THE DRIVE TO the Baxter residence was oddly quiet. Isabel seemed to be caught up in her own thoughts, staring out the window at the twilit fields. James glanced toward her once more as he turned onto Mr. Baxter’s road. Some cows stood still, sleeping on their feet, and a sliver of a moon rose over them. The fields, which were so green in the daylight, looked gray in the dusk, as if the plains were soaked in darkness. A silvery splash of moonlight shone off fence posts as they rumbled past.
Greg’s comments about Isabel being smart enough to use sympathy to sway people nagged at James. Would she use Jenny for her own benefit? Isabel had admitted tonight that she could still be a shark.
Jenny was vulnerable because she wanted to please people so badly. She wanted to be liked. She wanted to fit in. But she wasn’t stupid, either, and eventually she would sense that Isabel didn’t really like her—if that were the case—and that would hurt Jenny deeply. Jenny went through life with her heart open to the world—she didn’t have the defenses that other people took for granted. For Jenny, it would just hurt more.
“So that Greg guy—” James glanced toward Isabel. She looked up, her dark eyes gleaming in the low light, and for a moment, he almost forgot what he was going to say.
“What about him?”
“He was telling me about how you won Miss Montana.”
She smiled, the scars along her cheek tugging slightly. “My glory days.”
“So how did you win?” He laughed uncomfortably. “I mean, obviously you were gorgeous—”
“It isn’t all about looks,” she said with a shake of her head. “It’s about heart, too, you know.”
“That’s what Greg said.” Sort of. If he’d wadded it up and reformed it. “He said that you were working with war amputees?”
She nodded. “I needed to find a cause. Every girl needs a cause if she’s going to get anywhere in the competition.”
“A cause?”
She shot him a wry smile. “Something to show that you care about more than your own face. Beauty isn’t only skin-deep, you know.”
He chuckled. “So I’ve heard. So you chose war amputees?”
“Well, we had a gardener who was a Vietnam vet, and he’d lost one hand above the wrist. He could still do all the work—he was really inventive that way—and I used to watch him, wondering what I would do if I only had one hand.”
“So he was a friend?” James pressed.
“A friend? No, he was an employee.”
James’s stomach sank. This was sounding a little too close to Greg’s version of things.
“But you knew him?”
“Not really. I’d watched him. I mean, he was the gardener, after all.”
She’d picked a cause and used it for her own purposes. James listened in silence as she talked about how her father had asked the gardener if she could interview him, and how she had come face-to-face with the casualties of war for the first time in her young life.
“What is he doing now?” James asked.
“Who? Greg?”
“No, the gardener. I mean, after you’d gotten to know him and all of that, did you stay in contact?”
Isabel was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. He moved on to another job at some point. I don’t remember. Maybe he retired? He was an old man already. My dad might recall.”
“So this man wasn’t really a personal thing, just…a cause.” He inwardly winced at his barbed tone.
“That’s not really fair.” She glanced toward him uneasily, her earlier candor evaporating. “I was eighteen. What kinds of causes was I supposed to have personal investment in?” She eyed him speculatively. “Those are some mighty big expectations to have for a small-town girl with a wealthy father. No, I didn’t get cozy with the employees. I was the boss’s daughter. I tried to see something beyond my own nose, though, and apparently, it resonated with people at the competition. Is that so terrible?”
Was it fair of him to judge her for playing by the rules of the game? How was an eighteen-year-old girl supposed to have any perspective when it came to causes and world issues? She was a kid—a privileged kid who had never had to face any hardship. He couldn’t rightly blame her for some questionable judgment.
“What did Greg say, exactly?” Isabel said after a moment.
“It doesn’t matter.” He didn’t want to repeat Greg’s criticisms.
“It really does.” She fixed him with a direct stare. “Because you’re not telling me everything, and I have a feeling I’m getting slammed behind my back.”
