Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Samantha had just finished her sketch when Trent walked into the sitting room.
“I was hoping you might come home early again today and not spend the whole day out on the estate.”
“Were you? You can always send someone to find me if you need me.”
She shook her head and closed her book. “It’s not urgent. I want you to teach me how to punch with my left hand. My right arm is sore after last night.”
Trent’s lips turned up in a smile. “I’d be happy to.” His gaze wandered over her face, making a quick dip down her body before he realized it and corrected himself.
Samantha wasn’t blind, and she certainly wasn’t naive. He was attracted to her. But with him, it didn’t cause her fear. He didn’t leer or presume or expect. And it wasn’t just attraction. There was a reverence in his gaze. A sort of awe. It was silly probably, but it made her feel special.
They walked together out to the barn. Somehow, punching with her left hand felt as if she was starting from scratch again.
Trent had to guide her and show her how to move her body.
Not that she had any objection. She was growing to enjoy the warmth of his hands on her arms and shoulders.
It could hardly be considered scandalous with her long sleeves and high neck.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as she increased the speed of her movements. “Do you want me to get a page out of your sketchbook?”
“No!” She hurried over to pick it up. “I didn’t bring it for me.” She paused, nervousness fluttering in her chest. She wasn’t sure how Trent was going to react to her surprise.
“What do you mean?” His brow was furrowed in confusion.
“I think….” She took a breath and gathered her courage. “Perhaps it would be good for you to have a turn.”
She waited for his shock or anger, but he was still confused. “You want me to punch a picture of Norman?” He shrugged. “I will, if you want me to.”
She laughed, despite her nervousness. “I would probably enjoy that, but that’s not what I meant. Not Norman.” She tore the page out of her book and held it up to the bag.
His brow furrowed even further. “Is that Ash?”
“No. They do look quite similar. But this”—she shook the page for emphasis—“is your father.”
He looked a little more closely, then shook his head. “No. No. Put that away.”
“I think it will be good for you.”
He shook his head again. “No. Get that away from me.” He turned and strode for the door, but when she grabbed his arm, he stopped.
“Please don’t leave.”
He let out a long sigh and looked down at her hand on his forearm. He didn’t move or speak.
“Talk to me, Trent. Tell me what’s happening. What you're feeling. Don’t just run.”
“I can’t, Samantha. I can’t do… that.” He nodded toward the sketch without looking at it.
“What does it make you feel?”
He sighed again, his shoulders sagging. He looked into her eyes for a long time. He was trying to decide if he could trust her, and he must have eventually decided he could, because he finally spoke.
“Fear.”
“I feel fear too, when I look at pictures of Norman. Are you afraid of your father?” Slowly, she guided him away from the door.
“No. My father is dead, and I never met him.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
He swallowed before answering. “I’m afraid of losing control.”
“This is a safe place for you to lose control.” She removed the cloth strip from her hand and wrapped it around one of his.
“Please don’t make me do this.” His voice cracked with fear.
She didn’t want to hurt him, but he needed to face his buried emotions, just like he’d been helping her to do. Perhaps then he could finally stop punishing himself. She pulled another strip of cloth down and wrapped it around his other hand.
He looked into her eyes and shook his head. She squeezed his arms and realized he still wore his jacket. “Let’s get this off so you’ll have better movement.”
“I can’t do this, Samantha.”
“You can,” she assured him.
He shook his head again. “I’m not as strong as you. I wasn’t being facetious when I said that last night.”
She shrugged. “It’s my turn to carry you, remember?”
He lifted a cloth-wrapped hand to her cheek. “You didn’t come up here to save me.”
“Maybe I did, though. Perhaps this is all part of some divine plan.”
“I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”
“I don’t either. I know that this has been helping me, though, and I think it will help you too. And since you won’t let me thank you with sexual favors, this is the alternative, I suppose.”
He choked as laughter spilled out of him. At least she’d managed to make him do that. He closed his eyes for a moment, then with a nod, he turned and allowed her to help him remove his jacket.
She set it aside. “That’s the hardest step, and you’ve already conquered it,” she said, repeating his own words back to him.
He laughed again and shook his head. “You are impossible. Do you know that?”
“I’m not even sure that’s a proper insult.”
