12 #2
She caught the pouch and stood. Leaning over him, she shoved it into his pocket. “Don’t fight fate, my darling boy,” she whispered, patting his cheek.
The arrival of his parents stopped him from further protest. For the next few minutes, he tolerated his mom’s fervent gushing and his dad’s brusque birthday wishes.
He accepted the fleece-lined suede jacket with enough enthusiasm to satisfy his mom, his mind preoccupied with the fucking miniature portrait tucked away next to his heart.
He’d immediately dismissed the striking similarities between Saoirse and Brandy-Lyn as coincidence, but deep down he knew better.
After all, the same blood that ran in his grandmother’s veins ran in his.
And wouldn’t it be a hoot if Brandy-Lyn’s ancestor turned out to be Dónal’s lost love?
Not that anything could or would happen between him and Brandy-Lyn.
He was damaged goods, after all.
That reality was reinforced when he stepped into the mudroom to don his boots and work jacket before heading out and found his brother waiting for him. Rafferty viewed the little plastic jar Aidan held out to him. “You want to test me … today ?”
His brother shrugged. “Random urine testing. That was our agreement when you signed on to work here.”
“Whatever.” He grabbed the plastic container and ducked into the adjoining bathroom to do his brother’s bidding.
Happy fucking birthday, Trick.
*
Exhausted and cold, Rafferty parked the UTV in the shed and gratefully jumped from the vehicle, the promise of a hot shower mere minutes away.
He couldn’t wait to get out of his wet and filthy clothes.
Today had been brutal. Damned pregnant cow wandered from the herd, only to birth her calf in a fucking waterlogged arroyo.
They had found the pair too late, and it ended up being a recovery, not a rescue.
He rounded the back of the vehicle, hauled the equipment from the trunk, and dumped the canvas bags in the oversized washing trough.
The ropes and blankets needed thorough cleaning, but thankfully that wasn’t his job.
Five minutes later he walked into the mudroom of the Main House and hung his ballcap on the hook. His jacket and boots followed, but instead of tracking mud through the house, he padded into the adjoining bathroom.
And just like that, Aidan’s callousness from that morning slapped him upside the head, adding to his already flagging spirits. Pressing his hand to the marble vanity, Rafferty hung his head, fighting the dark wave of depression.
He longed, so very much, for oblivion.
One hit, just one , and he’d get through the night.
No dreams, no regrets, no pain.
Just the bliss of … nothingness.
“And that” — Rafferty snapped his head up and glared at his reflection — “is exactly what the fucker wants.”
He quickly stripped and stepped into the shower.
He accepted the punishing cold blast before the water regulated itself.
The warm cascade washed away the dirt and warmed his bones, but the regret of losing the cow and her calf combined with his physical exhaustion and renewed craving resulted in a deep melancholy settling over him.
If it were up to him, he’d grab a sandwich and call it a night.
But his mother had promised a celebratory meal tonight, and he didn’t have it in him to disrespect her efforts.
At least it was just the four of them; his siblings busy with their kids’ Halloween activities in town.
He issued a harsh laugh. Bet Aidan loved that excuse!
Rafferty flicked off the water and quickly dried himself, tying the towel around his waist. He gathered his soiled clothing and walked out of the bathroom only to slam to a stop on seeing the woman, denim stretching enticingly over her ass as she leaned down to remove her boots.
Despondency vanished as lust coursed through his bloodstream, a strangled groan escaping.
Brandy-Lyn gasped, jerked upright, and spun around, clutching a boot in her hand. Eyes wide, those green gems traveled over his torso before shooting up to meet his. “ Umph ,” she choked out.
“What are you doing here?”
She flinched at his harsh words, and regret dampened the flash of desire.
“Sorry.” He hung his head, making sure his dirty clothes concealed the unfortunate bulge behind the towel.“It’s been a day …”
Pulling her shoulders back, she rasped, “Branna invited me. Kiddos are out. Halloween stuff. But” — she gulped, her gaze beyond his shoulder — “I’ll leave.”
Yes. Go. Now. Before I haul you into the bathroom, strip you naked, bend you over the vanity, and ravish your body.
Instead, he swallowed and went with, “No. Stay. It’s fine,” in a low voice.
Her eyebrows arched slightly. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” He slipped past her, catching a whiff of her perfume — the same flowery one from the other night.
It swirled around him, adding to his already heightened senses by bringing back the vision (one that had plagued him for fucking weeks) of her languishing in her bath, water lapping her shoulders.
He hurried along, escaping her alluring web.
“Happy birthday,” the sorceress called after him.
He lifted his hand in acknowledgment and, moments later, he entered his bedroom and shut the door, leaning against the wood, breathing hard.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . He was in so much trouble.
Was there something … otherworldly … between him and Brandy-Lyn?
Was he fighting a losing battle? After all, the pull had been there from the moment he first met her twenty years ago.
Rafferty groaned. “No. Just … no.” He was stronger than that.
And he was soiled goods, his past too dark, too vicious to sully another woman.
Like the clothes in his arms, he realized. He’d forgotten to load them in the washer. Unfortunately, no amount of washing would ever get rid of the filth he carried around.
Get the notion of you and Brandy-Lyn out of your mind.
He pushed away from the door, dumping the muddy bundle in the clothes hamper as he strode to the closet.
And, of course , she was there, too.
Hiding in the pouch he had set down on top of the old biscuit tin containing an assortment of odds and ends from his childhood. His hand hovered over green velvet.
Ignore it. Don’t torture yourself.
But he couldn’t help himself.
“Masochist,” he muttered, reaching out. He opened the velvet bag and upended the little painting onto his palm. His skin tingled, darts of current rushing up his forearm. He ignored the discomfort. It was purely a figment of his imagination because the miniature was an inanimate object.
A piece of enamel depicting a woman’s face captured by an artist’s brush.
It held no power.
Held no sway over him.
Or his emotions.
That his forefather had loved — and lost — that woman was a sad tale.
Something a bard of ancient times would’ve lamented about.
It did not control his feelings.
And it most certainly did not control his actions.
He shoved the image into the pouch, and dropped the pouch into the tin, snapping shut the lid. “Just fucking forget about it. And Brandy-Lyn,” he scolded himself.