Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (5 page)

She couldn’t abide liver.

She couldn’t abide tofu.

But that hadn’t seemed to matter to Phillip. Just as, a few years later, the marathon scores would drop by the wayside as well.

“That man is here again.”

Bronte started, twisting on the bed to find Kari looming over her like one of those vultures in a Snoopy cartoon. Her daughter must have retrieved her bag because Kari’s hair was carefully arranged and her makeup firmly in place. She was wearing her favorite tight jeans and at least three layers of shirts. Obviously, she hadn’t figured out yet that the chances of her meeting anyone she could impress with her efforts were slim.

“You look nice,” Bronte said, her voice still thick with sleep.

If Kari heard the compliment, she gave no indication.

“Grandma doesn’t have Wi-Fi,” she said, disbelief coating every word.

“I wouldn’t imagine that she would,” Bronte mumbled in return. If Annie refused to buy presliced bread, Bronte doubted her grandmother had an iPad stashed away somewhere.

Kari stamped her foot in impatience. “How much longer before we head home? I don’t like it here. There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do.” Her voice rose siren-like into a frustrated whine. “All my friends are going to school activities and their parents have promised to take them somewhere great this summer—and I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere in a creepy house that doesn’t even have Wi-Fi! It’s lame!”

“Get over it,” Bronte mumbled in return, ignoring her daughter’s petulance. Yawning, she settled deeper into her pillow. But her eyes had only been closed for a second when they popped open again. “What man is here?”

“Jack, Jess, Jethro . . .” She shrugged. “You know . . .”
she mumbled, distracted by whatever game was on her iPod “. . . that guy who took us to the hospital last night. He’s downstairs making breakfast.”

“There’s a man doing
what
downstairs?”

“Making breakfast.”

As soon as Kari’s words sank into her consciousness, Bronte sprang out of bed as if she’d been touched with a cattle prod. “Do you mean Jace Taggart?” she asked frantically, searching for her overnight bag. “Jace is making breakfast? How long has he been here?”

Kari shrugged. “I dunno. Half hour maybe.” She paused her game and grinned, meeting Bronte’s gaze in a rare moment of eye contact. “But his hired hand is
hot
with a capital
H-O-T!
”

“Kari!”

“Just sayin’.”

“Where’s Lily?”

Kari shrugged, saying, “I dunno. It’s not my job to keep track of her.” Then, she wandered from the room with the same blind indolence that she’d begun using since Phillip had bought her that damned electronic device years ago. It was a wonder to Bronte that her daughter hadn’t fallen down a manhole somewhere. Kari seemed to take it for granted that the universe would protect her while her mind roamed the infinite diversions to be found in a sixteen-gig hard drive.

As soon as Kari disappeared, Bronte scrambled to gather her clothes and rushed into the bathroom. With the smells of food permeating even the steam of her shower, she made the world land-speed record getting ready. Granted, she’d never make the finals in a beauty pageant. But she managed to tame her dark, wavy hair into a ponytail and throw on some makeup. Since they’d been on the road for days, her wardrobe selection was limited, but her jeans were clean and the white T-shirt wasn’t too wrinkled.

She galloped down the stairs, slowing only on the last few treads so that she didn’t run headlong into the kitchen.

When she crossed the threshold, Jace looked up from where he was frying eggs in a cast-iron skillet, and the
intensity of his gaze had the ability to bring her to a stuttering halt.

Geez
. The man had cut a powerful figure in the dark, but that was nothing compared to the way he looked in stark daylight. Jace Taggart was tall and lean with powerful shoulders and thickly muscled arms. His T-shirt was worn, clinging to him in a way that hinted at a chiseled chest and abdomen. Below the wrinkled hem, his long legs were lovingly sheathed in faded Wranglers.

Phillip wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing Wranglers. He was more a proponent of designer jeans, which was a shame. But then again, Phillip wouldn’t have looked nearly as good in the fitted denim. Jace Taggart had a tight ass and long, long legs and—

Stop it, stop it, stop it!

Tearing her gaze away, Bronte forced herself to concentrate on something else—the sunny yolks of the eggs in the skillet, the deftness of Jace’s fingers as he handled the spatula. The long, slender fingers, and the—

Seriously?

