Chapter 7

After she put in an order for groceries that would be delivered to the Barrington home later that day, and after she'd put up the advertisement for a new housekeeper/cook on the grocery store's giant cork message board listing her new TracFone number, it was time to head back to the pickup.

With a few bags of items she'd purchased, she walked toward the spot where Jacob Barrington had parked the pickup. She was relieved she hadn't bumped into him all that time, but now she was a little worried that he might've left without her.

As she strolled along the over-decked walk, she saw that his giant pickup was right where he left it. Good. He was probably busy with some business that was taking longer than he'd expected. Then again, they hadn't been in town more than a half hour.

Satisfied that he hadn't left her behind, she set her bags down and took a seat, crossing a leg over the other with lady-like poise, on a public bench near the truck. From her position, she wouldn't miss him when he returned. In the meantime she could kill some time by having a look in that big orange envelope.

She opened her bag and took it out and briefly weighed it in her hand. It felt very packed. There was clearly more than one letter. She slipped a slender thumb under the flap and carefully opened the lip of the orange envelope before she reached in and pulled out a few stamped envelopes, and then a letter from Gordon Shaw which explained from whom those letters were.

She was happy to find a postal money order with a nice amount from him, as well. Among the few stamped envelopes that Gordon had included, there was a letter from her brother, Reginald, among them.

"Of course he'd know I'd have contact with Gordon," she whispered.

A bit concerned, she opened her brother's letter and discovered that it had been written some six months ago. She felt her fingers tremble as she carefully unfolded his letter that was written on their company letterhead paper.

"Dear Isabella,

I don't know if this letter will ever reach you, but I'll hope and pray it will. I must say, it's not been a simple task convincing your devoted and loyal friend, Gordon Shaw, to forward this letter to wherever you now may be. I hope all is well with you, for that is not the case with us.

Father and the family are rife with worry about you. Your immature decision to up and leave without so much as a good bye over six months ago has placed undue and unnecessary stress on us all.

We are all worried sick about you. We feel that you've not shown the maturity and dignity becoming of a Boucher, and are still puzzled why you felt you needed to do this. It's been a disappointment to the entire family, as I'm sure you know.

However, this letter is not to rehash what's been done.

The sole purpose in writing this letter is to inform you the man you have accused of harassment is set to marry this July, on the 25^th. If he is the reason for your fleeing your home and your family, then you can be rest assured you no longer have to continue this senseless wandering. On behalf of the family and Father, I am asking you to return home and end the suffering you have put upon us all, but most specifically, Father.

I beseech you, return posthaste.

Enclosed is a sizable amount in the form of a postal money order. You can cash it at any United States Post Office or bank. If you are in need of more funds, call me on my private cell phone. You know my number. Call any time, day or night. I will instruct my assistant to wire more funds to you.

Finally, I also want you to know that Father's health is ailing, and we all believe that it's due to his endless worrying about you. For him, if for no one else, do the only right thing and come home.

Godspeed.

Your brother always,
Reginald A. Boucher"

She reread the letter again and again. Each time she did, she grew increasingly concerned. Although Reg had written as many accusations and words of spite he could possibly fit in those few paragraphs, he at least found enough space to mention the state of their father's health although it seriously and annoyingly lacked in details.

Although she knew that their father would suffer in worry when she had made the decision to leave their home, she never guessed for a single moment that it would affect him physically.

Her father, Andrew Reginald Boucher, was known for his strong constitution, but the sudden death of his wife had to have affected that very constitution dearly. It had nearly brought him to his knees. Apparently, though, and if Reginald is to be believed, her leaving without a word only exacerbated an already compromised immune system.

She sighed. She felt incredibly guilty ... again.

"Well, Reg, you've succeeded in getting the reaction out of me you wanted," she whispered as she quietly folded up the letter and slipped it back into its envelope and then back that into the orange envelope as she fought an inner battle.