“Beautiful people always get slammed behind their backs,” he said, attempting a joke, but the humor appeared to bounce off of her.
“What did he say?” Her tone stayed level, and James sighed.
“He said that you have a history of using the sympathy card to win,” he said bluntly.
“That’s part of the competition,” she replied with a shake of her head. “Evening wear, swimsuit, world peace and something that sets you aside from the pack—an ability to sympathize with someone less fortunate that you.”
“Yeah, I get it,” he said softly.
“Do you really?” she retorted. “Because I’d hate to have you wondering if I’m a complete hypocrite, using people for my own devices.”
“I didn’t say that.” He shook his head. “I was just wondering what the story was, that’s all.”
“Why?” She eyed him appraisingly. “Are you worried about Jenny?”
James was silent. He wasn’t sure how to address that last statement, and he couldn’t lie to her, either. He was most definitely concerned about Jenny.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked, surprise tingeing her tone.
He glanced back at her. “It had crossed my mind. Jenny is sensitive—”
“What kind of person would I be to use her?” Her voice cracked and she looked away, her dark hair falling to cover her face.
“Don’t cry,” James said.
“Cry?” She turned toward him again, anger snapping in her gaze but her eyes dry. “I’m not crying. Do you think I’m a woman who sheds tears to manipulate men, too?”
This conversation was getting wildly out of control, and he winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Look, I’m not using Jenny. Did I feel sorry for her after she was treated like a second-class citizen in that restaurant? You bet I did, and when a decent person sees someone treated badly, they do their best to make it right. Feeling badly for someone and then not doing anything about it is, frankly, useless.”
He had to agree, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d just really put his foot in it. “I guess a beauty competition and real life are two different things.”
“What about you?” she pressed. “Have you ever tried a case that you didn’t feel personally connected to? Did you ever defend a client with an argument that you didn’t fully believe in?”
James sighed. Of course he had. That was what law school was all about—learning how to fight for your client and trust the system to balance it all out. It was his legal obligation to give his client every ounce of his expertise. Anything less than that would be unfair.
“I really thought you were different,” she said, bitterness entering her tone.
“Hey,” James said, stung. “You know, it doesn’t really matter what people say about you. What matters is what is true.”
“So I shouldn’t take it so hard when my supposed friends trash me?” she retorted.
“Don’t think I’m one of the people trashing you,” he corrected her.
She remained silent as they pulled into the drive that led up to the house. It was lit up from within on the first floor, and one window on the third floor glowed dimly. He parked in a pool of light and turned toward Isabel.
“I’m always going to be looking out for Jenny,” he said, trying to piece together his thoughts. When it came to forming a legal argument, he could do it in his sleep, but this was about his own personal feelings, and those didn’t come together quite so easily or so gracefully. He swallowed. “I’m her legal guardian. I’m all she’s got, and I’ll be looking after her for the rest of our lives. I worry about her. It’s not easy for her, and I’m that brick wall between her and a very unfair world. I take that role pretty seriously.”
She nodded. “Fair enough.”
“I’m not meaning to take this out on you, and I do appreciate how you’re trying to help her, but just—” He heaved a sigh. “I don’t know how to sugarcoat this… Just be careful. Sometimes things flow along so easily, and they might flow right over Jenny before you notice.”
“I told you before that I would be careful, and that hasn’t changed.”
He could tell that she wasn’t thrilled with him right now, but when it came to Jenny, he couldn’t take chances. His sister got knocked around enough, and he knew her well enough to see that this wasn’t just a part-time job for her. This was something deeper, something that mattered more to her. After tonight, he was convinced that Isabel was tougher than she looked. Jenny wasn’t. She needed her big brother to make sure that she didn’t get caught up in the Baxter machinery, because if there was one thing he knew for a fact, it was that the Baxters got what they wanted. Every time.
