Legacy (Steel Brothers Saga #14) - Helen Hardt Page 0,27
laughed. “You’ll think it’s silly. I was talking to the baby.”
“That’s not silly at all.” She smiled.
“I suppose I should join my mom and Mazie outside.”
“All right.”
I walked out the ornate French doors. Mazie had taken my mother across the yard to where a redwood gazebo stood.
I had to admit that it was perfect for a small wedding.
“We’ll set up chairs here,” Mazie was saying. “No more than fifty. There’s plenty of room for tables and a sit-down meal. Open bar of course, and a champagne toast. I know the most wonderful baker in Grand Junction for the cake, too. I’ve already contacted the minister in town, and Brad and Daphne have chosen their attendants.”
“Sounds like you’ve planned it all out,” my mother said.
“I welcome your input, Lucy. If you want to make any changes…”
“Daphne, does it all sound good to you?” Mom asked.
“I think it sounds lovely.”
“Then it sounds lovely to me. Thank you, Mazie, for putting together such a perfect little event.”
“It’s no problem. I’m thrilled to do it. I don’t have a daughter of my own, so I never thought I’d get to do anything like this.”
My mother nodded, smiling. It was her forced smile. Was she feeling left out?
I squeezed her arm.
She gave me a reassuring nod. “I’ll need a breakdown of the cost. Jonathan and I want to pay for everything.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Mazie said. “It was all my idea. We’ll foot the entire bill.”
“Mom…” I hedged.
“Daphne, please. Mazie, she’s our daughter. It’s our job to pay for the wedding. She’s getting married so young, and this is the last thing we’ll be able to do for her while she’s our daughter and not someone’s wife. You understand, don’t you?”
I stood, rigid. Would Mazie understand? And why was Mom pushing this? She and Dad didn’t have the money, and the Steels did. She knew that.
Seconds that seemed like hours passed with no one speaking. Finally, Mazie broke the silence.
“Of course, Lucy. I understand.”
After a rather tense dinner—though I was able to choke down some spaghetti and meatballs for my little dove—I retired to my room. My mom was using a different guest room on the opposite wing of the house.
I lay in bed, not tired yet, which surprised me. During the past week, fatigue had overwhelmed me—part of the first trimester, my gynecologist had said.
Yes, I now had an obstetrician-gynecologist. Brad had found one in Denver for me—tops in his field, of course. He had me on a strict regimen of prenatal vitamins and extra folate. Lots of green vegetables—which truly made me gag—and a calcium supplement.
Thoughts of Brad consumed me. I missed him.
Hmm. His bedroom was right next door. I got up, walked into the next room, and closed the door. I lay down on his bed.
I inhaled. Woodsy, musky Brad. I could smell him as if he were lying next to me. Yeah, the sense of smell got more intense with pregnancy too. But at least this smell didn’t make me want to vomit. The opposite, actually. It made me feel at home. Comfortable. Loved.
Oh, Brad. I wish you were here.
I walked into his bathroom and looked around. Inside the shower were two bottles of Mane ’n Tail. Horse shampoo! I opened the bottle and took a sniff. Not much scent at all. Just lemony fresh.
The smell of Brad’s hair. His silky dark hair. Perfect.
I walked back into the room. It was larger than the one I stayed in and boasted a little alcove with a bay window decorated with two chairs and a small desk. A perfect place to study or read when he wasn’t at school. I switched on the lamp on the small desk. A few textbooks sat on the desk along with some manila folders.
My eyes zeroed in on the one word written on the top folder.
Wendy.
Chapter Twenty-One
Brad
My weekend of business with my father was definitely business—just not ranch business.
Dad and I met with Dr. Devin Pelletier, the psychiatrist who’d signed the papers to have Wendy committed. We both wanted to make sure she was locked up and out of our lives for at least the year that he’d promised.
I sat in his office with my father during a quickly arranged evening meeting.
“I assure you she’ll be gone for a year,” Dr. Pelletier promised.
“I know that, and I appreciate it,” I said, “but you don’t know Wendy.”
“I know enough from talking to the two of you, her parents, and Mr. Murphy.”