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I narrowed my eyes at him. I knew she’d been Amish and therefore came from a very strict religious upbringing. But she’d left that life. “As a matter of fact, I do. But I think I know the nature of what happened between Belle and me better than you, old man, and she’s not expecting anything.”
“You sure about that? You ask her?”
“I didn’t have to. A man just knows some things.” Didn’t I? My skin prickled with something I couldn’t identify. Fear? Excitement? Fuck, I was suddenly so damn confused I didn’t know which way to turn.
He let out a small chuckle. “You’ve been acting like a pretentious prick since you got here. Assuming. Taking advantage.”
Pretentious prick. Buttoned-up blowhard. “The nicknames I’m racking up here will keep me humble for a while at least,” I muttered, massaging the back of my neck. How had I ended up here? Arguing with my dying old man about the expectations of the woman I’d had sex with the night before?
Is that what she is? The woman you had sex with the night before? No, that didn’t feel right. Only . . . what else could she be?
“Good. You could use a dose of humility. She deserves better.”
“She deserves the world,” I said through gritted teeth, mentally adding, And I’m not available to give her the things she needs. But in all actuality, my father was. “She deserves Graystone Hill,” I continued. “She loves this place. Give it to her, Dad. Give her every last acre.”
He was silent for a moment, staring at me with flinty eyes, the tension thick between us. “She won’t take it. She’ll insist it should go to you and remain in the Talbot name. She already told me as much. Said she’d sign over the deed to you and leave here if I did it. Said we would not use her as a means to keep on feuding and that was that. Practically yelled it.” As off-put with my father as I was, I could see Belle saying just that, her chin raised, eyes flashing. Goddammit, Belle. I looked to where she still stood with Detective Miller. It looked like she was laughing at something he’d said. He was standing close. Too close.
“That’s ridiculous,” I murmured. “She’s just being stubborn. I have no use for Graystone Hill and she knows it. My life is in New York.”
He took a few steps to a wrought iron chair next to a small table holding a container of red flowers and sat stiffly. “Suppose you don’t care if I leave the bourbon formula and distillery to someone else entirely then.” My heart careened to a halt as my father continued to stare out at the pastures below us.
“What?”
He looked at me, his jaw rigid. “Yeah, thought you’d care about that. I’ve been made a very generous offer. Man by the name of Edwin Bruce. You know him?”
My blood ran cold and there was a buzzing in my ears. That motherfucking bastard. What the hell was Edwin Bruce doing? And how had he known enough to make my father an offer in the first place? He didn’t. Had my father somehow figured it out and contacted him out of spite for me?
“He’s my competition in New York. And you know I’d put that bourbon distillery to good use. For fuck’s sake, it’s my mother’s family legacy.”
“And yet you couldn’t be bothered with it until you knew I was dying and would be out of the picture,” he gritted out, and I swore I saw a flash of pain in his eyes. Was this hurting him? Well, too fucking bad. Just the thought of that bourbon recipe being in the hands of Edwin Bruce had me seeing red. Even worse that my own father might have orchestrated it. The water under our proverbial bridge was deeper than I thought, and apparently full of sharks and flesh-eating piranhas.
“Edwin Bruce’s business is failing. If he has enough cash to pay you for Caspian Skye, it’ll wipe him out completely, or damn near. He won’t have the funds to create a new batch, much less wait for it to mature.”
My father stroked his chin, stubbly with black and gray hair. “He won’t need to wait for anything to mature. There are seventeen barrels, some that have been maturing for almost twenty years, in the basement of the distillery.”
“What?”
My father looked at me sharply. “Changes things, doesn’t it?”
I gaped at him. “Why don’t you bottle and sell that bourbon? It’s worth a king’s ransom.”
“Never was too interested in the bourbon business.” A cloud passed over his features, but he turned his head before I could fully examine it. “Figured you might be, what with all those bars you own in New York City. Then again, so is Edwin Bruce.” Another hot flash of anger ratcheted through me and I briefly wondered what he knew of my businesses in New York, and how he’d gathered any knowledge of what I did at all. There was silence between us for several beats.
“Course if you married Isabelle, you could share Graystone Hill, and the distillery would be yours. Seems like a good deal to me. She gets her horses without feeling she’s taking something that’s not hers, and you get the distillery and everything that comes with it.”
“Are you bribing me into marrying Isabelle?” I asked, the shock clear in my voice. “If you hate me so much, why stick her with me?”
“Ah, Christ, I don’t hate you, Brant. I just hate . . . well never mind.” He shook his head. “In any case, it seems Isabelle has feelings for you. And she’s had enough pain in this lifetime.”
And what about me, old man? Haven’t I had my share of pain? Wasn’t I the one who found my own mother dead in a bathtub full of blood? My chest felt so tight it was a wonder I was still breathing. And yet we’d already said all that needed saying as far as that went, hadn’t we? During the years apart, I’d fostered the hatred that still lived deep in my bones for what he’d done to my mother. There was no point in going there with him again.
I shook my head, utterly confused by this whole conversation. “Marrying me—or anyone—isn’t going to take away Isabelle’s pain. And as far as I can see, she’s holding up pretty damn well for a woman who survived what she did.”
“And how long will that last? Who’s going to take care of her when I’m gone?” he rasped and the raw emotion in his voice shocked me.
I stared at him for a moment, and what I saw surprised me. I had hated this man for years, but for many before that, I’d loved him. Respected him. Being here, recalling so many moments when he’d ensured I was looked after, or May, or the other workers, I couldn’t refute that he had always been that sort of person. Isabelle had defended him as a good man who’d provided a place of refuge and healing. And I couldn’t deny that. I couldn’t deny how I still recognized so many faces around the place after all this time. He cared. He loved deeply and generously. Even if he’d let me go. “You really do love her, don’t you? You can’t bear the thought of her leaving here.” Something akin to jealousy trickled through me. He was fighting for Isabelle.
When he’d never fought for me.
