Busting Loose (15 page)

“Actually, I think I might have a slice.”

Peyton's hand froze mid-syrup grab. “It's got powdered sugar on it.”

“It's a carb,” Trace added helpfully.

Bea made a shocked face. “Oh my God. No! Never mind then. I didn't realize French toast could possibly be a sugary carb! Thank you for saving me.”

Morgan sat beside her and took matters into his own hands. He two-fingered a steaming hot piece from the top of the stack and plopped it onto her plate, then shook his hand. Hot hot hot. “There. You have to eat it now. It's on your plate.”

Bea sniffed, but didn't remove it. Instead she started cutting it into tiny pieces so small the baby could swallow three at once without choking.

Morgan grabbed two of his own, some bacon, and a mug of coffee from the carafe. “How is everyone this morning?”

Jo smiled, swinging her jet-black hair over her shoulder. “Oh, we're just fine. How are you two this morning? You both came in together, so I assume that means you—ow!” She backhanded Trace on the shoulder. “No pinching at the table.”

Emma set a bowl of fruit on the table and slapped him on the back of the head. “No pinching at the table.”

“Damn women.” He rubbed his head, then leaned over and quietly said to Jo, “I'll just pinch you later. And you'll like it.”

Jo smirked.

“Peyton,” Red said conversationally, passing her an orange. “I missed the memo. Should we be more public with our displays of affection?”

“Hell no.” Peyton set the orange aside and drowned her toast in syrup. “Don't make me gag.” Peyton slid the bottle of syrup to Bea, who stared at it a moment, as if making a very serious choice.

“You can have some syrup. I promise you won't gain ten pounds from it.”

She shot him an evil look that swore restitution, then drizzled a thin stream of syrup over the tiny pieces of French toast. It was the most decadent thing he'd ever seen her eat, and even then she didn't go hog wild with it.

“How's the bar, Jo?” Morgan asked, changing the subject.

“Great. We're looking into expanding a little, actually.” She beamed, pride in her business radiating from her. “Maybe add some patio seating. I think it'd be a great draw, and not many places around here have that. Completely impractical for the winter months. But for the summer . . .”

“True.” Morgan nodded. “I'd be game for a nice lunch on a patio with one of those big shade umbrellas. I might be inclined to get a pitcher, actually, to beat the heat.”

“Exactly.” She nodded. “That's what I'm hoping. More people relaxing and unwinding. Seeing people right out in the open enjoying a pitcher after work, and getting the idea they need to do the same thing.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Always looking to bring in the moo-lah.”

“My woman's got a head for business.” Trace kissed her temple, and she leaned into it. Her long ponytail brushed over Trace's arm as he wrapped it around her side to pull her closer.

Peyton mimed gagging onto her plate. Red just didn't look up from his breakfast. And Seth clapped, as if he was a critic watching little theater. Somehow, Morgan doubted
Yo Gabba Gabba!
was this interesting.

Jo leaned around Trace to touch her finger to the tip of Seth's nose, which sent him into a thrilling laugh, playing keep-away with his nose and her hand.

Morgan smiled at them, knowing it hadn't been easy for Jo to be so comfortable with Trace's son. She wasn't a natural kid person, but she
was
a kind person. It had just taken some time and confidence to make the two ends meet.

Did Bea want kids? Morgan stared at the bite of French toast on his fork, dripping syrup back onto his plate. Why did that question suddenly tighten his gut and make it feel like there was no room left for breakfast? He shouldn't be asking himself this yet. It shouldn't matter. They were having a good time, and that was enough for her. It should be enough for him, too.

And even as he forced down the bite of toast, washing it down with a swig of coffee, he knew he was lying to himself.

B
ea took a timid bite of the French toast.
Do not like it. Do not get used to it. Do not crave the sugar.

She took two more quick bites, hoping nobody watched her eat like a starving dog tossed a hambone.

“How was your first rodeo, Bea?”