She was torn inside. She really didn't want to return to Louisiana in the event that Charles DeVille decided against marrying whoever it was he was able to fool to become his wife. And although the thought that he was getting married in about two weeks should lift her spirits and remove the pressure from her now—because he appears to have moved on—she still felt that old fear and terror just thinking about being anywhere near him where he had easy access to her.

Then there was the added fear that Reg had written one of his low-key letters, downplaying the seriousness of their father's ailing health. It could very well be far graver than he was letting on. She was certain it wasn't the common cold!

She knew she should call to find out the true status of her father's health. She really wasn't sure she wanted to, though, because although Reg claimed that his cell phone was safe and secure, she knew out of past experience that Charles was a clever man. She was afraid that he'd somehow find a way to wire-tap Reg's cell phone since her brother didn't have the healthy distrust for Charles that he should. She didn't want to risk to have Charles find out where she was.

In the past, her brother had always taken Charles' side against her and her mother. Of course, Reg didn't know what Charles had done to her, and since the two have been best friends ever since they were boys, she doubted he'd believe her if she told him that his best friend had a very dark side. She was certain that had Charles slipped up just once, her brother would have a change of mind, but Charles could be absolutely charming if he so chose and he was in such control of his emotions—like a sociopath—that she knew there was no way he'd make a mistake and unmask the true him. He even had his own parents fooled so how difficult could it be for him to fool a friend?

Reg's letter did something else, too. It reminded her that she was still very much homesick. The pain and sorrow she had suffered in the past year since she'd been on the run had suppressed her homesickness, but every now and then it would rear its ugly head—as it did now.

She hated Charles so deeply, more than she ever thought she could hate another human being on this Earth. He made her do this. He chased her away from the only home she's ever known, making her flee across the country, struggling to survive, to finally end up here, in Bellville, Texas, as a domestic at a cattle ranch. He forced her to have to hide her true identity. For nearly a year, she'd been forced to live a lie.

A teardrop splattered on the orange envelope, making the ink run. She sniffled and wiped her eyes with her fingertips as the pain she thought she had under control, trickled through her carefully built wall. It tore her up inside. She was now more than ever tired of running. She missed her old life, her home, her mother's house where she could find her in each and every piece of furniture, her mother's oil paintings and hand-sewn drapes. She missed her mother's gardens. She missed her father.

"Lord save me, but I hate you, Charles DeVille. I hate you..." she whispered through her tears before she tried to finger the stream away as her tears came with a little more vigor. Passersby were quietly looking at her now, feeling her sorrow. She smiled uncomfortably as she tried to finger away her tears and dry her eyes, hoping to get herself under control before Jacob Barrington returned.

But it was too late.

A hand holding a clean blue bandanna appeared in her visual periphery. She froze with fingertips still under her wet eyes before she slowly raised her head and looked up at Jacob's unreadable face shaded by his cowboy hat. It was as if time suddenly stood still.

She knew there was no hiding her distress from him now. Not a chance. Not the way she'd been bawling! Her long wet eyelashes dropped as she stared at the proffered bandanna in his bare hand, and she sniffled once before she took it with ginger fingers.

"Thank you, Jake," she said with a teary voice and began to dab her eyes. She only paused with her embarrassing task when he moved and turned before he seated himself on the bench and calmly stretched out his long legs. The public bench wasn't that long to begin with, so he was sitting closer than was comfortable for her.

She slowly rolled big eyes to him and saw that, from under the brim of his hat, he was looking straight ahead of them. At least he wasn't staring at her. Looking at him now, it was as if he'd stepped out of history, straight out of the Wild West. He looked rugged, handsome, mysterious, unpredictable, and with a no-nonsense attitude and self-confidence that was so rare those days. She could easily see him sitting in some 1800's saloon playing a risky game of poker. Frankly, he looked more gunslinger than cowboy.

"You eat sorrow by the spoonful, Bella," he finally said, shaking his head.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't know you from Adam's off ox, but I know one thing for sure," he looked at her, "whatever it is that's ailin' you, you can't keep runnin'. Sooner or later, you're gonna have to take a stand and face your fears."

She turned her head and looked down at her lap. She wanted to deny anything was bothering her, but she couldn't very do that now that he caught her weeping. So she sighed and shook her head.

