With One More Look At You Page 4

  "As far as the eye can see, this has been Branson land for generations."

  "How wonderful."

  Sophie listened to her mother's response with half an ear. She had heard it too often to take any notice. Newt was another matter. He couldn't know that the patter had been practiced and perfected to the last ooh, ah, sigh, and batted eyelash. It wasn't up to Sophie to warn the man.

  Newt Branson was an adult. From what she had been able to glean in the past two days, he seemed to possess a reasonable amount of intelligence. If he couldn't see past Joy's artifice, too bad. He would find out soon enough that while she bubbled with enthusiasm on the outside, she calculated how much of his wealth she could charm him out of. And how long it would take.

  The timetable was the key. Joy was a city girl through and through. The suburbs were too rural for her liking. Though careful to turn her head from Newt's gaze, Sophie had seen the sneer on her mother's face—the look of disdain in her eyes—as they traveled through Cloverton. If they had been alone, the sharp-tongued comments would have filled the car from city limit to city limit. And beyond.

  No. It didn't matter what Joy thought. Or how Newt heard only what he wanted to hear. Sophie was completely and utterly enchanted. From her vantage point in the backseat of the SUV, everything looked so… spacious. They drove for miles without passing another car. No houses littered the countryside. Just tree-lined hills and open fields. Sophie knew that such places existed. But she had never expected to see one close up. She wished they would stop so she could run. Nowhere in particular. The idea of so much nature and nothing else made her almost giddy.

  Questions swirled through Sophie's head. What did they do on the ranch? Was it just cattle? Or did they have sheep? Llamas? Yaks? Whatever? Did they rise with the sun and go to bed before nine o'clock? Big breakfasts with lots of eggs and bacon and potatoes and…? Sophie wanted to start asking, not stopping until her brain was empty. She wanted to bounce with excitement. It felt as though they were going to an exotic location filled with the wonderful unknown and she couldn't wait to get there.

  Breathing deeply, in and out, Sophie controlled her impulses. Staying perfectly still, she stared out the window, asking none of the questions that wanted to burst from her mouth.

  "You're awfully quiet back there."

  Newt had commented on Sophie's lack of conversations several times. As usual, Joy answered for her.

  "Sophie isn't much of a talker."

  The lies rolled off Joy's tongue with ease. If given a chance, Sophie could talk. And talk. And talk. She also knew how to keep her mouth shut. A definite difference. But Newt didn't know it. If Joy had her way, he never would.

  Newt Branson really was a sweet man, Sophie thought with a twinge of regret. Too sweet for a barracuda like her mother. He was a lonely man. A widower still mourning the loss of his beloved wife. Ripe for the picking, Joy used that to her advantage, pouring on the sympathy. Coupled with her best asset—her sex appeal—poor Newt was putty in her hands.

  "What do you think about my part of the country?"

  Since it was a direct question, Sophie sighed, answering honestly. "It's beautiful."

  "I think so too," Newt beamed with pride. "A few days in the country is exactly what you and your sister need. We'll get some roses in those cheeks of yours."

  "I don't need the country to do that," Joy purred, her hand sliding along Newt's thigh. "You did that all by yourself when were in California. Every night. And again in the morning."

  Newt blushed—actually blushed—at Joy's words. Sophie couldn't remember seeing such a thing. Not from a grown man. And especially not from one of her mother's men. They usually ate up her overt flirting, never concerned who was watching. The color on Newt's face—and the gentle way he patted the creeping hand before removing it from his leg—proved once more that he was a different breed from the kind Joy usually attracted.

  "We'll be home in a few minutes," Newt sent Sophie a smile in the rearview mirror.

  "I can't wait to meet your little boy," Joy gushed, drawing Newt's attention back to her.

  "Hardly little. Like a told you, tomorrow is his eighteenth birthday."

  "Honestly, I thought you were pulling my leg. There is no way you are old enough to have a son that age."

  Sophie groaned. Quietly. Certainly not loud enough for her mother to hear. But for the love of Pete. What was wrong with men? Joy's line was older than dirt. Yet, again and again, she used it. To great success.