He breathed out a long sigh, finally giving in.
“Are you ready?”
“No,” he said, closing his eyes. But after a moment, he nodded, and she held the paper up against the bag. He grabbed a few pieces of straw off the floor and stabbed them through the paper into the bag, acting like hooks to anchor it in place.
“I don’t want you that close to my fists. It’s not safe.”
She nodded and took a step back.
He looked at her one more time. “Are you sure you want to be here for this? To bear witness to my emotional downfall?”
“If I leave, who will carry you when you need it? It can’t always be just you, Trent.”
* * *
Trent stared at the portrait of his father.
Fear churned in his belly. Not of the man, but of the hatred and grief he’d been holding down for so long.
He felt like a hypocrite, but he didn’t want to do this.
Didn’t want to face these emotions. He looked at Samantha again.
Her beautiful smile held so much encouragement.
How could he expect her to face her own hardship, which was surely more difficult than anything he’d ever dealt with, if he wouldn’t face his?
It was time.
Fortifying his determination, he focused on the man’s face—his father’s face—and let everything else fade away. His embarrassment, his self-consciousness, his fear, he let it all go.
He swung, his fist slamming into the bag.
He didn’t punch the picture because he wanted to continue to stare into the monster’s eyes and allow his simmering anger to reach a full boil.
Each time his fist connected, his hatred grew a little more, until the emotions surged up his throat in an anguished howl.
“You killed her!” he yelled, throwing another punch.
“You used her and threw her away like old rubbish, leaving her to raise your child all on her own!” Two more punches.
A flood of hot tears streamed down his face.
“A mere pittance for you could have saved her! Maggie could have had a mother. I could have had a mother!” He pounded his fist into the portrait over and over again until it was shredded, then leaned in close to the piece that remained. “Why?”
He gasped in a breath and collapsed onto his hands and knees.
Sobs racked his body and he struggled to draw breath.
Soon, a soft hand rubbed over his back and he was reminded he wasn’t alone, but he didn’t want her to see him this way.
He didn’t want anyone to see him this way.
Shaking his head, he tried to move away from her, but she only followed.
“Please leave me,” he managed between sobs.
“No.”
“Leave me!”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her flinch at his shout, but then she stepped even closer.
“I don’t want you to see me like this, Samantha. Please go.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes.”
She sat down on the floor next to him and placed her hand on top of his.
For the first time in years, he wasn’t alone.
God how he missed his mother. How was he supposed to do this without her?
She should still be here. Maggie needed her.
He needed her. As he sobbed, Samantha’s thumb caressed the back of his hand.
The swell of emotions slowly eased, and he looked up at her.
Her encouraging smile was waiting for him.
He closed his eyes as more tears ran down his cheeks, a jumble of thoughts filling his mind.
Why was she so kind to him? Why was everyone so kind to him?
How was she so strong? How could anyone have ever hurt her?
With a deep breath, he pushed himself onto his knees. “I don’t know whether I should thank you or apologize. Both probably.”
Brennan’s voice sounded not far from the barn. “Mr. Gibson?”
He wiped desperately at his tears as panic flooded him. “What is he going to think of me?”
Samantha stood and pulled on his wrist. “Get up to the loft. Hurry!”
“But I—”
“Go!” she ordered.
Without further argument, he launched himself up the ladder and onto his stomach, hopefully out of sight, as the door to the barn opened.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brennan. Can I help you with something?” Samantha sounded perfectly innocent, but Brennan wasn’t stupid. He didn’t speak for a moment, probably assessing the situation.
“Is Mr. Gibson in here?”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s just me and my sketchbook, I’m afraid.”
“Apologies. I thought I might find him here. If you do see him, it’s nothing urgent, but let him know I’m heading over to the western fence.”
“I will certainly do that.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your… sketching.”
Trent cringed. Somehow this just went from bad to worse. If he’d simply answered the door himself, Brennan would have known he was crying. Instead, he now thought Trent was having a tryst with the woman in his care.
He rubbed a frustrated hand over his forehead. When he turned over, to sit up, Samantha was already at the top of the ladder.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
With a tortured sigh, he nodded. “I won’t be when Brennan tells Ash and your brother that we’re having assignations in the barn.”