snorted something unintelligible.
She looked up at him then. “I did travel halfway across the world, you know.”
Brody watched her keenly. This had nothing to do with jet lag, he knew it. And even though they’d argued earlier, he knew it wasn’t about that, either. There was something else at the heart of it. What had she meant earlier when she’d muttered it wasn’t fair?
He’d never been able to watch a woman cry, and he’d done his share in years past. That had been one of his biggest mistakes, and even knowing it he couldn’t help the need to help that rose up in him. He wanted to believe her. To believe her motives were true even though her actions were suspect.
He took another step closer, close enough that if he extended his arm he’d be able to touch the tender skin of her bruised eyelids. Only inches away.
“What is it, Lucy? What is it about being here that upsets you so much?”
Lucy’s fingers tightened, wrapping around each other in the absence of Pretty’s coarse mane. She had to keep it together, because if she let go she’d realize exactly how close Brody was right now. The barn was so quiet she could hear the hum of the lights overhead. And still he watched her, waiting. Waiting for a reasonable explanation.
Brody was a deliberate man. She could tell that earlier. He did things a certain way and had definite opinions, and his initial one of her hadn’t been favorable. And yet…he was waiting patiently for her. And she had no idea what to tell him. The truth was out of the question.
The sting of it was, when he looked at her this way, she wanted to tell him all manner of things, and she was sure he wouldn’t understand.
No one understood.
Once again the feeling of total isolation. There was nothing familiar anymore, and the closest she’d gotten to it lately was here, tonight, surrounded by the scent of hay and horse and leather.
“Lucy?”
She couldn’t help it. At the quiet verbalization of her name, the tears started afresh. Lucy. Who was that now? No one she knew.
“I hardly know you.” It sounded pitiful to her ears but needed to be said.
He didn’t answer, just absorbed everything through those black, damnably keen eyes of his. She was losing control and there was nothing she could do about it. But she would die rather than have him witness it.
“Please let me go,” she tried, willing the words to come out strong and failing utterly. “I’ve embarrassed myself enough already. I shouldn’t have come.”
He stepped to one side.
She straightened her back, trying valiantly to gather what little bit of dignity she had left. Lucy blinked, sending teardrops over her lashes and down her cheeks as the homesickness overwhelmed her. She looked at the door. If she moved quickly she could get out and away from him. She’d been foolish to think she could belong here. She took one step, then another, her eyes blurring with tears.
And stumbled on a crack.
His arm was there to steady her in half a second, but her breath hitched in her chest and she sniffed. Brody turned her gently and pulled her into his arms.
The shock only lasted a millisecond. All the surprise of finding herself being held against him was swept away in the warm shelter of his arms, the rough feeling of his jean jacket against her cheek. She inhaled; the scent was somehow familiar. He was strong and steady and as his hand cradled her head, stroking her hair, she let go of all her grief in one sweeping wave.
He was a stranger. She was there on business. He’d questioned her and her integrity all in less than twenty-four hours. None of it mattered. He was a good man. He was there. That was what was important right now.
“Shhh.” The sound rippled the hair above her ear, warming it with his breath. “It’s okay.”
Not in three long months had someone put their arms around her. No one had held her. No one had told her it would be okay.
Grief hit her, jolting the breath from her abdomen. She felt for a moment like she had the first time she’d been thrown and had hit the loam of the paddock. It had been a harder landing than she’d expected, and it had been difficult to get up.
Her arms slid around his waist, her fingers reaching up and biting into the denim covering his shoulder blades.
He tightened his grip around her, and one large hand massaged the back of her neck.
And all of the desolation Lucy had been holding inside came out in a grand rush of weeping, one that crashed on to the shore like a huge breaker and ebbed away on the tide, leaving her fragile, but feeling as though a burden had been taken from her shoulders.
She sniffed, sighed. And heard Brody’s voice, rough and quiet.
“Lucy.”
Her heart skipped around crazily. Not Miss Farnsworth, but Lucy. Tonight, in the intimacy of the barn, she’d become Lucy.
She stepped out of his arms. This was madness. She was tired and this was the middle of the night. He was a stranger. A very handsome one. It all jumbled together.
“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, horrified at the splotches of moisture on his jean jacket. She couldn’t meet his eyes. He already saw far too much. She didn’t want him to see any more. She didn’t want to see parts of him, either. There was a danger that she just might, and she took a step backward.
“Don’t be.”
“Forget this ever happened.”
“Why don’t you tell me what caused you to cry first?
Oh, where would she begin?
Pretty stamped behind them. Their presence there was disturbing the horses.
“There are actual chairs in the office,” he said gently. “A kettle and a can of cookies. We can get to the bottom of this.”
Lucy shook her head. “I’ve already made things uncomfortable. This won’t happen again.” She was pleased that her voice was coming out stronger with each word. She almost sounded convincing! “I’ll just go back to the house.”
But Brody persisted. “You’re going to be staying here a while. You might as well tell me, because if you don’t I’m going to wonder and you’re going to hold it inside and it’s just going to create friction. Hardly conducive to a profitable business trip.”
He held out a hand. “Let me buy you an instant decaf.”
She straightened her pullover. “Mr. Hamilton, I…”
But he interrupted. “You’ve just cried in my arms for a good ten minutes. You might as well put away the Mr. Hamilton. And if we go to the house now, Mrs. Polcyk will undoubtedly hear and you’ll have to explain your puffy eyes to her.”
He held out his hand. She refused to take it, instead feeling her cheeks burn with humiliation that she’d allowed herself to get caught up in what it was like to be held. She swept past him as best she could and heard him follow, ensuring the stall door was latched behind him. He passed her and led the way down the corridor, his boots echoing dully in the quiet of the night.
Once inside she took a quick inventory. There was a battered old sofa, a chair that looked as if its springs had given out a long time ago and a wooden contraption on casters behind a scarred desk. She took her chances on the springs; the sofa meant he’d sit beside her and she couldn’t take that.
He filled the kettle at the tap outside and came back, plugged it in and pulled two mugs off a shelf. When the water boiled, he stirred each cup and handed her one before perching against the front edge of the desk.
She