“Feel free to start eating now, if you want.”

Bronte bit the inside of her lip to keep her mind from leaping to an entirely inappropriate interpretation of Jace’s remark. But she must have betrayed herself somehow, because Jace offered her a slow smile that caused her stomach to flip-flop like a landed fish.

She yanked her gaze away from Jace, only to discover that on the counter beside him was a platter heaped with bacon—
heaped!
Her mouth watered at the sight. Turning, she saw a table positioned beneath a large picture window. It was already laid out with paper plates, cups, and utensils. There was a carton of orange juice, a tower of toast, a bowl of crisp hash browns, and inexplicably, a plate of carrots with a small cup of ranch dressing.

“Sorry, my culinary skills are strictly from the frozen-foods section,” Jace said as he scooped the eggs onto a dinner plate and carried it to the table. As he bent to set it down, Bronte was able to see that his jeans had begun to mold
themselves to the shape of his butt and the bend of his knees. The man had a really great butt.

What was wrong with her this morning?

“I hope you don’t mind the way I made myself at home,” Jace was saying. “Annie and I have slipped into a habit of having breakfast together, and I figured you wouldn’t have had much time to figure out where everything is.”

Bronte quickly yanked her gaze away from Jace’s backside. “No. I don’t mind at all.”

Mind?
She couldn’t remember the last time—if ever—that someone had taken the time to cook for her. Right now, staring down at a hot breakfast straight out of a
Waltons
rerun, she knew that if Phillip were here, he’d be complaining about the three “Deadly Cs,” carbs, cholesterol, and calories. But she didn’t care. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation of solid food rather than the coffee and diet soda that had been her mainstays during their hasty road trip.

Suddenly eager, Bronte leaned into the hall to call, “Kari, Lily! Breakfast!”

The side door squeaked open and a tall, gangly teenager stepped inside. He had a shock of brown-black hair that hung straight and thick into his eyes, pimpled cheeks, and a frame so long and lean he appeared more legs than body. He kept his gaze downcast as he moved toward Jace, all but hiding behind a paper bag bulging with groceries.

“You can put the sack on the counter, Barry.”

As the boy moved forward, she could see that he used his whole body to propel the motion rather than merely his leg muscles.

“Do you want me to put the stuff away, Jace?”

Barry’s voice was curiously monotone and measured, and Bronte immediately realized that the boy suffered from some sort of disability.

“No, you can leave it there.” Jace gestured to me. “Say hi to Mrs. Cupacek. She’s going to be staying with Annie for a while.”

From behind his bangs, Barry directed his gaze to a point off Bronte’s left shoulder.

“Hi.”

She smiled, sensing that his stress levels had ratcheted up to infinity at being forced to talk to her.

“Hello, Barry. You can call me Bronte.”

His gaze skipped to Jace. “Why is she named after a dinosaur, Jace?”

It took her a moment, but then she realized that he had linked her name to a brontosaurus.

“I’m actually named after an author. Charlotte Bronte.”

Again, his face aimed in her direction, but his eyes remained a few feet off center.

“Why?”

She laughed. “I don’t know. My parents were looking for trendy names for me and my siblings. Each of us is named after an author.”

Clearly, Barry didn’t see the logic in that. “I think you’re named after a dinosaur.”

Grinning, she shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”

Jace touched his brother lightly on the shoulder. “Breakfast is ready. Why don’t you go see if Tyson is finished with Bronte’s car and tell him to come inside?”

Barry nodded, shuffling out the door. “I’m going to go get Tyson, Bronte.”

When he moved out of earshot, Jace said, “Sorry about that. Barry has no edit button. He speaks his mind.”

She watched the boy through the lacy curtains. “I like that in a person.”

She felt, rather than saw, an air of tension ease from Jace’s posture. His eyes, when they met hers, were clear and direct. Where last night, the color had been tinged with gray, in the morning light, they were a sparkling, lake blue.

“Barry nearly drowned in a car accident when he was ten years old. The resulting brain damage has left him . . . ten years old, for the most part. But he’s a good kid.”

A kid trapped in a body burgeoning on manhood.

“He lives with you?”

Jace turned to the refrigerator, gathering a family-sized bottle of ketchup and a mason jar filled with homemade salsa.

