Romance in Rain

"Well, it's raining. He would have liked that." Sandra Delaney nodded once, crisply, as

she looked down at the fresh gravesite where her brother-in-law, Redmond, lay.

Colin Delaney thought his mother was probably right. For as long as he could

remember, his uncle Redmond had spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about

rain—talking about it, speculating about it, measuring it, and bemoaning the lack of it.

Now here it was, raining, as though in his uncle's honor. Redmond, wherever he

was, undoubtedly was enjoying the weather more than the assembled mourners, who

were huddled under umbrellas in the gloom of a February morning.

Colin's shoes were probably ruined. If Redmond were here, he'd have been wearing

size twelve Timberland work boots, most likely. The damned things were indestructible.

Only nine people were gathered around the grave: Colin's parents, Sandra and Orin;

his brothers, Ryan and Liam; Ryan's wife, Genevieve; Colin's sister, Breanna; Breanna's

two sons, Michael and Lucas; and himself. There would be a big gathering at the house

later, and most of Cambria would probably come. But this moment was just for the

family.

"I expect he went the way he'd have wanted to," Orin said, rubbing his nose with

one rough finger. His voice was thick with emotion. "Out there in the pasture, on Abby."

Abby was Redmond's horse, a big Appaloosa he'd been riding for the better part of

fifteen years, though Redmond had been doing a lot less riding of late. Once he'd hit his

seventies, persistent back problems had mostly sidelined him. But for whatever reason,

he'd been on Abby that morning, out in the northeast pasture, when something that was

probably a heart attack had dropped him from the saddle and to the ground.

"Don't know what he was doing out there," Ryan said. He shook his head and

kicked at a rock in the wet grass.

Ryan had been the one to find Redmond. He'd been out looking for a stray calf and

had found Abby in the far corner of the pasture, saddled but riderless. He'd found

Redmond lying facedown in the grass, already gone. Already cold.

Colin could only imagine how that must have been for Ryan. At least, unlike Colin,

Ryan wasn't carrying the guilt of not having seen Redmond in more than a year, of not

having even bothered to call him. Colin stayed in touch with his parents, of course, but

his uncle was a quiet figure in the background, someone he'd asked after but had not

made the effort to reach out to. It had been a long time since they'd talked. Too long.

And now, too late.

The pastor had already said what he had to say about God and heaven and the pain

of loss, and had retreated to his car and then back into town, promising to make an

appearance at the house later in the day. Now, it seemed as though no one in the family

wanted to be the first to leave, even though the steady drizzle of rain was soaking them.

The Delaneys were never the kind to be put off by a little weather. Most of them,

anyway. Colin himself preferred shelter and warmth—just another of the many things

that separated him from the rest of his clan.

If this was a pissing match with his parents and siblings to see who was the better

mourner, he was prepared to lose. Hell, he was used to losing in any comparison with the

rest of the Delaneys. Why should now be any different?

"I'm going to head on back," he said, his voice muffled by the patter of rain on the

grass, in the trees, and on their umbrellas. "I'll see you all back at the house later."

He turned to walk through the grass of the cemetery and toward the parking lot.

Halfway there, he became aware that Ryan was hurrying to catch up to him.

"You could at least stay at the house," Ryan said, without preamble, as they walked

toward Colin's car.

"I like the lodge," Colin answered, looking at his ruined shoes and not at his brother.

"It hurts Mom's feelings, you not staying there," Ryan said.

When Colin did look at him, he saw pretty much what he expected: the scorn of

judgment in Ryan's espresso-colored eyes. He didn't feel like being judged right now,

though he couldn't do anything to prevent it.

Colin let out a sigh and stopped walking. He peered at Ryan, tilting his chin with

defiance.

"I haven't been back home in a year. Not since your wedding," he said. "And if I

stay at the house, I'm going to hear about it—over and over. At least during the wake, I'll

have the crowd for cover."

Ryan gave him a half grin. "I'd like to say that you're wrong, but you're not."