* * *
ISABEL TROTTED UP the front steps to her father’s house after James. Her heels tapped lightly against the wood, and she brushed a dark tendril away from her face. So much for all her effort to get dressed up tonight—she’d lasted all of forty minutes at Carmella’s party. And now, apparently James thought worse of her after meeting her friends. That stung. This whole town seemed to be enjoying her downfall just a little too much, and she’d thought James could see past all of that. Maybe she’d expected too much.
Carmella would be miffed at her early escape, and she’d have to make it up to her somehow. With chocolate? It was worth a try. Her problem with James wouldn’t be so easily resolved.
James glanced back at her uneasily, and she realized belatedly that her father wasn’t expecting her—he was expecting his lawyer. Never in her life had she ever worried that her presence might be a disappointment to her father, but things were changing around here, and for a split second, she did worry.
James knocked on the front door, and after a moment, her father opened it. He wore his usual khaki pants and a salmon-colored polo shirt, open at the neck so that his gray chest hair tufted out. His eyes widened in surprise when his gaze fell on her.
“Hello, James,” her father said. “And Izzy. What brings you by?”
“We were together when you texted me,” James explained, and her father turned to look at James with an arched brow. She could sense the questions beneath that look, and she had to curb the urge to roll her eyes. Was this going to be the new norm around here—show up at her father’s house for a chilly welcome?
“I took him along to Carmella’s dinner party,” Isabel explained. “Not that it matters. Daddy, do you always call on James at this hour?”
She’d meant the comment to be a joke to break that layer of ice, but her father didn’t smile. He just stepped back and let them in. Britney was nowhere to be seen, and the house smelled faintly of coffee and toast.
“I’ll just wait in the kitchen—” Isabel said. Obviously, her father hadn’t expected her, and she knew how private he was about business.
“No, no… You might as well come with us,” her father replied with a sigh. “I had wanted to go over all of this with James first, but it does concern you.”
Isabel shot her father a look of surprise, but he’d already turned away and was ambling toward the living room. She looked at James, and he shrugged.
“What concerns me?” Isabel pressed. She followed her father, and James took up the rear. “And what’s with all the mystery lately?”
“Discretion is not mystery,” her father retorted. “It’s how ordinary people deal with personal matters.”
“How personal?” she asked.
Her father muttered something unintelligible and shook his head. “Izzy, you are too much like your mother.”
He said it often, sometimes as a remonstrance and sometimes with tenderness. Today it was the former, but she’d never let her father’s gruffness or ornery temperament put her off. He turned his back on them and went to the couch where he had a few documents spread out over the cushions. He had his ways.
“This.” Her father turned and passed the document to James. “This is a deed. I want it put into my daughter’s name.”
James nodded and glanced down at it. “This is—”
“Yes, the house I promised her from the beginning.”
Isabel looked over James’s shoulder at the document.
“The house where Jenny lives?” Isabel interjected.
“I promised you that house when you were twelve,” her father replied with a shrug. “A promise is a promise.”
James nodded, albeit a bit more stiffly than before. So what did this mean, exactly? Why give her a house that was already occupied? Isabel couldn’t imagine what James must be thinking.
“Dad, if you don’t mind, why not give me another property?”
“Because I’m giving you this one.” His expression turned stubborn. “Didn’t we talk about this already?”
“Not this…” She crossed her arms. “And why now?”
Her father blinked. “Why not now?”
She hated it when he got like this. Her father was a wealthy and intelligent man who felt no obligation to explain his behavior to anyone, let alone his daughter. He would dance around in circles all night if that’s what it took, but he wouldn’t give an ounce more information than he’d already decided upon.
“Look, Princess.” Her father lowered his voice and stepped forward. He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “I’ve let you down an awful lot. This is my attempt to make something right.”
She was too surprised to speak, and before she knew it, her father was escorting them back to the front door. “James, you can take care of the paperwork, I’m sure. In fact, can you bring it back to me tonight?”
“I could—that’s overtime, though, sir.”
“Yes, yes. Just get it done. I’ll sleep better. Izzy, you look beautiful, as always.”