“Mostly, although he spends a good deal of time with Elam, my elder brother, and his girlfriend, P.D. My parents and little sister were killed in the same wreck. Elam was stationed out of the country at the time and my younger brother Bodey wasn’t old enough to see to himself, let alone anyone else, so I took care of Barry.”

Bronte was speechless. She’d thought that her problems seemed insurmountable at times, but she couldn’t imagine negotiating such a devastating tragedy on her own. If her scrambled, mental estimations were even close to being true, Jace had probably been in his early twenties when he’d assumed the responsibility of both younger brothers.

She was saved from a response by Kari who clattered down the staircase and burst into the room. “Are we going to eat, or what?”

“Barry has nothing on my daughter’s lack of an edit button,” Bronte said under her breath, and Jace laughed.

A
S
if a silent dinner bell had been rung, Lily skipped down the stairs, and then came to a halt in the doorway. As soon as she saw Jace, her guard was up, even though she remembered him from the night before. She eased up to Bronte, wrapping her arm around Bronte’s waist and shielding herself from full view behind her mother’s body.

“Morning, pumpkin. Did you sleep well?”

Bronte felt Lily nod against her.

Barry burst in from outside, followed by another tall, gangly teenager with a shock of wavy blond hair and an infectious grin.

“Car’s fixed,” he announced, sliding into the chair beneath the window.

Jace gestured to his hired hand with a serving spoon. “Bronte, this is Tyson. Tyson, that’s Bronte Cupacek and her daughters, Kari and Lily. They’ll be living here for a while. Kari and Lily, this is Tyson and my brother Barry.”

Bronte watched as Kari nearly dropped her iPod, giving Tyson—who had to be at least nineteen—one of those half-flirting, half-gobsmacked smiles of an adolescent who found
herself right in the middle of a raging crush. Since Bronte had made it clear to Kari that there would be no dating, no boy-girl parties, no coed socializing of any kind until she was sixteen, she lacked the social skills to pretend to be casual. With barely a glance at Barry, she chose the seat next to Tyson, her iPod miraculously tucked into her pocket so that she could nervously fluff her hair.

Bronte fought to keep a straight face, finally turning to draw Lily toward the table. “Have a seat, pumpkin. We don’t want things to get cold.”

When Lily hesitated, Bronte sat next to Kari and pulled Lily down in the chair beside her. Too late, Bronte realized that she should have arranged for Lily to sit in the middle. Being forced to sit next to a stranger was tantamount to torture for Lily. But before Bronte could offer to change seats with her, Barry looked at Lily—really looked at her. Apparently, his shyness only extended to adults.

“Annie has a tree house out back,” he blurted. “It’s high. Really high. I can show you after we eat.” He made the offer to include Kari as well.

Bronte cringed, anticipating a crushing reply from Kari, but she merely stared at Barry as if he’d lost his mind to suggest something so juvenile, so
plebeian,
as a tree house.

Lily, on the other hand, peeked at Barry in curiosity, clearly intrigued by the idea. Her gaze bounced to Bronte as if seeking permission and Bronte rushed to reassure her. “I think that’s a great idea.”

“We could go now, Emily,” Barry said. “Do you want to go now?”

Bronte opened her mouth to correct Barry, to tell him her daughter’s name was Lily. But in doing so, she caught the way Jace seemed to freeze, his eyes locking on Barry.

“Lily probably needs to eat first,” she said slowly, wondering at the sudden undercurrents in the room.

“We can eat in the tree house, Emily.” He turned to Jace. “Can we eat in the tree house, Jace?”

Jace cleared his throat before speaking. “I don’t know if Bronte—”

Seeing her daughter’s own eager expression, Bronte interrupted with, “Sure. I don’t see why not.”

As if they’d been friends for years, Barry and Lily jumped to their feet, each of them scooping a handful of bacon into their napkins, then heading for the door and slamming it behind them.

Silence seemed to flood into the vacuum of their absence. Then Tyson announced, “Jace, it appears the carrot curse has been broken. Now you’ll be cooking bacon for a month.”

Confused, Bronte looked at Jace in time to see him grimace. But before she could ask for a translation, Tyson continued, “Well, I’m starving. Someone pass the potatoes.”

