Million Dollar Stud. Meg Lacey

She stared at the dusty black pickup parked outside the stables. Where had he come from? Her father had told her a bit about him, but not much. Why didn’t her father realize that managing Braybourne Farm was all she’d ever wanted to do? Since she was a little girl, she’d dreamed of what she would do when the farm was hers.

      She turned from the pickup and stared at her home. She’d gone to the University of Kentucky, not far from here, and done the things expected of her—studied hard, joined a sorority, cheered the Wildcats on to victory, met the right people, then later got socially involved in the surrounding community—all in an effort to show her father how perfectly she would perform as the head of Braybourne Farm, given the chance. When her brother Brett had left a year ago she’d felt it was her time. Or so it had seemed. Her father had started turning to her more and more to talk over decisions. Silver felt as if she was making great strides. Until Harden fell from the horse and had decided to settle her future.

      Settle her future! For God’s sake, she was only twenty-six, but to hear her father tell it, she was well on her way to mummification.

      And now there was Rick Darcy.

      She glanced over her shoulder at the dusty truck, imagining him behind the wheel, the image so strong that she shook her head. Not that Daddy would ever encourage her to look seriously at him—he was rather feudal on some issues, and breeding and family lineage were among them. She could respect his views because he was her father, even as she disagreed with the principles behind them. But her own inclinations might be the real problem, she thought. She hadn’t the vaguest idea why she was responding to Darcy so immediately and strongly, but she was. Maybe it was because she sensed he was different, much different from the men she knew. At her first sight of him standing in their barn this afternoon, feet planted as if he owned the place, he’d immediately gotten her back up. The fact that he had the hot come-and-get-me-or-it’s-your-loss-baby type of good looks was as annoying as it was enticing.

      Swearing under her breath, she headed toward the fence that separated the drive from the landscaped grounds around the house, then stalked up the flagstone path. At least she’d recovered her cool enough at the end of their encounter to give Rick Darcy a good warning. He’d know better than to mess with her from now on. She kicked at a clump of dirt, muttering, “Why did Daddy have to hire him, anyway?”

      With a frustrated huff, she stopped to cool off near one of the old, towering oaks that shaded the house. She had the unnerving feeling that things were spiraling out of her control. She didn’t like that. Regardless of how she often chafed at the restraints of tradition, she liked making plans and knowing where she was going and when she expected to get there. But now, as she looked at her home, she felt an element of uncertainty, of expectation. It no longer seemed a safe haven—not since Darcy had arrived on the scene. She rubbed the area between her brows, trying to erase the tension that had collected there. There was no reason for her to get bent out of shape. Her father had reassured her that the man was temporary, just until Harden’s health improved. But Silver had doubts that her father would ever return to his former capability, which made someone like Darcy even more of a threat. The thought saddened her. Her daddy had been such a big, marvelous presence in her life for so long. It was difficult to watch age creeping up on him, even though the process had been very gradual until this recent accident. His strength of will might still be powerful, but his body was beginning to decline.

      She leaned back against the tree trunk. For the first time she looked at her childhood home and wondered if she was strong enough not only to save it, but to bring it to the glory she imagined. Suddenly, doubt crept in where previously there had been only confidence—thanks to a man with raven coloring and a bold, marauding attitude.

      Silver sighed. Memories rushed through her mind as she studied the place. It was a clapboard ranch house that had been added to over the years. It wasn’t an architectural gem, but it was home—and had been since Cecil Braybourne settled in the area and decided to build a shack and put down roots. The roots had grown with each generation, until the entire farm seemed to be embraced into the landscape.

      As she stared, her mother came out of the front door onto the broad front porch. She had a colander in one hand, a saucepan in the other and a dish towel slung over her shoulder. Silver smiled affectionately. Her mama was as small and seemingly delicate as her father was large and outspoken. To the outside world, Agatha Sweet Braybourne might have seemed a pushover with her polite manners and soft-spoken voice, but Silver knew better, as did her friends. Aggie, as Silver’s father called her, was as malleable as a hunk of diamond. Silver felt the power of her mother’s personality when Aggie walked to the edge of the porch and looked across the yard at her.

      “Well, young lady, are you planning to become part of that tree or just hold it up?”

      Silver automatically straightened from her slouch. “Neither one, ma’am—just thinking for a minute.”

      “Well, come over here and help me snap these green beans while you think.”

      “Okay.” Silver strolled up the path and climbed the steps, walking over to the porch swing. She joined her mother, who immediately set the saucepan in Silver’s lap and placed the colander in her own. Silver grabbed a handful of beans and started snapping. For a moment they sat and rocked gently, saying nothing, listening to the sleepy sounds of a late summer afternoon in the country.

      Silver began to relax as her fingers performed the familiar homey chore. “Mama…”

      “Hmm?”

      “How did you first meet Daddy?”

      Aggie grinned. “I accidentally crowned him with a baseball.”

      “What? I didn’t know you played baseball.” Somehow she couldn’t picture her mother with a baseball bat. She was more the horse and tennis type.

      “I didn’t. Harden was eleven years old and so full of himself that my little eight-year-old self just couldn’t stand it. We were at school and he was playing baseball with some friends. The ball had rolled off the field and over to where I was watching. He pointed at the ball and said, ‘Hey, throw it back, you dumb girl.’ Showing off for his friends, you know. So I picked up that ball and threw it as hard as I could.” Aggie laughed. “Well, I had more strength than aim. That ball took off like a bullet. Unfortunately, it slammed right into his forehead instead of his hand. He went down like an old oak.”

      Staring at her mother in amazement, Silver gasped. “My God, Mama, what did you do?”

      “I sent one of his friends for the teacher and sat down beside him and pulled his head into my lap. He had a knot already starting to swell. So I smoothed back his hair, kissed his cheek and told him he’d better not die on me ’cause he had to marry me when we grew up.”

      Silver blinked and snapped another bean. “Was he conscious? What did he say?”

      “He said, ‘Over my dead body, you dumb girl.’ And I said, ‘If that’s what it takes, Harden Braybourne, consider it done.”’

      “And Daddy just went along with this?”

      Aggie smiled that secretive smile that only another woman can really recognize and understand. “Now, Silver, when did you ever know your daddy to go along with someone else’s idea? It took me twelve years to convince him that it was his idea in the first place.”

      Silver laughed. “How’d you know Daddy was the one for you?”

      Aggie shrugged. “Sometimes you just know, honey.”

      Silver thought about that for a moment. “Are you sure?”

      “Well, I did, so I have no reason to think otherwise. Why are you asking?”

      To avoid her mother’s searching gaze, Silver looked down at the growing pile of green beans in the saucepan. “No reason, just curious.”

      “This wouldn’t have anything to do with John Tom Thomas, would it?”

      “What makes you think that?”

      “Because I know how much your father