She nearly choked at her sister's question, and took a sip of juice before she looked up. Peyton's face was bland. No hint as to whether that was sarcasm or not.

“It was much more fun than anticipated.” After a moment of mental struggle, Bea put the fork down and grabbed the orange Peyton had set aside. She started to peel, and told herself the citrus smell was just as delicious as the sugary, cinnamon-maple scent from her abandoned plate. “I handled myself pretty damn well. Sorry, Seth. Earmuffs.”

Trace pointed his fork at Peyton. “She's right. She kept up. You were wrong. You owe me twenty dollars.”

“We didn't bet money on anything,” Peyton said.

“Fine. I'll just take twenty dollars then.”

She rolled her eyes, but looked back at Bea. “The trailer didn't cramp your style?”

“Well, I wouldn't use a horse trailer as my primary residence. But it wasn't that bad.” The small white lie flowed so easily from her tongue, it could have been scripted for her. As was the innocent look she gave Peyton.

“What crap.” Peyton took a huge bite of bacon and chewed obnoxiously, as if trying to make Bea jealous of her artery-clogging breakfast choice. “I bet you were whimpering for your Manolos and room service after ten minutes.”

She bit into the first slice of orange. The tang woke her senses up a little, and she was refreshed and ready for a good, healthy sibling squabble. Bring it on, sister dear.

“How would you know what Manolos are? I thought the biggest designer name you knew was Old Navy.”

Peyton picked up a forkful of French toast and ate it slowly, closing her eyes and savoring the taste.

Bea did the same with her next piece of orange, licking the juice from her fingertips.

Peyton dropped her fork in disgust. “Why can't you just admit you didn't like it?”

“Because that's not true. Don't you dare feed that dog a piece of bacon, Red. He has a sensitive digestive system,” she added without looking away from Peyton's face.

“Scary,” Red murmured and returned the piece of bacon to his plate.

“She was a help, Peyton,” Trace put in. “She helped saddle Lad, and kept an eye on the stuff while I was gone. Anything I would have asked Steve to do, she was up for it. And it was nice seeing a friendly face in the crowd while I was waiting for my round.”

“I'm sorry, you let her saddle one of our horses? Are you nuts? She can't even tell the difference between the flank and the forelock!”

Trace opened his mouth, but when Bea shook her head slightly, he closed it again and stared at his meal. Now was
so
not the time to open that can of worms.

Seth, picking up on the mood, started whimpering and ping-ponging his gaze from adult to adult. Jo stood and unhooked him from his high chair.

“Come on, little man. Let's go upstairs for a little playtime. The adults have some discussing to do. Maybe when we come back down, they can all act like mature grownups again.” She kept her tone light, but her eyes shot daggers at both her and Peyton.

“She started it,” Bea mumbled. Peyton kicked her under the table. “Watch it, shorty. I have a longer reach.”

“You better not have talked to anyone important while you were there,” Peyton warned.

“Killing the precious Muldoon family name? I think our mother already tried her hand at that one.”

The color in Peyton's face bled out, but Bea refused to feel sorry for the comment. “You wouldn't know about that, would you, since you left and didn't come back. Not until Sylvia was dead and you had a shot at some money from the property.”

“So sorry for wanting a life to call my own,” Bea shot back. “If you wanted to chain yourself here, that's your problem. And money? What money? This place can barely support itself!”

Peyton's palms slammed on the table, rattling silverware. “You don't know the first thing about this place. You've never wanted to.”

“You don't know the first thing about
me
. You've never wanted to.” God, that felt good.

“Mooooom,” Trace whined, “the kids are fighting again.”

Emma poked her head in, and they all clammed up like a classroom of naughty kids with the principal making an unexpected visit. The only disturbance was the muffled sound of Seth's laughter from upstairs and some loud toy whirling.

Their housekeeper narrowed her eyes, shook her head, and retreated back to her kingdom . . . the kitchen.

