Secrets by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online

them all. “He’s like his mother. She wanted to leave and nothing could stop her. If he wants to go so badly, let him go.”
    Those words were all he needed. Slade jumped on the roan. James tried to grab his foot but Slade kicked him, hard, when it was his father he would have liked to hit. And it was Edward who begged, “Please don’t go. I’m sorry. Please don’t go.” Those were the words he wanted to hear from the man who had sired him, not from his brother.
    He had ignored his brothers’ pleas. And later that night, alone by a small campfire not far from San Francisco, with only the wind and the fog for company, he had cried like a baby. It was the last time he had cried, too, until the day of his brother’s funeral.
    It was a little more than a month since he had been alerted by Edward—not Rick—and had come home. He had made the short train journey in shock. To this day he could barely remember boarding in San Francisco or the journey south. Charles had been there, he thought, trying to comfort him. But he wasn’t sure. His mind had been consumed with denial. James could not be dead, drowned, for God’s sake, in a flash flood. Other men might die, but not James, never James.
    Miramar was in mourning when Slade returned after Edward’s summons. Rick had been closeted in the solitude of his study for days; it was weeks before he functioned, and then with an ashen pallor and the automatic movements and speech of a sleepwalker. Hebarely acknowledged Slade’s return, and Slade hadn’t been home in two years. Yet Slade could not feel bitter toward Rick. He even imagined comforting him. But Rick held everyone at arm’s length, unable to share his grief, and later, he came up with his damned idea to see Slade and Elizabeth wed. Slade instantly realized that he had been a fool to feel any compassion at all for his father.
    Edward managed to hide his grief with great self-discipline. Still, his smiles and witticisms were gone. Slade knew that beneath his smooth surface he was as anguished as anyone; there were no secrets between the brothers. Even Victoria, Edward’s mother, was somber. Slade was certain it was an act. And when she saw Slade she forgot her grief—if she really was grieving—and her eyes blazed with fury. She wasn’t happy that he had come home. Then again, Slade hadn’t expected her to be.
    The funeral had finally been held four weeks ago, shortly after Slade’s return. Until the funeral, the shock had been numbing. Until the funeral, James’s death didn’t seem real. Didn’t seem possible. The eulogy was Slade’s undoing; unlike most eulogies, which were bullshit, this one was not. Father Joseph was not exaggerating when he praised James for his extraordinary kindness and endless generosity, for his compassion and his morality. It was also true that James had been selflessly devoted to his family, to his father and brothers, to his stepmother, to Josephine, to Miramar. Such sincerity, devotion, and commitment were astounding in one so young. All life was God-given, but a young man like James was a very special and holy gift.
    Father Joseph ran the mission at San Miguel and he had known James since he was born. He delivered the eulogy with teary eyes and a choked-up voice. He was only halfway through it when Slade lost all control. He wept. Restraint was impossible. Edward proved to be stronger and more disciplined, or perhaps he had already shed his tears, for he put his arm around Slade, offering him what support and sympathy he could.Slade could not stop crying until the funeral was over and everyone had gone, the coffin buried deeply in Miramar’s rich red earth.
    The whiskey wasn’t doing its job. Tonight the grief was as painful and raw as it had been that day at the funeral. Father Joseph had said it would lessen in time. Common sense said the priest was right, but at the moment common