“Dad—”
“Izzy.” His tone grew firmer. “Let me do this. It’s important to me.” His eyes misted for a moment, then he cleared his throat and looked down. “Well, good night.”
“Dad—”
“Good night, Izzy.”
She wasn’t entirely sure of what had just happened, except that she’d been summarily dismissed, and as she and James walked back to his truck, her thoughts were whirling.
“What was that?” she asked once they were in the vehicle once more.
James glanced over at her. “He’s giving you a house.”
“No…” She shook her head. “Why now? What’s the urgency here? I went by to talk to him about the taxes, and I did mention that he’d promised me the house years ago, but you have to believe me that I didn’t want this.”
“It’s okay.” His voice was low and soft.
“No, it isn’t,” she retorted. “My issue with the house was that he hadn’t told me about anything. It’s always like this—he’s always the puppet master.”
James started the engine and pulled out into the drive, the tires crunching against the gravel.
“Maybe he’s trying to make it up to you,” he suggested.
Isabel wasn’t entirely convinced of that. It mattered to her father, she could see that much, but why? She wished she knew. But there was one thing she was certain of: the family business would never be hers while he was alive. That was one thing he wouldn’t share.
“I can refuse the gift, can’t I?” she asked after a moment of silence.
“You could,” James said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. What if this is all you get?”
He’d voiced her own fears bubbling deep beneath the surface. What if this was her inheritance? After being raised to expect only the best, to appreciate quality and luxury?
“My father isn’t about to disinherit me.” She pulled a hand through her hair, tugging it away from her face. “I’m his only child…for now. Why would you say that?”
“I’m not saying that he will,” James said quickly. “I’m talking as your lawyer here. You need to look out for your own future. Your father is remarried with a baby on the way, and he might consider you already taken care of.” He glanced at her, and she thought she saw a warning in his eyes.
“So you think I should take the house?” she clarified.
“Yes. Keep it in your name. It’s paid for, and you will need it eventually. Let your father do this for you.”
“I know this sounds rather spoiled, but I want a different house.”
“This is the one he’s offering,” he said. “Take it.”
It felt wrong. All of it felt wrong. Her father was shifting the balance of power ever so slightly—enough to make a difference in ways she hadn’t anticipated. She was about to own the house that her father had used to do a favor for James. This was putting Isabel very solidly in the middle of their personal arrangement.
“Fine.” She sighed. “You know something more about this than I do.”
“I’m your father’s lawyer. I always know something more than you do. It can’t be helped.”
He had a point there. “What happened to my dad?” she asked quietly. The question wasn’t really meant for him. Too much was changing. Her father was no longer the delightfully grouchy Daddy who solved her problems. He was different, more serious. He saw her differently now, too.
James didn’t answer, and they drove on in companionable silence for a few more minutes. She couldn’t help but resent her father for this. Up until his point, Isabel was simply the Baxter daughter and James was the lawyer. Now, she’d be the charitable landlord for his sister. It gave her power. It made her more than just plain Izzy.
“I don’t want to be Jenny’s landlord,” she said quietly. How was she supposed to explain all of this?
“Why not?”
“It changes things,” she replied. “Between us.”
He smiled over at her. “How so?”
“You know it does. Don’t make me break it down.”
He laughed softly, the sound low and comforting. “Nothing’s changed. You’ll always be Isabel Baxter. I’ve never forgotten that, you know.”
His words stung, and she felt as if her heart suddenly contracted, pulling away from the pain. He’d never forgotten.
Well, she had. For a little while, at least.
Maybe it was better to know it now—she was Isabel Baxter, his boss’s daughter. They’d always been on different playing fields, and that wasn’t about to change. Somehow, though, that reality hurt more than she’d expected it to. She wasn’t going to be Izzy anymore, was she?
She would always be Isabel Baxter of the Meagher County Baxters. A name with a vise grip.