The pain obviously had to do with his parents. She wasn’t sure if she should push him and get him to open up again or if she should just leave him. One of her major personality flaws was a need to make everything better, everyone happy, even if it was at her own expense.
She’d already showered and was limping around trying to find her cleaning bucket, to no avail, when she felt warm hands brace her shoulders.
Jumping a foot, she nearly fell against the wall before turning around and facing Brock.
The lines on his face seemed more pronounced. He’d never appeared old to her, but in that moment he seemed…haunted.
“Jane, I’m so sorry,” he said again, hanging his head.
She shrugged. “We all have our things, right?”
His expression didn’t change. Instead he just stared at her, as if she was a complicated math problem, or a Rubik’s Cube. His frown deepened. “Jane, it’s more than that, it’s—”
“Death,” she whispered hoarsely, looking down at her shoes.
Brock nodded silently, his chin dipping toward his chest before he exhaled and reached for her hand. “Come on.”
She let him pull her away from her work because being with him, being there for him, this complicated man, was the most important thing she could think of doing.
He wrapped an arm around her and helped her walk toward the end of the hall until they came to the master suite.
“My parents’ room.”
She gasped. “I’m staying in your parents’ old room?”
His nod was jerky as his eyes roamed from left to right, as if it was too painful for him to look at any one thing for too long.
He’d cleaned up the glass on the floor but the plaid shirts remained, along with the stuffed dog.
She hobbled over to the dog and picked it up, holding it close to her chest.
“One of my dad’s last gifts.”
“I wouldn’t take you as a stuffed animal kind of guy,” she said with a bit of humor, squeezing the dog against her chest.
“I was twelve.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “My parents were often away on business, so my dad always gave me a stuffed animal before he left, a different guard animal each time. I was always so stressed about the responsibility of taking care of my brothers that my dad said it was only fair I have someone to look after me, too, for me to lean on.”
Pain sliced through Jane’s chest. “What about your grandfather?”
“He’s so strong. Always has been.” Brock shrugged. “I felt weak telling my grandfather it scared me every time my parents were gone, that every time I waved good-bye I was afraid it would be the last.” His smile was sad. “My greatest fear eventually happened. I gave power to it, and it destroyed us all.”
“Bullshit.” The word escaped Jane’s mouth before she could stop it.
“Jane, you don’t understand. My dad gave me my dog before he broke the news that we were moving. I said some ugly things, horrible things. I told him no. I told him I wouldn’t do it. I threw the dog at him. Said I hated him.” Just repeating the words seemed difficult for him, like he was re-living the moments over again.
“I still call bullshit,” she said in a strong voice.
Brock’s eyes widened a bit.
To be honest she surprised herself a bit, too.
Hugging the dog closer, she shook her head. “That’s stupidity at its finest and you know that.” Her heart broke for the boy who had held this dog close then thrown it out of anger. Of course he was angry. The ranch had been one of his favorite places. She knew that now.
“Do I?”
“Yes.” She turned on her good leg and poked him in the chest. “Believe what you want, but accidents are just that: accidents. And I highly doubt your parents would want you sitting here mourning their loss rather than living your life.”
He blinked. “And what would your parents say?”
She gulped, her nostrils flaring. “I took over the family business. I’m pretty sure my dad would be proud.”
“And what about the sister situation?”
She broke eye contact. “We all have our weaknesses.”
“Is it bad, do you think,” he asked, pulling her into his arms, tilting her chin up, “that both our weaknesses just happen to be family?”
Jane slumped against him. “I had really good intentions. Good intentions that turned into this habitual need to make sure everyone around me was happy.”
“Everyone except you,” Brock pointed out. “Because I highly doubt you’re happy making toast for two bitchy sisters.”
She smirked. “They are bitches. But they’re my bitches.”
He chuckled softly. “Don’t be angry, but hearing you say that kind of turned me on.”
She swatted him with the dog and pulled away. “And you? Do you think your parents would be proud of the way you’ve allowed your grandfather to rule your life?”
“I think…” He paused. “They would be proud of the way I’ve kept the family together, and kept the twins out of federal prison, yes.”
“And your happiness?” She glanced over her shoulder. “What about that?”