Back then Abby had been only a child, but she remembered the accident. Her parents had talked about how sad it was. The whole town had mourned. But she’d thought there were no survivors.
“Didn’t the crash kill everyone?” she asked into the silence.
“Not everyone.” A sinister smile tugged his lips. “The boys left families, and I made sure those families never worked in Hope, Texas, again. They raised killers and they should be shunned as killers.”
Abby swallowed again. This was the side of Simon Brewster everyone had warned her about—the ruthless side.
She glanced at her watch and noticed the time. “Mr. Brewster, it’s almost five-thirty,” she said. “I’ve got to go. I promised Mom I’d be on time for supper.”
Simon Brewster turned from the window. “We’re just getting started,” he grumbled.
Abby glanced at him as she stuffed papers and the recorder into her carryall. They went through this every day. He never wanted her to leave. Abby recognized he was lonely. For a man who had so much, he had so little. Hope, Texas, was known as Brewster’s valley—miles and miles of fertile land in the Rio Grande Valley between Texas and Mexico. The land yielded vegetables and fruits that were sold all over the United States. Simon Brewster was a very rich man, yet he had no family, except distant relatives who were just waiting for him to die. Everyone said he’d got what he deserved…and maybe he had. When she’d agreed to write his story, the same people told her she was crazy, and she probably was.
As a child, she’d ridden her bicycle past his mansion with the wrought iron gates. The house was built of white stone and had a red tile roof. Although she’d lived most of her life in Hope, she’d never been inside the house until four weeks ago. It was exactly the way she had thought it would be—elegant and tasteful with a Mexican flavor.
Today they were in his bedroom because Mr. Brewster had been having chest pains, and the doctor had ordered him to take things easy. The room was awesome and the four-poster bed had a headboard, with intricate Mexican carvings, that almost reached the ceiling. A luxurious bathroom and adjoining sitting room gave a sense of space and elegance, but the floor-to-ceiling windows with their spectacular view took pride of place. From his bedroom, Mr. Brewster could see everything that went on at Brewster Farms.
Few people liked Simon Brewster, but most of the town depended on Brewster Farms for a living, so they put up with his bad attitude and bad moods. Just as her father had done. Abe Duncan had never hurt anyone. He didn’t deserve what had happened to him. No matter how involved Abby became in Mr. Brewster’s life, she never forgot that fact. She would find out the truth…maybe not today, but soon.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Abby said, when she realized her mind was wandering.
A shaggy eyebrow shot up in annoyance. “Every time I’m in a mood to talk, you have to run off. Can’t your mother wait?”
Before she could form a suitable reply, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Mr. Brewster called crossly.
Jonas Parker stepped into the room. Jonas was the manager of Brewster Farms. He answered only to Mr. Brewster.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said to Abby as he removed his hat, and her toes curled into her shoes. His voice was low and deep and seemed to come from the depths of his broad chest. Jonas Parker exuded raw sensuality.
His light brown hair was bleached blond by the sun. It was parted on the side, and a lock fell across his forehead when he wasn’t wearing his hat. His features were masculine and well-defined; his eyes, a clear brown. He was well over six feet, and his body was firm and strong as if he knew what hard work was all about. He wore a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and faded jeans that emphasized his long legs.
Her stomach tingled with excitement…just as it had when she was sixteen and Brad Hazelton, two years older than her and popular in school, had asked her out. She was appalled at her reaction. She had sworn off men, love and marriage. Evidently her body hadn’t gotten the message.
Jonas walked to Mr. Brewster and handed him a clipboard. “Here are the orders for tomorrow,” he said. “Twenty eighteen-wheelers will arrive in the morning. We’ll have them packed and out of here by five.”
Jonas was precise. That’s probably the second thing she had noticed about him. He said by five and he meant it. Jonas Parker was a man of his word. For the life of her she couldn’t figure out why she found so many of his qualities attractive. Her hormones were out of whack, she told herself. Time to get out of here.
Mr. Brewster signed the papers. “What vegetables are we shipping?”
“Yellow squash, carrots, onions and the last crop of cantaloupes.”
“You see the job’s done on time.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Yeah, I guess. You don’t give me much to gripe about.”
Jonas took the clipboard from him. “I’m sure you’ll find something.”
“You’re damn right I will,” Mr. Brewster snarled. “You work for me, boy, and I expect loyalty and—”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Abby interrupted, not wanting to sit through one of their many arguments. The two men seemed to hate each other, and Abby didn’t understand why Jonas continued to work for a man who always tried to belittle him. Of course, Jonas gave as good as he got. And she doubted if anyone could truly belittle Jonas Parker. He was too much of a man.
“Run off.” Mr. Brewster waved a hand. “You always do that when I’m on a roll.”
Abby slipped out the door without another word. She hoisted her carryall over one shoulder and her purse over the other. She hurried down the winding staircase, eager to get home. A door slammed loudly, and she jerked around them. Her purse slid from her shoulder to the floor, its contents spilling onto the Mexican tile. She hurriedly picked up her wallet, keys and lipstick, and as she reached for a tampon that had rolled away, a masculine hand, lightly covered with brown hairs, retrieved it.
She straightened to stare at Jonas, and her knees wobbled. A musky, masculine scent filled her nostrils, and her cheeks turned red as he handed the tampon to her. She managed a weak “Thank you.” She crammed it in her purse, expecting him to walk on. He never had a conversation with her. He greeted her politely, but that was it.
“Haven’t you got anything better to do than listen to an old man’s ramblings?”
The attacking words startled her. She slung her purse over her shoulder in a quick movement. “Ramblings? It’s his life story. I’d hardly call that ramblings.” Her voice was cool, belying the heat building in her.
“But how much of it is true?”
Again, she was startled by the question, but didn’t allow her puzzlement to show on her face. “All of it,” she responded. “It’s his life so I assume—”
He cut her off. “Never assume anything about Brewster. He’s asked you to write his memoirs for a reason, and you can bet it has nothing to do with his desire to let the world read about his remarkable life.” With that, Jonas walked past her and out the front doors.
It took a moment for Abby to catch her breath, then she quickly followed. If he thought he could throw that at her and leave her standing like an idiot, he had another think coming.
She caught him on the front steps. “What did you mean by that?” she demanded.
He swung around to face her, the clipboard in his hand. “Are you naive, or what?”