Heated. Niobia Bryant
continued down the stairs.
“We’ll talk when I get back. You and Trishon visit or go shopping or something.”
Hank climbed into his battered pick-up truck and Trishon flittered down the stairs behind him.
Bianca watched as he leaned over to pull his wallet out his back pocket and handed some bills into her eager hands.
As he drove away, Bianca felt like that same teenager whose father ignored her all over again. The first time he saw his daughter and already he was off with something else—anything else—to do. She released a breath as if to release the pain and disappointment she felt.
“Trishon, I’m just going to head up to my room,” Bianca said, jogging down the stairs to pop the trunk of her vehicle to remove her suitcase.
“Actually, I, uhm, converted your old bedroom into my dressing room years ago,” Trishon said, folding the money he gave her to push into her brassiere.
“Oh, okay, well, please show me where I’m staying,” Bianca said through tight lips before climbing the stairs.
“Third room to your right, top of the stairs.”
Bianca turned to see Trishon climbing into a red BMW. The woman said nothing else and just reversed the car in an arc before accelerating forward in a flurry of dust.
Disgusted with them both, Bianca entered the house. She had barely closed the front door behind her, however, before she froze where she stood. “Sweet Jesus. What… in… the… hell?” she whispered in shock.
Gone was the French country décor that Bianca remembered to be replaced by a design style she could only name “gaudy chic”—leopard print rugs and throws, crimson slashes of material that made the room look like it was bleeding. Leather. Beads. Glass. Metal.
Bianca just rolled her eyes heavenward. Had her father lost his ever-loving mind? Had she for returning to this chaos?
She climbed the stairs, her suitcase in her hand, mindful of the changes Trishon made to what was once a beautiful, classy home. The woman had accomplished changing it to a remake of The Best Little Whorehouse in South Carolina. But she was not here to judge, no matter how bad she thought Trishon’ taste was. In two weeks she’d be back in her more… sedate … Atlanta home, living her own life.
Trishon had assigned Bianca to her mother’s old sewing room, but any traces of that were gone. It was replaced by every possible shade of purple satin—or was it polyester? Everything from lilac to violet. It looked like the room threw up purple.
She didn’t even bother unpacking. She decided to take a look around the ranch because her father wasn’t home to give her access to his books. Without even changing out of the vintage jeans, tank, and sneakers she wore, Bianca jogged back downstairs and left the house.
The barn—which was the centerpiece of the business—was a good mile down from the main house. Bianca decided to walk it and headed in that direction. She was anxious to see the horses and meet the ranch hands.
Growing up, King Equine Services had been one of the leading horse ranches for the boarding and breeding of horses in the low country. They used to have a waiting list for people looking to purchase a horse bred and trained by Hank King. He was known for his method of humane and effective training approaches for horses. He seemed to have an affinity for horses, probably through heredity—his own father started the ranch—and through trial and error.
That love of horses and other animals had been passed on to Bianca; thus, her career as a equine vet. She, too, seemed to be blessed with an innate ability with animals. Being a vet gave her the opportunity to make a good deal of money and lots of respect in her field, but she was also surrounded by the horses she loved so much. To her the animals far outweighed the money.
So, it bothered her to think that legacy of quality work and care might be lost. How bad were things? Was it salvageable?
The summer sun was blazing down on her without any shelter from its rays. As she turned down the worn path leading to the area behind the old bunkhouse, Bianca’s steps faltered at her first sight of the gable-styled barn—or what was left of it. The structure had not survived what obviously was a fire. What was left was charred, broken, and decrepit. Useless.
Questions flew to mind. The who, what, when, and why of it all.
As she stood in the center of that great field, the tips of the grass dried and yellowing from the heat, Bianca looked around. Not a soul was in sight: the horse pens were empty, no one using the handling chutes to safely contain a horse while trimming feet or treating injuries, no hands walking the horses that should’ve been boarded, the obstacle courses were desolate.
Uh-oh.
Things were bad. Worst than she thought. If her father didn’t get his behind home ASAP she would hunt him down and drag his butt home to explain to her to just what the hell was—or wasn’t—going on.
Kahron steered his truck down the long, winding dirt road leading to King Equine Services. Night had fallen and he was hoping Hank was at home so they could talk. That would save him a trip to Charlie’s, a small wooden shack at the end of a dead-end road whose namesake sold beer and liquor and allowed the local men to play cards—for a cut. Charlie’s was located on the other side of Holtsville, nearer to Summerville, whereas the section of Holtsville he lived in was nearer to Walterboro. Kahron really wasn’t up for the drive or the socializing tonight.
His truck had just passed the grove of trees that made that stretch of the road seemed black as midnight when he caught sight of the house. He saw a figure on the porch rise as he neared.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he thought with a roguish grin.
It was the curly haired beauty he saw in the convertible earlier today. She looked even better standing.
Hank had bragged that his daughter was coming home, but never had Kahron imagined her to be so beautiful. Guess he was picturing a female version of Hank—which wouldn’t have been a pretty sight for anybody’s eyes!
She was tall and shapely, something clearly defined by the form fitting jeans and tank that she wore. From her straight up stance he knew she was comfortable in her skin, something that made her even sexier to him. Her reddish-brown hair—he didn’t know what else to call it—was the perfect compliment to her light complexion. Her features were feline, with wide eyes and high cheekbones. She had the fullest lips he’d ever seen, and the small mole over her left eyebrow made her all the more endearing.
Kahron was intrigued by her. He felt drawn to her. His pulse quickened and he felt that same nervous awareness he used to get around pretty girls when he in his awkward teens.
But this was the odd part. Standing before him, highlighted in the darkness by the porch light and his headlights, was a beautiful woman with a sexy figure—the type of woman he used to have wet dreams about—but it wasn’t her beauty that drew him in. It wasn’t the lure of the naughty pleasure her body could bring him. It wasn’t the thrill of her luscious lips tantalizing parts of his body—above and below.
It was the moment of sadness he saw reflected in her hazel-green eyes.
Just before Kahron parked and cut off his truck lights he saw her lips shape into a frown. He opened the driver side door and rose a bit so that she could see him. He liked that her face shifted to surprise and then pleasure—she remembered him as well. In an instant he wanted to be the one to take that sadness from her eyes.
Bianca sat on the top step of the porch waiting for her father’s return. She glanced down at her watch. He had been gone for well over seven hours.
“No wonder the business’ gone to pot,” she muttered, just as headlights reflected in her eyes.
She rose, ready finally to have the conversation with her father that she rehearsed in her head all afternoon.
As the truck neared, she saw that it wasn’t her father’s vehicle.