  I tell them what they want to hear, Joy once explained. Men want you to lie to them? Sophie had wondered, keeping the question to herself. It seemed to be true. Puff up his ego. Lay on the lies—the thicker, the better. It made the men happy. Joy got what she wanted—at least in the short run.

  With a sigh, Sophie couldn't help but think the whole thing was terribly… sad. There was no better word for it. Every relationship Joy had—no matter how brief—was built on a foundation that could be easily toppled by the simple act of removing a pair of blinders. There had to be a better way. Wasn't there? Sophie certainly hoped so.

  "There it is. Home, sweet home."

  Sophie sat forward, practically pressing her nose to the glass.

  "Is that your house? It's so big," Joy said with the breathy glee of a little girl on Christmas morning who received the exact gift she wished for.

  "It's been added onto a few times over the years. It is a bit large for three people."

  "Three?" Joy's eyes narrowed. "I thought you told me it was just you and your son."

  "Maeve lives with us. Our housekeeper."

  "Oh." Joy nodded with a relieved smile. "She's a servant."

  "No. Maeve is a part of the family."

  "Of course," Joy gushed reassuringly. "I can't wait to meet her."

  Joy didn't care about meeting any women. One that had any influence over Newt? Sophie couldn't see that sitting well with her mother. She could only hope that the drama that was bound to ensue—the inevitable blowup that saw them either thrown out on their asses or sneaking away in the middle of the night—didn't happen for a day or so. Long enough for Sophie to explore the ranch. And ride a horse. Just once. Wouldn't that be something?

  Hugging the thought to herself, Sophie watched as Newt turned off the main road onto a long, L-shaped driveway. The first part ran alongside two fields tall with something green and lush.

  "Alfalfa," Newt said as though reading her mind. "It's been a good summer. That's our third crop. One of my men will take the swather to it in a few days."

  "What's a swather?" Sophie had to ask. If she didn't get out at least one question, her head felt as if it would pop.

  "It's a big machine with a spinning cutter. See?" Newt pointed to Sophie's right. "There it is."

  Fascinated, Sophie craned her neck to get a better look. It wasn't what she had expected. Most of her ideas about farming equipment came from watching old movies. This machine was modern and shiny with the driver's seat completely enclosed by glass and metal. Obviously, Newt's ranch was a far cry from The Grapes of Wrath.

  "What's the other machine?"

  "That bales the hay. We have a third one that picks up the bales, stacks them neatly, and deposits them in the barn. It's a lot easier than when I was a boy. We did a lot more by hand back then."

  "Are those cabs air conditioned?" Sophie was enthralled by every detail. "Do they—?

  "Sophie!" Joy's tone was sharp. "That's enough. Newt doesn't want to be bothered with your questions."

  "I don't mind. Not a bit," Newt assured Sophie. "Would you like to take one for a drive?"

  "Really? Do you mean it?"

  "Absolutely."

  Sophie couldn't remember the last time she cried. But Newt's promise made her throat tighten, and her eyes burn. She knew it probably wouldn't happen. Either he would forget, or Joy would talk him out of it. Still, for a little while, she could let herself do something she rarely gave into. Sophie let
herself hope.

  "I'm sure Newt is simply trying to be kind, Sophie." Though her lips curved upward, Joy's eyes held no answering smile.

  "It's safe," Newt said, misinterpreting Joy's annoyed expression as one of concern. "There's no place to get into trouble in a wide-open field. Besides, somebody will be with her to make sure nothing goes wrong."

  Joy didn't have a ready argument, but Sophie was certain she would come up with one later.

  Unaware of the sudden tension between Joy and Sophie, Newt slowed the SUV to a halt. "Looks like we have a welcoming party."

  "Is that a dog?" Joy asked, wary of the large animal that bounced excitedly on the cobblestone-covered area in front of the house.

  "We think so." Newt seemed to find Joy's question funny. "Bailey eats like a mid-sized elephant. But don't worry. He's a pussy cat."

  A dog. Sophie made no attempt to hide her grin. Things kept getting better and better. Right then and there she made up her mind. No matter how long this adventure lasted—an hour or a few days—she wouldn't spend it in quiet solitude. She would explore. And ask questions. And maybe even drive a swather. With a newfound sense of resolve, Sophie unbuckled her seatbelt, jumping from the vehicle.

