Page 111 of Beat of Love
More silence.
“Once I’m settled in my new place, I’d like the kids to spend a night. Maybe even a weekend.”
“I think they’d like that.”
“Thanks,” he said. “And again, I am sorry, Brandy. For everything.”
They disconnected, and Brandy poured herself a mug of coffee. The sound of running water drifted from the upstairs bathroom, drawing her gaze toward the ceiling. The girls were awake.
She grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch, wrapped it around her shoulders, and picked up her mug. Then came the sound she was waiting for — the light click of nails on hardwood.
Scout appeared at the top of the stairs, and Brandy smiled as the golden retriever made his careful descent, hopping lightly on three legs. Bonnie nosed her way out of Preston’s bedroom, tail wagging.
During the day, the two rescues were inseparable, moving as one. But at night, they parted ways, each loyal to their chosen person. Scout slept just inside the girls’ room, and Bonnie curled up on the foot of Preston’s bed.
Knowing they were going to be away over the holidays, the dogs had spent a few weeks with a foster family before coming to the ranch. It took them no time to settle in their forever home. Brandy opened the front door, and the dogs slipped outside, beelining across the veranda and down to the grass. Leaning against the wooden pillar, she brought the mug to her lips and took a slow sip. The coffee was hot, rich. Comforting.
Her thoughts drifted to her phone call with Richard.
She felt … ambivalent about Richard’s situation. But her heart ached for little Nolan. Barely a year old and already rejected by his mother.
Pity it was always the kids who paid the price when adults screwed up.
Her own childhood was case in point.
She didn’t think about it often, but sometimes it crept in. Growing up with an alcoholic mother had meant walking a tightrope every day. You never knew which version you were coming home to — weepy, affectionate drunk or the red-eyed, plate-throwing fury.
It had almost been a relief when she arrived home one sunny afternoon to the news that her mother had fallen down the stairs. The coroner had recorded her blood alcohol level at 0.32%.
It was a horrible thing to admit, but her mother’s death had been a kind of peace.
No more guessing. No more dread. No more having to brace herself before turning the key in the lock.
But here she was again.
The wondering.
The uncertainty.
This time, it wasn’t about her mother.
It was about Rafferty.
Everything she’d said to Richard was true. She was still hung up on him.
Not because of the Lawson name. Not because of some leftover college-girl fantasy.
Unlike her mother, Rafferty was doing the work. Facing his demons. Trying — really trying — to be whole.
He was complicated. Messy.
But he was also kind. Gentle in ways most people never saw. Just watching him tend to his four-legged girls was heartwarming. The animals seemed to sense the quiet goodness buried beneath his brittle shell.
And despite the resolution she had made on that tropical island to keep her distance, it was hard.
Hard to stay back.
Hard to guard her heart.
