“But I am,” Paul said, and winked at her. “Like we always say, wind and Raine—”
“—thunder and lightning,” Logan finished. “She’ll get over it. She’ll have to.”
He led Bailey to the car, then called back to his friend, “By the way, you’re coming to dinner. Bring wine. The good stuff, we’re celebrating!”
A moment later, they were back in the Porsche, heading away from the barn. “What did you think of Paul?”
“I liked him. It’s your sister I’m worried about.”
“Raine’s emotional, that’s all.” Logan maneuvered the vehicle up the winding gravel drive, the grounds changing from manicured to wild.
“Emotional?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Wind and rain, thunder and lightning?”
“Like I said, temperamental.”
“And possessive of you?”
“Very.”
“And August’s a son of a bitch.” Bailey mock-moaned and brought her hands to her face. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”
“Remember, Paul’s nice.”
“Thanks for reminding me, but I still have the feeling I’m screwed.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“You’d better, since you got me into this.” They left the sun behind. Under the canopy of trees the temperature dropped, and she huddled deeper into her coat.
They came upon another set of gates, smaller this time with no insignia. He reached across the seat and caught her hand. “Excited?”
She nodded and he drove slowly through. The brick walls that surrounded the property looked a century old, though from what he’d told her, the house had been built less than fifty years ago.
Bailey caught her breath as the house came fully into view. She’d expected a Southern plantation or a manor house, not this sprawling … hacienda.
She told him so and he corrected her. “Spanish-style cortijo.”
“Cortijo,” she repeated.
“Farmhouse. My mother named it Nuestra Peque?a Cortijo. Our little farmhouse.”
“Has it occurred to you, there’s nothing little about it?”
“You didn’t know my dad. He wanted a grand, French country manor, Mom had other ideas. As you see, she won him over.”
She heard the sadness in his voice and squeezed his hand. “I love it already.”
He parked. They climbed out. She stood a moment, drinking it in with all her senses. It smelled earthy and alive. But it was so quiet. Just the rustle of leaves, chirp of the birds and water trickling in a nearby fountain.
“It feels like we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“Our own private world.”
He grabbed her hand, lacing their fingers. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”
At the front door, he scooped her into his arms and carried her across the threshold. “Welcome home, Mrs. Abbott.”
As he set her down, he kissed her. She clung to him, wondering how this had happened, how her life had become the fairy tale she had fantasized of as a young girl but given up on.
“You’re crying,” he said as he released her. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m just so happy. I just … I thought you’d never come.”
“But here I am.”
For long moments, they simply gazed into each other’s eyes, then he led her from room to room. Like an eager little boy, showing off his treasures. The place was magnificent. Both rugged and elegant. Cutting-edge convenience and old-world charm. Large windows and exposed brick. Reclaimed cypress doors and heart-of-pine floors; state-of-the-art electronics and Viking appliances in the country-style kitchen.
She crossed to the French doors and peered out. A lush courtyard, she saw. Complete with a pool, outdoor fireplace and the fountain she had heard from the drive.
She looked over her shoulder at him to find him carefully watching her. “I think I know where I’m going to be spending a lot of my time.”
“Other than the barn, I remember it being my mother’s favorite spot as well. Come, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
Moments later, he swung open a door. “My study.”
Bailey stepped in, stopping at the painting that dominated the room. A portrait of a woman and a horse. The woman was beautiful, with dark hair and light skin, her mouth was curved into a small secretive smile identical to Logan’s. Somehow, the artist had caught the bond between horse and his master.
“It’s your mother.”
“You look just like her.” He circled his arms around her and drew her back against his chest. “This is the way I remember her.”
“She was lovely.”
“She was.” He rested his chin on her head. “The horse’s name is Sapphire. She raised him from a foal.”
Bailey recalled what he’d told her. That horses had been his mother’s passion; that she’d ridden dressage, making the U.S. team for the 1980 Summer Olympics.
“Did she medal in the games?”
“She did. Come see.” He led her to the mantel. There, displayed in a shadow box were several photographs of a young Elisabeth Abbott competing and the Olympic bronze medal she had won.
“She gave up competing after. Married Dad, had us. Devoted her energy to training young riders.”
“Is this the same horse from the portrait?”
“No. Sapphire was his offspring,” he said softly. “He died the same year she did.”
At the pain in his voice, a lump formed in her throat. His mother had died tragically young. Bailey didn’t know the details, only that she drowned. Logan had been almost sixteen, Raine ten. He’d promised to share the details someday; she’d agreed, they had their whole lives to learn about each other.
Someday. It had seemed so far away a few days ago. Now, here, surrounded by his mother’s things, it had arrived. Bailey longed to know everything. About his mother and everything else that had helped shape the man she loved.
She opened her mouth to ask, but as if sensing it, Logan drew her away. “Come, I’ll show you the upstairs.”
Three bedrooms, she discovered, including the master. Each with a balcony that looked out over the courtyard and pool.