In an instant, the awkwardness was broken. As bowls were sent her way, Bronte filled her plate with more food than she’d probably eaten in a month. It was as if the sun streaming through the window and the old familiar smells of country cooking were reawakening a part of that teenage girl who’d once spent her summers here with Annie.

Tyson clearly had never encountered a stranger in his life, because he filled her in on the happenings in town. Jace and she finished their food and nursed the last few drops of orange juice while Tyson finished his second plate of food . . . his third . . . and his fourth—all of them liberally dosed with salsa. Through it all, Bronte noted that Kari watched him eat as if he were Zeus on Mount Olympus and she wanted to feed him grapes. Much to Kari’s disappointment, seconds after he’d finally finished eating, Tyson abruptly grabbed an International Harvester’s hat with
FRIENDS
DON’T LET FRIENDS D
RIVE GREEN
emblazoned on the front and stood.

What did that mean?

“Thanks for breakfast, Jace. I’ll triple-K the angle field. She should be done by”—he looked at his watch—“ten?”

Jace nodded. “Brandon and Jess should be here by noon so that the three of you can start working on the ditches. Once Scottie gets out of school, we’ll start drilling alfalfa down by the Rudds. It’s probably the only field dry enough.”

“Will do.” Tyson touched his brim. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cupacek.”

Kari looked miffed at not being included in Tyson’s farewells, but her pride was saved when Tyson said at the door, “You and your sister should come to the ranch sometime and check things out.”

“I will!”

Kari’s response was much too eager, but Tyson was already halfway across the yard. She watched him climb into a dilapidated Toyota pickup and drive away in a spray of mud. Then she whisked her iPod out of her pocket. But seconds after turning it on, she squealed in frustration.

“There’s no Wi-Fi!” She turned to Bronte in patent desperation. “Can’t I have a cell phone? Please,
please
,” she whined. “All my friends have one.”

“No.”

“Then can I use your cell phone to text McKenzie?”

“Why don’t you call her?” Bronte said wryly, pointing to the telephone bolted to the wall.

Pure horror crossed Kari’s face. “I can’t
call.
No one does
that
anymore.”

“I do it all the time.”

“Mother!”

Clearly, Bronte was asking the impossible—such as insisting Kari perform brain surgery with a rock.

“Fine,” she relented. “But we’re going to the hospital in a few minutes, so make sure you’re ready to walk out the door.”

She hadn’t even finished her sentence before Kari was racing out of the room and tearing up the staircase—probably to update McKenzie on the ranch hand-slash-mechanic who was
H-O-T!

“You may have a problem on your hands,” she said to Jace, envisioning a summer when Kari trailed behind Tyson like a lovesick zombie intent on devouring his brain.

“Not as much as you’re going to have,” Jace said, his tone rife with amusement.

She laughed. “You’re probably right.”

Bronte wondered how on earth she’d come to this point—from utter misery . . . to laughter. No, her problems hadn’t
magically melted away—and the darkness was there, hovering at the edge, threatening to swallow her whole.

But right now, a little bit of sunlight had touched her soul.

As if sensing the serious veering of her thoughts, Jace leaned back in his seat, resting an ankle on his knee and laying his hand on his boot. “So you’re going to see Annie?”

“As soon as I can clean up the breakfast things. It’s the least I can do after you’ve spoiled us this morning.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t do anything but crack some eggs and tear open a bag of potatoes.”

She wanted to tell him he’d done more, so much more. But to do so would require an explanation of how she’d come to be in Bliss, and she wasn’t ready to bare her soul to anyone about that.

“I’ll take charge tomorrow,” she insisted. It wasn’t until the words left her mouth that she realized she’d tacitly extended Annie’s invitation to meet for breakfast every morning. What shocked her even more was that she wanted Jace to come.

And Barry, she quickly amended.

Jumping to her feet, she quickly began to gather the dirty dishes, wondering if she’d overstepped her bounds—or lost her mind. For all she knew, this man had a wife or other responsibilities waiting at his own home. He might have met with Annie only to discuss business matters concerning the ranch, and such obligations wouldn’t extend to Bronte.

But before she could work herself into a dither, Jace said, “I’d like that. Sounds like Barry would as well.”

