That Old Feeling. Cara Colter

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      Of course, that nice man had probably thought the tomboy princess was going to be photographed in and around town in his car, not heading into some godforsaken wilderness.

      “Love Clint McPherson?” she said out loud, with a derisive snort. “More like hate him.”

      How had she gotten back to that when she’d been thinking, with determination, about the nice man who had lent her the nice car?

      She sighed, annoyed with herself, and then surrendered. Hate? That seemed a bit strong for a man she had not seen for nearly seven years, not since he’d totally spoiled her nineteenth birthday party.

      “Indifferent,” she decided, and then announced it out loud, putting down her window and calling it to the giant fir trees that lined the road. “I am indifferent to Clint McPherson.”

      It rang of a lie. She knew it. The trees probably knew it, too. She put her window back up, took a twist in the road a trifle too quickly and slowed marginally.

      How could her father have asked this of her? And why had she said yes?

      She thought back to her meeting with her father, and the frown of concentration deepened on her face.

      He had seemed old.

      Of course, he was old. He’d always been old, even when she was young!

      But he had never seemed old.

      She was coming to see Clint because her father had asked her to. And maybe because she needed time to sort through all the implications of Jason’s unexpected announcement of his deep and undying love.

      It was that simple. She had not agreed to this trip because she harbored some secret wish to see Clint again. She had come because her father asked things of her so rarely. He didn’t know it, but if he ever said to her that he wished she would not do some of the things that she did—like jumping out of airplanes or, more recently, off cliffs, buildings and bridges—then she would stop, just like that, no questions asked.

      But he never asked.

      Now he had asked something. He was old, yes, but beloved to her. The truth was Brandy would do anything for him, this gentle man who had loved her, and her sisters, so unconditionally, forever.

      She thought back on the conversation she’d had with him. She had been distracted by the heat in the room, the fire blazing, so his request had really caught her up the side of the head.

      “Brandy,” he’d said. “I need a favor. Clint—”

      Her heart had done that traitorous flip-flop at the sound of his name.

      “—has not recovered from Rebecca’s death.”

      Rebecca, the woman Clint McPherson had married, was a woman who had been everything Brandy was not. Because Rebecca was a lawyer for Jake’s company, Brandy had known her slightly, well enough to know she was composed, classy, refined. Her hair was of the tameable variety, her makeup never ran and her clothing never rumpled.

      Brandy’s chestnut locks, on the other hand, had a will of their own. Her style depended largely on humidity, direction of the wind and other forces beyond her control. Even when she tried to tame her masses of wavy hair, a few tresses always defiantly sprang free, giving her an impish look that went well with the nickname tomboy princess the press had given her long ago, and that she had never managed to outgrow.

      Added to that, she had never learned the subtleties of proper makeup application, despite her younger sister Chelsea’s many efforts to show her.

      And clothing? She relied heavily on many-pocketed cargo pants and T-shirts. To Chelsea’s horror, sweats were her sister’s favorite fashion statement.

      Brandy knew her lack of fashion acumen was a disappointment to the American public who had long ago made Jake King’s motherless daughters into their princesses. At least she had not opted out of the role entirely, like her sister Jessie. No, Brandy tried never to disappoint in the fast-living department. Not parties or drugs, no, just lots of rich-kid fun: big engines, fast horses, white water. She had discovered the love of her life when she was sixteen and had sky-dived for the first time. The new thrill was BASE jumping.

      Her lack of ability to make a stunning personal fashion statement was part of the reason she had not attended Clint’s wedding, though she had been invited, of course. Clint was like family, her father’s right-hand man since Brandy had been fourteen.

      Younger, and so much more dynamic than the rest of that inner circle, Clint had fairly bristled with a kind of dangerous energy that had made her skin tingle.

      “Back when I was young and hopelessly naive,” she told herself, taking a curve much too quickly. Clint would not make her skin tingle, now.

      Good grief, no. She hung out with Jason Morehead, People magazine’s number-two pick as the world’s sexiest and most eligible bachelor.

      Still, Brandy had made sure she was a world away the day Clint McPherson had spoiled her fondest fantasy by marrying someone else. She had sent a lavish gift—a complete set of antique silverware—if she recalled. On the day Clint had said, “I do,” Brandy had been paddling frantically through the foaming, freezing waters in the Five Finger Rapids section of the Yukon River.

      And for the birth of Clint and Rebecca’s daughter—the same. An exquisite, expensive gift—a handmade bassinet from Italy—but Brandy had been a no-show at the christening party. She’d been arrested for jumping off the New River Gorge Bridge in Virginia for the utterly ridiculous reason that it wasn’t “Bridge Day,” the only day of the year that BASE jumping was legal off the 876-foot height.

      And then, shockingly, only days after the christening, Rebecca had died. Brandy had known, because of Clint’s longstanding relationship with her family, that she’d had to go to the funeral. But somehow she had ended up at Angel Falls in Venezuela instead. She’d sent a card and an extravagant, tasteful, subdued spray of white roses.

      “It’s been more than a year,” her father had said, sadly. “He does some work from home, but he’s become reclusive. He stays at that cabin in Canada, with a baby, and when I talk to him he seems so detached, unnaturally cool, as if nothing touches him.”

      Brandy had listened to her father, and thought, a bit cynically, that there was nothing new about Clint being detached or unnaturally cool. But her heart insisted on hearing the words her father didn’t say. Clint had loved Rebecca so much that he planned to mourn forever.

      “Brandy, I want you to go to him.”

      It was probably been the heat in the room, but for a moment she actually thought she was going to faint. “What?” she stammered.

      “You were always the one who could make him laugh. Go and make Clint laugh again.”

      “I don’t recall making him laugh,” she said stiffly. “I recall making him very, very angry on several occasions.”

      “Precisely,” her father said with satisfaction.

      “Sorry?”

      “Brandy, you make him feel strongly. Go there. Make him laugh, or make him angry, but make him feel something.”

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