True Love at Silver Creek Ranch(43)
She winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Naw, it’s okay,” he interrupted. “I did have a childish view of friendship then, that friends would do whatever I wanted, back me up, whatever I said. It took the Marines to show me that I was the one who had to prove I was good enough, to show that I would give my life in loyalty to my brothers.” He thought of those brothers, of Paul and Eric and Zach, and so many others who’d died because they believed he couldn’t make a mistake.
She stared at him solemnly, as if sensing his troubled thoughts. “Adam?” she began uncertainly.
He waved a hand. “Sorry. Lost my train of thought. Have a good Thanksgiving, Brooke.”
Thanksgiving had been hectic but wonderful, Brooke thought, as she finished up the last of the dishes with Josh. The day had been filled with football, turkey preparations, then a great meal. Nate and Emily had been practically glued together all day, arms around each other or holding hands, making Brooke feel happy but a little jealous. They looked into each other’s eyes and saw a future together. It must be so wonderful to be a part of that.
But not right now, she reminded herself. She had to figure out some things on her own, without the complications of a romance.
Adam’s grandma had come to dinner dressed as a Pilgrim, making everyone laugh. Brooke had thought that Adam was probably relieved not to be seen with her in her outlandish getup.
But that wasn’t fair. He loved her and tolerated all her eccentricities. She knew Mrs. Palmer had been more a mother to him than his own.
She kept thinking about Adam as she wiped down the tables, turned out the kitchen lights, and went to her room. Nate and Emily had left, escorting the widows home, and Josh was out in his workshop. Her mom had been tired though she protested it wasn’t true, so her dad had retired to their room with her.
And Brooke was left to stare out her window at the bunkhouse. The lights were on low, firelight flickering.
Had he eaten supper? During the meal, she’d thought of him just across the way, and as if reading her mind, Mrs. Palmer had told her Adam had promised he was going into town for a bite. Wistfully, Mrs. Palmer had added she hoped Adam could find some nice young people to be with.
But Brooke stared at the bunkhouse and wondered if he’d lied about going into town.
She remembered the spartan condition of the cabin when she’d bandaged Adam’s face after the fire. Did he have anything in there but his clothes? And then she imagined what his Thanksgivings had been like growing up, with two parents who didn’t care about him, let alone worry about making the holiday special for him. He’d gone into the Marines, where Thanksgiving was spent far from Mrs. Palmer, his only true family.
And Brooke had agreed that she didn’t want him at Thanksgiving dinner. She groaned aloud at her selfishness.
Without questioning what she was doing—or why—she put together Thanksgiving leftovers, kitchen and bath towels, soap dispensers, condiments, and some snacks. She didn’t feel sorry for him—he would hate that. But he’d moved onto her family’s property, and it was Thanksgiving.
Bundling up, she left the house quietly and walked across the yard, carrying her bags, with only the moonlight as her guide up the lane between pastures. The wind swirled around her and stole her breath, and she was shivering even under her coat when she walked across the porch and knocked on his door.
He opened it so fast she was startled.
He let his breath out and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I heard footsteps and . . . old habits.”
She stared at him, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Behind him, he had a roaring fire going in the stone hearth.
“Can I come in?” she finally asked.
He backed up, and once she was inside, shut the door. He looked down at the bags. “Going somewhere?”
“Here.” She kicked off her boots and carried the bags to the kitchen table.
He followed her. “I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t go anywhere for supper, like you promised your grandma, did you?” she asked, throwing her coat on the back of a chair and beginning to unpack.
His silence was an answer.
She glanced at him. “You didn’t want to see your grandma as a Pilgrim?”
He winced, a smile beginning to curve his lips. “Oh believe me, I saw.”
“You must have been traumatized. So I brought you some leftovers. And . . . other stuff.”
He glanced at the bags, then said with amusement, “Housewarming gifts?”
“Oh, please.” She turned her back and started unpacking, and felt vindicated when he picked up one of the plastic containers.