“Now you've done it,” Morgan said darkly. “She's never going to bring out another plate of bacon.”

“Stuff your bacon,” Bea said, picking up the orange peel and dumping it on Peyton's plate. She stood, and Milton scrambled over to follow her. Before she left the room, she turned and said sweetly, “Oh, and Peyton?”

Her sister glared daggers at her.

Bea patted the side of her butt, just behind her hip. “Kiss my flank.”

 

Morgan rubbed a hand over his face and headed toward the stables with Red and Trace, escaping the tension of the big house. Bea had left, pulling on over to her apartment. Peyton had gone into her office, closing the door with a quiet, resolute click of the lock. The
snick
heard 'round the world.

“Was it ever like that with you and your sister?” Trace asked, kicking at a small stone in the dirt.

“We would get into it from time to time. But never like that. We're enough alike that our squabbles were mostly over when we'd outgrown the battle for toys.” Morgan shrugged, then stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed toward Bea's apartment. A light shone in the top room over the garage. “Brownings aren't really good at holding a grudge.”

“I didn't have any siblings, so I'm playing catch-up on the whole family dynamic thing. But something tells me this isn't going to be solved by walking away.” Red walked over to the exercise area to watch one of the hands lead a brood mare around the circle.

“They're more similar than either of them wants to admit.” Trace took in both Morgan and Red's faces and smiled. “You don't see it?”

Red was the first to close his mouth and nod slowly. “They're both unmovable as a napping mule and as defensive as a lame mongoose.”

Morgan blinked. “That made no sense.”

Trace eyed him. “Yeah, next time can you just use English?”

“Instead of asking how things went, Peyton asks in a way that makes Bea feel attacked. And then instead of answering honestly that things went well”—he double-checked with Trace for confirmation, who nodded—“Bea uses sarcasm to deflect the accusation, leaving Peyton not knowing and back to assuming it didn't go well.” He sighed. “Which means they'll just go through this again the next time they talk.”

“Welcome to my world,” Trace muttered. “It was so much easier when we were kids. Peyton and I out here with Daddy, Bea inside with Mama. And never the two shall cross . . . at least most of the time.”

“But was that where she wanted to be?” Morgan asked.

Trace opened his mouth, then shut it again and looked toward Bea's apartment. “I thought so. She was so . . . pretty. You know? I remember thinking when they brought her home from the hospital, she was a doll. She was just so untouchable. Like a china doll on a shelf.”

“Boys don't really care for babies,” Red pointed out. “Of course you thought she was untouchable.”

“I didn't mind them. I loved Peyton. She was hot on my heels from the day she was born. We wrestled, we played, she followed me everywhere, and I didn't mind it one bit. We'd roll around in the dirt and hay and come home completely filthy. And Bea would still be pristine and pretty in some overdone white pinafore or dress. I never wanted to touch her, because I was terrified of wrinkling her.”

“Did she act like that?” Morgan wondered. “Or did she want you to tussle with her and treat her like you did Peyton?”

“She never followed us out to the barn, so I just assumed that was her personality.” Trace shrugged. “Maybe that was wrong, but I was a kid. My world was pretty black and white at that age.”

Of course it was. Trace would have been much like his nephew, Brent. He would stand up for Andrea against any schoolyard bully. But have a meaningful conversation? Not gonna happen. Kids had a hard time seeing past the veil of what is to what could be in some situations.

So he would keep peeling away the layers that made up Bea's shell—and he was convinced now a good deal of her bravado was a defensive shell created by childhood—and find out who the real Bea was, and what she wanted to become.

 

Bea opened her e-mail, then groaned.

Jaycee walked behind, her rubber soles squeaking to a halt. “What's wrong?”

Bea glanced back and came face-to-face with bright pink fabric and cartoon kitties playing with balls of yarn. “Cute.”