From outside, there was the peal of laughter, Barry’s a lower tenor and Lily’s a staccato soprano.

“Barry must be showing Lily the tire swing,” Jace said as he rose and peered out of the glass set into the door. “Yup. He’s got her going pretty high, too.”

Another high-pitched giggle shimmered through the air and Bronte couldn’t account for the relief that swept through her body. Lily had been so somber and introverted lately. As much as Bronte had tried to keep the children unaware of the problems between Phillip and herself, Lily had somehow sensed the dark undercurrents. It was the only
explanation Bronte had for the way her darling, chattering magpie had grown so serious and withdrawn.

It was her peal of laughter and the muted excitement of Lily’s voice as she cried, “Higher!
Higher!”
that made Bronte realize that she’d done the right thing in coming to Bliss. It didn’t matter that the proverbial shit would hit the fan, or that Phillip would be on the rampage as soon as he discovered what she’d done. If she could help her daughter to laugh again . . .

There wasn’t anything Bronte wouldn’t endure.

“So you’ll be staying awhile?” Jace said, somehow providing an echo to her thoughts.

She nodded. “Yes. Yes, we will.”

“I’ll be sure to let the hospital know. I don’t think there will be a problem, since you’re family, but Annie gave me power of attorney in regards to medical issues a few years ago. Just in case.”

Her brow creased. “She gave you power of attorney?”

Again, Bronte felt a wave of guilt. Her grandmother, her sweet, loving grandmother, had felt the need to make arrangements with a neighbor rather than her own family.

Jace’s expression was kind. “I assumed she thought that having someone close was more practical.”

Yes, if there was one constant in Grandma Annie’s life, it was her practicality. But the fact that she couldn’t trust one of her grandchildren to come to her aid stung nevertheless.

Jace threw the plates and cups into the garbage. “She’ll probably need some long-term care once she’s well enough to leave the hospital,” he said, speaking the words with forced lightness as if he were walking through an emotional minefield. “If you’ll let me know what you’d like to do, I’ll be sure to tell—”

“She can come home,” Bronte interrupted firmly. “She’ll
want
to come home.” Annie would hate going from one clinical setting to another. Like most folk her age, Grandma Annie fiercely fought to remain independent. That meant living in her own house. “If she needs a nurse to visit, that’s fine, but I’d like to take care of the rest.”

She saw a spark of approval in Jace’s eyes. “I’ll let them know.”

As if realizing the enormity of what she’d volunteered to do, Bronte cast a keen eye over her surroundings. Although the kitchen was clean, it was cluttered—and she had no doubts the rest of the house would prove to be the same. There was no way Annie would be able to negotiate the stairs. That meant moving her bed to the first floor and ensuring the lower bathroom was adapted to her needs. She would need a ramp for a wheelchair, which meant the front stoop would have to be altered and the banisters repaired . . .

“You look as if your brain is galloping ahead at breakneck speed,” Jace said with a grin.

Gripping her hands in front of her, Bronte surveyed the kitchen, making note of all the things that needed to be fixed in this room alone. “There’s so much to do!”

Jace set the bottles of ketchup and salsa in the fridge, closed the door, and touched her arm. She couldn’t account for the way that simple point of contact caused a warmth to spread through her body, easing away the icy chill that had been there for days.

“You came at a good time—if the weather holds, we’ll have the corn in by the end of next week, and we’ve had a wet enough spring that the water won’t be sent down the canals until mid-May. Barry, the hired hands, and I can help with the physical stuff. You concentrate on all that female ruffley stuff.”

Bronte arched a brow. “‘Female ruffley stuff’?”

His cheeks took on a hint of red. “Oh, wow. That came out sounding pure male chauvinist pig, didn’t it?”

The fact that he’d recognized his error and so quickly corrected it immediately eased her pique. Phillip wasn’t one to apologize. He said it made a person look weak.

“What I meant to say,” Jace said, clearly choosing his words more carefully, “is that if you’d like some help with your plans, the boys and I would jump at the chance to do something nice for Annie. She’s been a good friend.”

Good save.

Since the offer put control back into her hands, Bronte found it easy to say, “I’d like that. But I’d like to do something to thank you for your help. Is there anything I can tempt you with?”