The Rancher's Holiday Hope. Brenda MintonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      “Ready, boss?” Hank, Max’s pilot of three years, asked as Max climbed aboard the Airbus.

      Max shook his head as he reached for the headset. He sat there for a full minute contemplating the stable that he knew to be a wedding venue. He couldn’t walk away. As much as she had irritated him with her unwillingness to hand over the child, he couldn’t leave.

      He’d known when he returned to Hope, Oklahoma, that there would be people questioning his motives each and every time he tried to do something for the people and the town he cared about. But this woman at the wedding venue had given him a whole different vibe. She feared him for a completely different reason and, if he had to guess, he would say he looked too much like his Assyrian grandparents.

      He’d seen the look before. The one of suspicion. But there had been more in her expression. Terror, carefully held in check, contained.

      “I’ll be right back,” he said as he climbed down from the helicopter.

      “Need me?” Hank asked.

      “No, I’ve got this.” He ducked slightly as he hurried away from the helicopter.

      When he reached the building he hesitated, unsure if he had a right to go inside. He could call Isaac West and let him handle this. He could walk away and pretend he hadn’t noticed anything off. He could avoid getting involved because that only led to problems. When a man cared too much, women tended to think long term and not a helping hand.

      He stepped through the door into the large entry with its vaulted ceilings. No noises greeted him. The woman—Sierra—had disappeared.

      He glanced in her office. Empty.

      Next he tried the hallway off the main entry. He heard a noise from a room on the end. As he approached he saw that it was a kitchen. He entered the brightly lit room. It appeared empty. He turned and started to leave. Then he saw her. She was sitting next to a worktable, knees drawn to her chest. There was a stark look of terror in her eyes. Her hands covered her ears and she stared as if not seeing him.

      He approached cautiously. When he reached her, he crouched to the floor and waited to see if she would notice him. Eventually her head turned slowly, her gaze locking with his.

      “Go,” she said.

      “I’m afraid I can’t.” The last thing he wanted was to get involved here. But he knew this feral look. It’s what happened to a person when they’d seen too much, been exposed to too much. But he also knew she saw an enemy as she perused his features, his dark hair. Maybe an hour from now that look wouldn’t be there. But, at this moment, her mind was telling her he was someone to fear.

      “Look at me,” he said. “You know where you’re at.”

      Her fists curled as if she meant to strike out. But then she curled her arms around her knees, hugging them tight as she shook her head. “Go away. Please.”

      “I can’t. I have to make sure you’re okay.”

      “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” she said with a surprising bit of bravado that could have convinced someone else she was just fine.

      “I’m not sure, maybe the look in your eyes when I walked through the door a bit ago. Or maybe the fact that you’re sitting here practically in fetal position.”

      “Maybe I was praying.”

      “Were you?”

      She shook her head, one tear finally slipping free. She swiped at it with a finger.

      “I never cry,” she said quietly, as if to herself.

      “Ah, I see. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?”

      “No, I’m fine.”

      He moved so that his back was against the wall, putting him next to her rather than facing her. He knew from experience that it was best if she didn’t feel cornered. Not his own, but the experience of a good friend. His business partner.

      Sometimes a person just needed space to pull themselves together.

      She breathed deeply and continued to wipe at tears, whether she admitted to crying or not. He got up and made himself at home, finding a cup, tea and sugar. He considered telling her about Roger. Roger had battled PTSD silently, as if it were something to hide, to be ashamed of. Max guessed that to those battling the past, it felt like something to hide.

      It shouldn’t be hidden. A person with any other disease would seek the comfort and help of family, friends, physicians. He had finally convinced Roger of that.

      He made the tea and handed it to her. She studied the cup, studied him. He held his free hand out to her and she shrank back from him. He considered telling her his background. That his grandfather had been an Assyrian Christian minister who’d migrated to America, where they could be free from persecution. Where they could worship without fear of repercussion. Where his wife and daughter would be safe. His daughter, Max’s mother, Doreena.

      Max’s father was a mixed bag of European heritage, like most Americans. He could trace his father’s ancestry to the early colonists.

      But he didn’t owe this woman explanations. She didn’t owe him any, either.

      He was just as American as she was. His grandfather had given them the American dream. He didn’t ever take that for granted.

      He continued to hold his hand out to her, not even considering why he cared. She wasn’t his problem.

      But he knew that if he did leave, the helicopter would start back up and he had little doubt that the sound would push her over the edge.

      She took his hand. Her fingers wrapped around his, firm and strong. He pulled her to her feet and still he held her hand. He found it strangely frail as he clasped it tight, holding on to her as she surveyed her surroundings. She didn’t let go.

      “You’re okay,” he assured her.

      “Am I?” she said softly, taking the tea from him. “Even with all evidence to the contrary?”

      “We all have bad moments.”

      She sipped the tea and walked away from him. “Really? Has anyone ever found you cowering in a corner?”

      “Once,” he admitted.

      She took a seat at the island that ran the length of the kitchen.

      “Really?”

      He sat next to her, saw her stiffen at his nearness. “Yes. Really. Once, when I was about eight. A tornado hit the outskirts of Hope.”

      “You’re from Hope?”

      “That’s what you’re taking from my story? I just opened up to you. I exposed my deep-seated fear of storms.”

      She laughed, the sound soft. “Right. I’m sorry that you’re afraid of storms. Do you still struggle with thunder and lightning?”

      “Sometimes,”