hinted at. âYou donât have to tell me. Iâm just curious,â he said easily, as if he hadnât spent sleepless hours pondering the many possibilities.
âYou know what happened to the curious cat.â Still teasing, although more warily this time. At least she hadnât walked away. Yet.
âAre you a local?â
âOur family had a small acreage about an hourâs drive west of here,â she said carefully. âI lived there till I was seventeen.â
âWas that when your father died?â
She took a measured sip of her coffee. âThat was two years later.â
âYour mother?â
âShe died when I was little. I barely remember her.â She put her mug down with an abrupt click. âI donât know if youâre really interested in my family history or if this is breakfast small talk, so Iâll keep it brief. My father brought us upâmy brother and meâwhich wasnât so bad, because we both happened to love horses and they were Dadâs life. Jonno was killed when I was fifteen, and things went downhill from there. I stayed as long as I could, but when I got a decent job offer, I left.â
âSometimes leavingâs best for everyone.â
âWell, my father sure didnât think so.â She swirled the remains of her coffee around the mug, a small sad smile on her lips. âObviously he wasnât as forgiving as Joe.â
âHe was tough on you?â
âYes, but he also taught me how to work and about self-discipline.â She lifted her chin, defied him to take issue.
âSeems to me youâre too hard on yourself. Maybe you needed someone to teach you about lightening up, having fun.â
âIâve tried that. Itâs overrated.â
Nick wondered if that was what her father hadnât forgivenânot the leaving home, but what she had done in those yearsâand what his lack of forgiveness had meant to her. âWhat happened to your fatherâs place?â he asked on a hunch.
She shrugged, but the gesture seemed awkward. And telling. âHe left it to someone else.â
A father gutted by the death of his son, a daughter who tried to fill the gap but felt she had failed, who maybe ran wild for a couple of years. And her bitter, tough, unforgiving father gives away her heritage.
It explained a lot about the woman sitting before him. Her self-contained strength, her vulnerability, how she worked her butt off, as if paying some sort of penance.Her reluctance to accept what she thought she didnât deserve.
âAnd this is why you donât want to accept your part of Yarra Park?â
Determination hardened her expression. âItâs not right. Joeâs family should have it. I know how they must feel about this.â
âJoeâs family is getting plenty. Believe me, this is nothing like the situation between you and your father.â
âButâ¦â
âAccept it, Tamara. Itâs what Joe wanted.â
âBut you said you would consider taking my half.â
âI said Iâd think about it, and I will. Are you this stubborn about everything?â Man, he hoped not. He had less than two weeks to change her mind, and he didnât mean about the inheritance.
âStubborn?â She pushed herself off her stool, a faint smile curving her lips. âAs a mule, Joe used to say, but only about things that matter. Now, letâs go find you a pitchfork.â
Â
The next five days rolled out smoothly enough, with Nick dividing his time between the stables and the office. Although he made no overt moves or provocative comments, tension simmered beneath the artificial surface of civility, despite her attempts to keep the mood light and easy. The flame had been turned down to pilot, but one quick flick of the switch would kindle the inferno she had felt that night in the moonlight.
Eight more days, she thought with a resigned
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