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The plate held a foot-tall stack of blueberry pancakes, with a tiny pitcher of syrup that was warm to the touch and home fries on the side. He picked up the fork and his stomach growled.
Maria paced to the window, gazed out and said, “I’m real sorry, Harry. I’ve brought disaster rainin’ down on you.”
“I don’t blame you for what that guy did,” he said. “And I suspect this breakfast is about to make the whole thing worthwhile.”
She let the curtains fall and faced him. “Take your time in here. There’s a change of clothes waiting in the bathroom, right there. When you’re all set, c’mon downstairs. Willow wants to get the full story from you, while Dad and Uncle Garrett are trackin’ down your car. I figured a tour of the ranch would make the time pass faster, if you feel up to it.”
“Okay. That sounds good to me.”
She bit her lip then her eyes turned intense. “I’m gon’ get your tile back and make all this right, Harry. You tried to help me out, not that I gave you much choice, but I’ll be danged if you ought to suffer for it. I’m gon’ make it right. You have my word as a Brand.”
She left the room before he could come up with a reply.
Harrison sighed, glanced at the plate. He loved home fries in a way he loved few other things. He should call his sister and dad to check in. He talked to them both daily, and they’d worry if he didn’t.
But he figured it could wait until after breakfast.
With his bandages off for a morning shower a short while later, Harrison got his first good look in a mirror. There was a cut across one eyebrow, expertly taped up. His eye was swollen and the eyelid was slightly purple, and there was a tiny cut on the bridge of his nose. That was all the damage that showed, but his head hurt like hell, and his back was none too limber.
The dizziness seemed to ease the more he moved around, though. He put on the clothes he found in the bathroom attached to the bedroom he occupied— his own jeans and a borrowed T-shirt. His own shirt had been laundered and folded and returned to him, too, but it was bloodstained and torn. He put it into the lined wastebasket beside the sink. Then he took the time to send three texts. One to his father, saying their daily phone call would be a couple of hours late and that everything was fine; one to his sister, saying he’d run into some trouble, but everything was fine, and he’d explain when they talked later; one to Carrie Sayre, the most reliable member of his research team, asking herto get the backup prototype from the safe at Cornell and bring it with her to the upcoming demo in Silver City.
She texted back immediately, saying sure and asking why. His sister was also responding with questions, so he told Carrie he would explain later, and focused on Lily, answering in brief as best he could while heading down the stairs in search of Brands to thank.
Harrison: Picked up a runaway bride
Lily: What?
Harrison: The groom caught up. Punched me out and stole my car.
Lily: WHAT?
Harrison: I’m fine. Staying with friends near Quinn, Texas. I’ll Call you ASAP to explain.
Lily: What friends?
Harrison: The runaway bride and her family.
Lily: Huh. What’s she look like? This runaway bride?
Harrison: What’s that supposed to mean?
Lily: Nothing. Call soon. Dad’s asthma is worse.
Harrison: Is he okay?
Lily: For now. Fill you in when we talk. Love you.
Harrison: Love you back.
At the bottom of the stairs, he followed voices through a big living room with a fireplace and a long-eared bloodhound lying in front of it, even though there was no fire at the moment. He went out the front door onto a wide front porch with a swing on one side and two rockers on the other all facing that same view he’d glimpsed from upstairs. A warm breeze wafted over him, and horse scent came with it. In front of the porch, Maria stood with people he might or might not know. A twenty-something young man had dark curly hair under his cowboy hat. The Native American woman beside him was wearing a badge. Willow, from the ride back, he recalled. She was a rookie deputy.
Behind them, four saddled horses nibbled at the grassy lawn. Two were thoroughbreds, one was a prancing black mare with as much nervous energy as a certain runaway bride he knew, and the fourth was a docile chestnut mare with age in her eyes.
He realized his tour of the ranch was going to take place on horseback. Sure, he thought. Why not give the redhead another chance to kill him?
The cousin with the badge and the long black hair extended a hand as he approached. “Hi, again, Harry. I’m Willow. We met in Bubba’s truck, but you were kinda out of it.”
“Harrison,” he said. “I remember you.”