  Bailey was too much of a gentleman to jump on a stranger. But it was obvious he wanted to. Quivering, he looked up at Sophie. For a girl who had lived her entire life with a woman who doled out affection sparingly, and only when she expected something in return, the unabashed affection in the dog's eyes went straight to her heart. Despite the books she read, she had never believed in love at first sight. Until now.

  "Hello." Sophie held out her hand, laughing when Bailey did more than sniff at it. His tongue slathered the back with saliva.

  "Bailey," Newt chided. "Mind your manners."

  "That's okay. He's just saying hello back, aren't you, boy?" Dropping to her knees, Sophie threw her arms around the dog. When he snuggled close, she felt that tightness in her throat again. Afraid there might be actual tears in her eyes, she quickly buried her face in his furry neck.

  "I'm sorry, Newt. I don't know what's come over my sister."

  Newt put an arm around Joy's waist, giving her an affectionate squeeze. "She's acting like a kid. Nothing wrong with that."

  Sophie didn't wait around for Joy's response. Jumping to her feet, she took off, Bailey at her heels. Her long legs encased in worn jeans carried her toward the corner of the house and around. Looking over her shoulder to make certain the dog was with her, Sophie didn't see the large, solid object that blocked her path until it was too late.

  The object didn't move an inch. Sophie landed flat on her ass.

  "Are you okay?"

  No, idiot. You knocked me down. How can I be okay? The response was the first thing that sprang to Sophie's brain. Hurt or not, she had learned long ago that she needed a tough exterior to survive. Pushovers and marshmallows didn't last long with a mother like Joy. The places they stayed. The people they met. It could be dangerous. Nobody had Sophie's back except Sophie. A sharp tongue wasn't the best weapon, but it kept a lot of weirdos at bay.

  When Sophie looked up, ready to spew a little venom, what she saw made her eyes widen. His good looks didn't keep her silent. Guys with winning smiles and dimples didn't impress her. They were a dime a dozen—Joy had a particular weakness for them. The brawnier the body and dimmer the bulb, the better.

  No, it wasn't his pretty boy good looks that left Sophie speechless, but the way the sun backlit him, producing a halo effect. A coincidence because of time of day and where he stood. Probably happened all the time. But not to her.

  Though it seemed like time stood still, the clock continued to tick. When Sophie didn't respond, the young man smiled as if—for him—this kind of thing happened all the time.

  "Arrogant," Sophie muttered under her breath.

  "Excuse me?" He leaned closer, ruining the otherworldly effect. When Sophie shrugged, he held out his hand. "Here. Let me help you up."

  "I'm fine." Sophie swatted him away, scrambling to her feet. Getting knocked down. Letting a little thing like an optical illusion scramble her brain. How embarrassing.

  "Sorry." He stepped back, his hands in the air. The smile on his face didn't slip. Damn him.

  Brushing off the back of her jeans gave Sophie a second to regroup. When she finished, she straightened her shoulders, sticking out her chin.

  "Who are you?"

  "Forbes Branson. Who are you?"

  Newt's son. Great. "Sophie."

  "Just Sophie. No last name? Like Cher or Madonna?"

  "Ha, ha, ha. That's funny. A little polish and you could take that act on the road." Sophie had heard the line in a movie. Not the wittiest comeback, but it would do.

  Looking slightly bemused, Forbes rubbed a thumb over his lower lip. "Let's start again. My name is Forbes," he held out his hand. "Sophie. It's nice to meet you."

  "Okay." Tentatively, Sophie shook his hand. She wasn't a bitch by nature. It was a defense mechanism that she tended to fall back on. There hadn't been many opportunities to interact with somebody close to her own age. When she felt awkward—like now—she covered by acting tough. Rarely was anybody around long enough for them to figure out it was just that. An act. "It's Lipton. My last name."

  Forbes nodded. His blue eyes—so much like his father's—were warm. Kind. It seemed to be a family trait. Sophie didn't know if she inherited anything from her father. She had never met him. Had no idea who he was. It must have been nice to look at somebody and see part of himself. She didn't see it in Joy. They were opposites in every way. Physically and psychologically. The only proof Sophie had that they were mother and daughter was Joy's word for it.

