Page 45 of At the Rancher's Pleasure

“That’s the point,” Brett responded. “There is a private ferry available, but the island is mostly accessed by plane and helicopter. There is a landing strip on the undeveloped side for small private planes, as well as a clearing for a helicopter to land. All the supplies, food, water and building materials are brought over from Mustang Point, although I was told, when I was still involved in the project, that the resort always has emergency supplies on hand. If you are planning to visit the resort, they’ll send a driver, in a golf cart or Jeep, to pick you up from either the landing, helipad or airstrip.”

“Far too rich for my blood,” Jules stated. Brett smiled at his prosaic comment, once again grateful that the massive difference in their financial fluidity wasn’t a big deal for the other man. Jules lived a solidly middle-class life and, apart from the days when he was being shot at, loved his job. He enjoyed accompanying Brett on jaunts like this but didn’t resent his toys. Brett felt as at home in Jules’s small house as he did his own. Money wasn’t an issue between them.

Brett spun the wheel and they moved away from the developed side of the island, hugging the coast. “The eastern side of the island is undeveloped and will be the site of the Soiree on the Bay,” Brett told Jules and went on to fill him in on all he knew about the upcoming food, wine and art festival.

Steering around a bluff, he pointed to a pile of wood and the portable toilets that hinted at a construction site. Moving forward, he noticed a crew working on a structure at right angles to the beach...what was that? A stage? It could be.

Brett cut the engines and allowed the boat to bob on the swell. Reaching for a pair of binoculars tucked below the console, he lifted the glasses to his eyes and saw a tall guy walking toward the stage with a clipboard in his hand. Brett wasn’t a small guy but he wouldn’t want to tangle with that tall, wide and muscled foreman. He adjusted the focus on the binoculars and realized that the foreman was Jack Bowden, who’d been given the contract to build the facilities needed for the festival.

Brett handed the binoculars to Jules for him to get a clearer picture of the activities on the island.

Jules followed his lead and after a minute, whistled. “Who’s John Cena?”

Brett smiled. “Jack Bowden. He owns Bowden Construction, and was awarded the contract by the committee to build the stage and other structures needed for the festival.”

“The site looks organized and efficient.”

“He’s not a fool, and I’ve heard he does good work at a reasonable price,” Brett said, remembering that Jack was a newish member of the Texas Cattleman’s Club. “I just hope he got his money upfront from the Edmond family.”

Jules lowered the binoculars and raised his eyebrows. “Finally,” he stated, drawing out the word.

“What do you mean?” Brett asked, as he pulled his ballcap onto his head. He could hear the distant sound of a saw, the thump-thump of a pneumatic hammer. And the gentle smack of waves against his hull.

Jules ignored his question, hit the button to lower the anchor and walked back toward the small fridge on the upper deck. There was a galley kitchen below and sleeping quarters, but since they were just out for the day, they’d put a couple of deli sandwiches and drinks in the smaller fridge on the deck. Jules tossed Brett a sandwich and a bottle of water before walking to the leather bench seats and sitting down.

Brett, seeing the determined look in his friend’s eyes, reluctantly followed his lead, slowly cracking the lid to his water bottle. He knew that an interrogation was coming and, as a result, his appetite had fled.

“I heard about the scene at the TCC,” Jules said, ripping the plastic off his BLT.

“Yeah, so?” Brett belligerently responded.

Jules’s steady gaze didn’t waver. “Rusty’s gleefully telling everyone who will listen that Sarabeth booted your ass. How do you feel about that?”

“What’s it to you?” Brett muttered.

Jules didn’t take the bait, his brown eyes staying on his friend’s face as he steadily ate his way through his sandwich. How did he feel? Brett sighed and rested the cool bottle against his forehead. Gutted? Sad? Pissed? Lonely?

All of the above.

God, he missed her. He missed her beautiful face, the scent of her hair, her wide smile, her raspy, sexy voice. Missed her dirty laugh, the way she called him on his shit, her relaxing presence. He could be stressed to the max, but one hug from her had the tension draining away, his desire to control everything and anything fading.

Through Sarabeth, he’d learned that he wasn’t responsible for other people’s actions and that he couldn’t be a prisoner of things he couldn’t change.

And God, yeah, he missed the sex. But more than that, he missed feeling connected. In all his previous relationships he’d spent so much time looking for land mines, in clearing the decks—making sure the woman in his bed was happy and healthy and safe and secure—that he’d never taken what he needed from the relationship.

Companionship, a soft place to fall. Belonging. Being one-half of a whole. He’d always felt like he was on the outside looking in, but with Sarabeth, he never once did.

“Because I’ve never seen you act this way before. You don’t need me to tell you that you are head over ass in love with her—”

“I’m not!” He’d promised himself he wouldn’t fall into a relationship again, allow himself to love someone again only to have the whole concept go south on him. But had he ever really loved someone or was he confusing that with his need to rejuvenate and repair?

“Dude, stop lying to yourself and admit it,” Jules told him, his voice hard. “You not only love her but you like Sarabeth. So my question is, why the hell are you spending the day with me?”

“Because we’ve been friends since we were ten years old?” Brett asked, his tone deliberately facetious.

Jules gave him his patented,I’m waitingstare. Brett sighed, drained his bottle of water and stared at Jack Bowden’s construction site again. Then he told Jules how he intervened when Rusty grabbed her finger, still trying to make sense of the events leading up to their breakup.

“I told him to let her go, to take his hands off her and the next minute she’s turning on me. She told me that she didn’t need me to save her or protect her, that I didn’t respect her or believe that she could handle Rusty. That she could, and would, take care of herself.”

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