“Hey, dress the part, right?” Jaycee grinned and ruffled a hand through her black asymmetrical hair, which had a mauve streak running down one temple. It was short enough that she never pulled it back except in surgery, and was a little more punk than Bea was used to seeing on women in the area.

She was young, energetic, and so hell-bent on becoming a full-time vet tech, she could taste it. And she thought Morgan was the big brother she'd never had. Bea loved her.

“Did you ever do any web stuff before, when you were working the desk? Have anything to do with the website?”

Jaycee shook her head, then peered over her to the left side of the screen, where Bea had the clinic's website pulled up. “No, Morgan said he had a web guy who did it, and not to worry about it. I didn't push it 'cause coding and all that crap isn't really my thing, you know? I figured I'd only make things worse.” She tilted her head to one side and stared at the screen a bit more. “It is sorta . . . mashed potatoes, hold the gravy, isn't it?”

“If by that you mean boring as heck, yes.” Bea clicked through the few pages. “The shelter has such a small portion of the site, and no dogs are listed, so nobody knows what's available.”

“I do remember Morgan saying every time he had to change something, he had to use the developer, and it cost. That's a lot of change to put down every time a dog comes through here, or is no longer available.” Jaycee shrugged one shoulder, then reached into the bottom drawer of the desk, where Bea had taken to stashing suckers for kids. Grabbing one, she snapped the metal drawer shut again. “Not that it wouldn't be worth it, but it'd be hard keeping up, since the guy only works on it once a month anyway.”

“Sounds like a rip-off,” Bea muttered, and Jaycee laughed.

“Totally agree. But Morgan, he's too busy to bother. Says he'd rather put his time in with the animals themselves.”

Which only made him that much more of a great man. Damn him for that. Bea bit the inside of her cheek a moment, looking over the plain site. It looked like something a middle-schooler would build during computer class with a simple program. “I wonder . . .”

Jaycee smiled a little around the sucker stick. “You're gonna get in trouble, aren't you?”

Bea winked. “Why not? I'm always in trouble for something around here, it seems.” As Jaycee turned to head back toward the exam rooms, she added, “Who does your hair? Is she local?”

Jaycee turned back around and ran a hand once more over the inky strands. “You don't wanna go black, Bea.”

“No, but I do need my hair trimmed, and a highlight wouldn't kill me. I'm not a fan of having to drive two hours or more just for a simple haircut. But anyone local . . . I need someone . . .” She grimaced while trying to figure how to put it delicately.

Jaycee didn't suffer the same problems. “Younger? Born in the same decade as us?”

“That would be it.”

Jaycee grinned and pointed the sucker at her like a teacher with a yardstick. “My friend does my hair. She doesn't work in a shop, just does hair from her house, in a small area she customized in her garage.” At the look Bea sent her, she nodded. “I know, sounds a little sketch, but she's amazing. Likes the freedom of working from home, hates paying for booth space. I'll e-mail you her name. She's great. Certified, trained, licensed, and whatever else beauticians need to be damn good at their job.”

“Don't say, ‘damn,' ” Morgan said lightly as he walked by. “Customers might walk in and hear you.”

Jaycee rolled her eyes for his benefit, but winked and walked on.

“All set for the day?” Morgan asked, bending over her shoulder to see what she was doing. “The website. Something wrong with it?”

“I was wondering . . .” Might as well give it a try. “I wanted to make a few changes. There are some broken links in here and stuff. Do you have the contact info for the web developer guy?”

“Yeah, somewhere. It should be in the main directory in your book.” He named the company, then scrunched his nose. “I usually wait until I have several things to update all at once. Guy charges by the hour and I want my money's worth.”

“Makes sense. I just have a few questions. Nothing big.”

“Sure, yeah. Whatever you need. Web stuff makes my head hurt. I'd be glad for you to take over.” He dropped a kiss to the top of her head while she continued to click through the site and make notes on a notepad. Then he disappeared back into his own office to finish whatever paperwork he could get to before the first patient of the day walked in.