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“But you, on the other hand, don’t seem to mind at all.”
“I believe in telling the truth. Not only that, but it’s something I feel you should know.”
Isabella toyed with her gloves. “What is it you hope to accomplish, Mr. Bailey?” She met his eyes. “If it’s your desire to shame me, I refuse to be moved. I made my choice long ago, and I do not regret it. I love my parents, but I also love my aunt and my life in California. I see nothing to feel ashamed of or guilty for.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” He shook his head. “You see only what you want to see, Miss Garcia. I knew that even all those years ago, when you acted so heartlessly toward your father.”
“Me? Heartless? It was he who showed no compassion. He ripped me away from all I loved as a child. Took me from my friends and family. My beloved grandmother, and aunt, and so many others.” She grew thoughtful. “I was ten years old and didn’t understand why I had to leave all that I knew and loved. No one consulted me. No one asked me how I felt. He took us from our home and plopped us down in the middle of the desert, where there weren’t any other children or family members save him and my mother. I was afraid and alone.” She frowned. “But I don’t expect you to understand. You know so much more than anyone else about my family and about me. Go right on judging me to be a heartless woman, Mr. Bailey. I simply do not care what you think.”
She got to her feet and took an unsteady step against the rocking of the railcar. She grabbed the back of the chair even as Aaron reached up to offer her a hand. Of course, she wanted nothing to do with him and headed for the bedroom.
At the door, she turned. “I do care about one thing. I wish you would stop wearing that ghastly cologne. It gives me a headache.”
With that, she was gone, and Aaron was left to sit and wonder if he had falsely judged her. He knew how much she’d hurt her parents, even if they didn’t talk about it. The effects were there, nevertheless. Perhaps, on Isabella’s part, it was unintentional. Maybe she was coping with her own pain as best she could and had no desire to hurt her folks.
But even if she hadn’t meant to hurt them, she had. Aaron couldn’t just forget that. Daniel Garcia was dying, and the only thing he wanted was to be reconciled to his daughter before he left this world. And Aaron meant to seeit happen. He owed it to Daniel, and he would do his best to see it through, no matter the cost to himself.
Isabella sat on the edge of her bed, considering all that Aaron Bailey had said. The scent of his cologne still hung in the air. She didn’t really hate it. She hated what it represented—embarrassment that he’d overheard that argument so long ago, that he knew her heart then and even now.
She hadn’t thought about her mother and father or their needs in some time. She hadn’t wanted to know how they were doing or what projects they were working on. She hadn’t wanted to care about them for fear of what that might mean to her.
“It’s not because I’m selfish,” she murmured to herself, unpinning her hat. It wasn’t selfishness or a lack of caring that drove her. Although some—like Aaron—might suppose it to be so.
She put the hat on the small ledge at the foot of the bed. Her pent-up emotions threatened to spill over. Her eyes dampened. She wasn’t a bad person. She wasn’t.
Isabella had spent a good portion of her life putting up walls of protection—barriers that created strongholds so she could never be hurt again, like she was when her father took them away from California.
He had never understood her pain and suffering. He had never cared about her little-girl feelings. Losing her grandparents, her playmates, and her pets. Oh, how she had cried to lose her horse, Lucy, and her dog, Mini, who had just had puppies. She had cried in her grandmother’s arms, begging her to make Papi change his mind. But he hadn’t, and shortly after their departure, her beloved grandmother had died.Grandfather died a year later, leaving only Aunt Josephina at the ranch. At least her aunt had felt sorry for Isabella and shipped Lucy to New Mexico to be with her.
Then, when Isabella was sixteen, her aunt had invited her to spend the summer in California. Isabella had been so grateful that someone cared about her longing to go home. Silver Veil had never been home, despite the beautiful house her father had built.
Her parents were less than enthusiastic but finally gave in. The woman who had tutored Isabella in music, Mrs. Sanborn, had acted as her escort and traveled with her to California, where she, too, had family. Mama and Papi hadn’t even made the time to go with her, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, that reopened old wounds.
Being back in California had thrilled Isabella, but things were never the same. She was eventually able to convince her father to let her live there full-time, but even Diego’s growing interest didn’t make things right. She blamed her father. It was his fault she no longer had her grandparents. His fault that nothing was the same. Why did everything and everyone she had ever loved have to be taken away from her? The things and people of the past were all gone. Her parents had changed, and so had she.
Some would argue that her feeling of losing her parents was by her own hand, but they were the cause of her pain, and she wanted as little to do with them as possible. They hadn’t cared about her pain—had never even talked to her about why they had chosen to move to the desert. To Isabella it was clear that they simply didn’t care about her feelings, so why should she care about theirs?
She unfastened the buttons of her jacket and eased out of it. The room was a little stuffy, even hot, yet there was no possibility of returning to the main salon without having todeal with Aaron Bailey. She was determined not to do that. Instead, she set the jacket aside and stretched out atop the covers of the bed. With any luck, she might fall asleep and awaken to find this was all just a bad dream.
She smiled, imagining Christmas at the estate, with Aunt Josephina lighting candles on the tree while she and Diego took turns playing the piano. He would sing Christmas carols in his wonderful baritone voice, and Isabella and Auntie would join in. Before long, dinner would be announced, and they would go in and find the table decorated for the season, candles lit to reflect the green garland and gold ribbons that trimmed the room. There would be a veritable feast on the table, with silver, crystal, and china atop Aunt Josephina’s best linens.
Isabella sighed. “It would have been so perfect.”