  "It looks like you've met Bailey." The dog had plopped himself between Forbes and Sophie as if he were watching a show—and enjoying every second. "Are you here to see Maeve? She has so many nieces, I've lost track."

  This was tricky. It wasn't Sophie's place to inform Forbes that his father had returned home with a 'friend.' Or that she was the friend's 'sister.' That involved too many air quotes. Let Newt explain. Boy, would she like to be a fly on the wall for that one.

  "I don't know Maeve. Your dad is back, by the way." Sophie darted around Forbes. Running backward, she met his gaze. "I'm exploring. Do you mind if I take Bailey with me?"

  "I don't mind if he doesn't."

  Sophie patted her leg. Bailey hesitated, turning to Forbes for permission. "Go on. Make sure she doesn't get into trouble."

  "Thanks," Sophie called out with a wave.

  Lifting her face, she breathed deeply. All thoughts of Forbes, Newt, Joy, and any potential drama sailed from her consciousness. The river was to one side of her, Bailey—tongue lolling out of a grin that almost rivaled hers—to the other.

  No doubt about it. Best. Day. Ever

  Forbes watched as Sophie soared away. Soared. It was a good word to describe the way she ran, her feet barely touching the ground. It occurred to him that she had left without telling him who she was. Where she came from. Why she was here. He knew her name and that his father was home. That was it. He supposed he would find out the rest eventually.

  With a chuckle, Forbes let himself into the mud room. Sophie was a funny kid. Bailey seemed to like her. Not much of a guard dog, he had a good nose for people. If the dog didn't like somebody, he kept his distance. The fact that he was happy to join Sophie while she explored, whatever that meant, was good enough for Forbes.

  Toeing off his boots, Forbes neatly placed them in the row of other shoes next to the door. Knowing Maeve would check, he washed his hands, taking two pumps from the liquid soap dispenser the housekeeper always kept full. Splashing some water on his face, he didn't worry that a good amount of it ended up on the front of his sweaty t-shirt. He planned on hitting the shower—after a detour to the kitchen and a half dozen or so cookies. Hence the bother of stopping to wash his hands.

  Forbes entered the kitchen, surprised
to find it empty. Less than an hour until dinner time, Maeve could usually be found chopping or slicing or something food related. Perhaps she was unpacking his father's suitcase. Maeve had a thing about letting dirty clothes sit around for any length of time. The washing machine in the Branson household was almost always running.

  The smell of something spicy bubbling on the stove made Forbes' mouth water. Lifting the lid, he breathed in deeply. Spaghetti sauce. That meant garlic bread hot from the oven with plenty of melted butter and herbs. It was one of the things he loved most about Maeve. She didn't believe in light summer meals. The fact that outside the temperature pushed the mid-nineties was immaterial. Her job was to feed working men. That meant stick-to-your-ribs fare.

  Forbes took a spoon from the drawer. Checking to make sure he was alone, he took a big bite of the sauce, his eyes closing in pleasure. For good measure—and since nobody was looking—he double-dipped. So damn good.

  Not forgetting the cookies, Forbes grabbed a couple handfuls from the pinecone-shaped jar, sprinting up the back stairs as he popped one after another into his mouth.

  Normally, Forbes would have taken the right hallway. The house had six bedrooms, three in one wing, three in the other. Today, he decided to delay his shower and veered left.

  Until his eleventh birthday, Forbes had a room on this side of the house. Near his parents. After his mother's death, being near his father was nice—a comfort for them both. But a year later, he decided it was time to grow up. With Newt's blessing, he moved to the other wing.

  Though Forbes would never admit it, the first month was tough. Every time the house creaked or groaned in the middle of the night, he was tempted to run to his father. But eventually, he settled in. Once he reached his teenage years, he learned to appreciate the privacy afforded by separate wings.

  Once or twice—or three times—he snuck a girl into his room. Then snuck her out before daybreak. Whether his father knew or not, Forbes couldn't say. The subject had never come up, and that was fine with him.

  Whistling softly, Forbes turned the corner. At the end of the hall, the door to his father's bedroom was ajar, the low mumble of voices reaching his ears. Figuring it was Maeve, he pushed the door open without knocking. What he saw—his father locked in a heated embrace with a strange woman—almost had him spewing cookie particles across the room.