Sandra Delaney wasn't one to hold back her scorn when she felt her children

deserved it. And right now, she seemed to feel that Colin deserved plenty.

"Don't let her get to you," Ryan said, slapping Colin on the back companionably.

"You know she loves you."

"I know."

"Well, all right, then." Ryan turned to go back to where his wife stood with the rest

of the group.

"Ryan?"

Ryan turned, his dark eyebrows raised in question.

"I really am sorry about Uncle Redmond."

Ryan nodded once. "I know you are. And Mom knows it, too."

Colin went to his car and got in, shutting out the pattering chill of the rain.

Colin wondered exactly how long he could hide out at the Cambria Pines Lodge

before making an appearance at his parents' house. He could claim that he had to come

back to his hotel room to change his soggy clothes—and that would be true, as far as it

went.But changing clothes didn't take very long. How was he supposed to account for the

rest of the time, when he'd lain on the bed looking at the ceiling and thinking about

Redmond? Or when he'd gone down to the bar and sat in front of the fireplace nursing a

drink?

It wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with his family. It was just that whenever

he did, the weight of unmet expectations pressed down on him until he felt like he could

barely breathe.

He was a lawyer, for God's sake, and a good one. Since when did earning an Ivy

League law degree at the top of your class and then acing the bar exam make you a

disappointment to your parents?

Parent, not parents, he reminded himself.

It wasn't fair to paint both his mother and his father with that particular brush.

He was certain that his father would prefer for Colin to live in Cambria and work the

ranch, like Ryan did. Like Liam would have done in a heartbeat if he weren't needed to

manage the family's ranch land in Montana.

But Orin had long since gotten over the fact that Colin worked behind a desk down

in San Diego, about 350 miles from home. He'd found peace with it, to all appearances.

After all, Colin might have had a desk job, but that job was to manage the family's

money, and that was no small matter. The Delaney wealth had increased substantially

under Colin's care.

But Sandra wasn't going to let it go.

Every chance she got, she threw around words like family and legacy and loyalty.

She understood why he didn't work on the ranch—his early health problems had

prevented it—but in her mind, that was no reason to abandon his family home. Living

anywhere but here, in her view, was just plain disloyal.

As though contributing to the family legacy in his own way was some kind of

betrayal.

The thing was, no matter where he lived or what he did for a living, it wouldn't have

been possible to get out from under the Delaney shadow even if he'd wanted to; it was so

huge, so all-encompassing, that he could feel it following him, hovering around him,

choking him in its haze of unfathomable wealth, wherever he went.

The Delaneys weren't just ranchers. They were an important family, and nobody,

from his mother, to his brothers, to anyone he worked with day to day, ever let him forget

it.

Colin took a sip of single malt scotch and watched the fire in the big stone hearth. He

felt misunderstood, unappreciated. His mother didn't seem to notice that he was a critical

piece of the goddamned family legacy. He managed the Delaney real estate holdings,

which were vast. The investments, the tax considerations, the property management.

He'd done a damned good job not just protecting the family's assets, but adding to them

—significantly.

But the family had a hierarchy, and at the pinnacle of it were those who regularly

mounted a horse and got their hands dirty with the cattle.

On the next rung down the ladder were those who either had already given Sandra

grandchildren or who were planning to do so in the relatively near future.

Colin met neither of those criteria, so when it came to maternal acceptance, he was

shit out of luck.

Comfortable and warm in front of the fire, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and

checked his e-mails. He'd accumulated ten in just the past hour, at least five of which

could probably be considered urgent.

Normally, he wouldn't let a thing like grief stop him from working, but today, he

just couldn't get his head in the game. He composed a boilerplate message stating that

he'd be unavailable for the next few days on urgent family business, and sent it to all of

the relevant parties. Then he checked the time. People would be starting to arrive at the

house. His family would be wondering where he was .

He signed the bar tab to his room and was headed out of the bar and toward the

lobby when he heard his name.