"I wish it were as simple as that," she said softly.

He turned his head and his gaze briefly softened on her. "It is," he said quietly. "You just gotta quit your runnin' and stay put."

She swallowed. "Thank you. I-I intend to," she lied.

He looked at her graceful profile for a few moments, seeing that she knew he was looking at her, but she didn't look back at him. "Ready to head back?"

She finally lifted her head but she didn't raise her eyes to look at him. "Yes." She was about to get up when he suddenly bent and took her bags for her. It was a gentlemanly gesture, and nothing out of the ordinary, really, but she suddenly found herself caught in a world filled with just Jacob Barrington. It was a brief moment, but it was enough to affect her and she closed her eyes for a moment.

"Thought you said you were ready?"

Her eyes quickly opened and she went red in the face. "I-I-I am," she stammered, a little out of breath, and quickly rose to her feet before she looked sheepishly at him. Lucky for her, he'd already turned and was leading the way to the pickup truck. She watched for a few moments before she softy sighed and then followed.

He unlocked the door for her and set her bags on the floor before he stepped aside. Then, and unlike what he'd done back at the ranch, he held out his hand to her. As rattled as she was at that moment by that unexpected but not unpleasant effect his closeness had on her, she didn't think and put her hand in his bare hand; skin touching skin ... strong meeting delicate...

The sudden touch of his warm large hand against her fingers and palm sent a bolt of electricity through her, and she shuddered. She stopped and she quickly looked at him, seeing him quietly staring at her. Once again she felt as if time stood still. Then, as she descended from this heavenly place, she felt color rise in her cheeks. She quickly got in and seated herself but kept her eyes down as he closed the door. She only lifted them to peek over the dashboard, and watched as he rounded the front of his truck before he opened the driver's side door and got in behind the wheel. By then, she'd turned her head and was looking out her window.

She sat quietly on the far side of the bench again as he leaned forward and stuck the key into the ignition, soon bringing the heavy engine to life. Then, as she dabbed her face a little more with his bandanna, she paused when she heard the soft ringing of keys. She looked up to find him holding out a bushel of keys to her and immediately recognized them. They were the keys to her Rover.

She quickly looked at him, seeing him watching her with unreadable eyes. Then she looked at the bushel that he held out to her, and quietly took them, and watched as he leaned forward and shifted before he backed out of the parking space.

"Thank you," she said softly as she slipped her keys into her macramé bag. He didn't say anything as he concentrated on traffic, but even as they drove out of the city and back to the ranch, it was all done in silence.

After an eventful day, she decided to retire early to her room. No one questioned her need to retire early since they were all well aware that she still needed to rest. But that really wasn't the reaason. She simply had a lot to think about.

Most of what she had to think about was Jacob Barrington and the affect he was having on her. To her surprise, it wasn't all unpleasant. In fact, she realized that she was feeling more for him than she should. She was feeling strange stirrings that were alien to her and what she thought she could never feel for a man after what Charles had done to her.

Earlier that afternoon, Doctor Bennett had dropped by as promised, and he had told her that she should get more rest. Her blood pressure checked out fine although he believed she was too skinny and she needed to eat more. He also made an appointment to see her at his office in a couple of days so they could begin with tests.

She really believed it was overkill, but it seemed to bring John Barrington some comfort that Doc was looking after her, so she agreed.

Earlier that day, she was able to find two soft blue cotton nightgowns that were more suitable for her environment in both texture and style, but she still had to wear her nightgown from the night before. She never liked wearing anything that hadn't been washed and tumble-dried first, so she decided that when everyone had retired for the evening—and she was happy that they retired early—she'd go into the laundry room and wash and dry her new clothes and underthings.

That evening, when the house was still, she took her small bundle of laundry and headed for the laundry room. She washed her things and was now waiting for the dry cycle to finish. She decided it was a good time to try and call her brother. He was still up around that early hour so she wouldn't be calling him out of bed. Unfortunately, the signal inside the laundry room was weak.