"Colin? There you are, son."

He looked up and saw Clayton Drummond coming into the lobby from the parking

lot, folding a dripping umbrella and hailing Colin with one thick, age-spotted hand.

"Clayton. I'd have thought you'd be at the house by now," Colin said. He felt a little

uncomfortable to be caught out this way—seen wasting time when he should have been

out at the ranch mourning his uncle with everyone else.

"Yes, well, I'm headed out that way momentarily. But first, I wanted to have a word

with you."

"With me," Colin repeated, as though he might not have understood correctly.

"I heard you were staying here, and I was hoping I could catch you so we could chat

in private. About your uncle's will."

Colin paused for a moment to absorb the information. Though his uncle had decided

on Clayton rather than him to handle his will—a decision that had rankled Colin at the

time—he couldn't imagine there was anything in there that would surprise him.

Redmond had never been married and had no family other than the people who had

been gathered around the gravesite that morning. Colin figured it was a fair bet that

Redmond's estate would be split up among the family, or maybe it would all go to the

senior Delaney: Orin.

It was always possible that Redmond had some pet charitable cause none of them

knew about, or that he'd done something crazy like leaving everything to his horse. If so,

that was fine by him. Colin didn't need an inheritance. None of them did. There was

more than enough money to go around, even without Redmond's share.

Colin was just about to suggest that the will could wait—they'd just buried

Redmond that morning, for God's sake—but he could see from the look on Drummond's

face that it couldn't. Drummond's eyebrows were drawn together in a pained look, as

though his shoes were pinching him. He was fidgeting with the umbrella, which was

dripping rainwater into a puddle on the floor.

"Well, all right, then," Colin said, gesturing back toward the entrance to the bar he'd

just left. "Why don't we have a seat?"

At least, whatever the issue was, it would delay his arrival at the house.

That had to count for something.

When Colin and Drummond were settled in at a round wooden table near the

fireplace, Colin turned to the older man.

"So, what's this about? From the look on your face, I'm not going to like it."

Drummond picked up a drink napkin that had been left on the table, folded it

carefully in half, and then placed it back on the table, avoiding Colin's gaze.

"I wanted to give you a heads-up about something now, before it gets out some other way. I figure it'll be better if your family hears it from you." Drummond shifted

uncomfortably in his seat.

"Well, get on with it, then," Colin said, not unkindly. It was clear that Drummond

was bearing some kind of burden, and he wanted to give him permission to lay it down

before the man buckled under its weight.

Drummond hesitated.

"You're not going to tell me that Redmond left his money to Abby, are you?" Colin

said, attempting to lighten the mood.

"No," Drummond said, without a hint of a smile. "He left it to his son."

Colin went still.

"Redmond didn't have a son."

Drummond pressed his lips together into a hard, white line and looked at Colin with

equal measures of regret and sympathy. "It turns out, he did. Young man by the name of

Drew McCray. He'd be, oh, I guess about twenty-nine by now."

"Twenty-nine," Colin repeated.

"Yes, sir."

There were so many details to be filled in, so many questions to be asked. But for the

moment, Colin couldn't ask them. He could only sit back in his chair and run his hands

through his dark hair, perplexed by the information he'd just been given.

"Redmond never married," he said at last. "Never even had a girlfriend."

"That you knew about," Drummond put in pointedly.

"But … if he was involved with somebody …"

"She was married," Drummond said. He pulled off his glasses, which had become

speckled with moisture from the rain, and began cleaning them with a handkerchief he'd

pulled out of his pocket. "He didn't want to break up her marriage by going public. And

he didn't want anyone to think less of him."

"This is … Jesus," Colin said. It was about all he could manage. Colin had lived in

the same house as Redmond for eighteen years—had sat at the breakfast table with him

every morning and at the dinner table with him every night. And never, in all those years,

had Colin gotten even a hint that his uncle had a son.

Colin rubbed his forehead with one hand. "I think we'd better order some coffee, and

you'd better start at the beginning."