“What, were you expecting a shack in the woods?” Duke asks, settling onto a leather high-back barstool.
I turn slowly, still taking it all in.
“Something like that,” I admit.
Duke chuckles. “Well, Trouble, I like my creature comforts. Just ‘cause I live in the woods doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about style.”
“How do you like your coffee, ma’am?” Rusty asks.
“A little cream and sugar, please and thank you.”
Moments later, Rusty hands me a toasty mug. I catch Duke staring at me after I take a sip, and a prickle of warmth ghosts down my spine, traitorous and unwelcome. “Uh, Rusty, may I see the library?” I ask.
Rusty sets his cup down. “Of course, right through here.”
I can still feel Duke’s eyes on me as Rusty leads me out of the room. Thank goodness Duke’s phone rings and he answers it instead of following us into the library.
The library is just as cozy and comfortable as the rest of the house. Built-in bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling, their deep, moody gray interiors making the warm glow of recessed lighting feel even cozier. The shelves are packed. Not with western novels or ranch manuals like I assumed, but with poetry, history, philosophy, first editions, and dog-eared paperbacks.
I catch a glimpse of Baldwin, Rilke, Austen, even a full leather-bound Shakespeare collection tucked between a globe and what looks like an antique compass. A sofa sits nestled into a reading nook, its cushions soft and inviting, as if waiting for someone to curl up with a book and disappear for hours. In the center of the room is a beautiful cream-colored desk and matching leather chair.
“What do you think?” Rusty asks. “Will this do?”
“This is so lovely. I really appreciate you letting me use this space.”
“No trouble at all.” Rusty leans over the desk and writes something on the notepad before tearing it off and handing it to me. “Here is the code to the door. Just remember to lock it always behind you. It can blow open with any strong wind, and Jameson will make a run for it if he’s not supervised. We’ve ordered a new door and lock, but it’s going to be a bit before we can get that settled.”
I fold the note and push it into my pocket. “Lock the door behind me every time. Got it.”
“You are welcome to come and go any time you need.”
“I’m not sure Mr. Faraday shares your sentiment.”
“He’ll get over it. He likes his privacy and the only woman that’s been through this house in years is his mother, Francine.”
“Francine. I love that name. Is she …” I stop myself, not sure if something more tragic had happened.
Rusty puts his hand up. “My lovely bride is in New York with Duke’s sister, London. London is getting a divorce and the custody battle isn’t going well.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Rusty sits down in one of the high-back chairs. “London will be better off once it all gets settled.”
“So, wait a minute … London, Duke, Charlie short for Charles, I presume.”
“That’s correct,” Rusty says.
“I take it Francine is interested in British Royalty?”
Rusty chuckles. “Duke’s bio dad, Alistair, was born outside London. He’s retired MI6.”
“Wow. I’m going to put a pin in that and ask Mr. Faraday about that later.”
“You do that. It’s definitely an interesting piece of his story.”
I can’t help but wander around the room as we’re talking, and my eyes catch a series of framed photos sitting on a small side table. A man is dressed in the same regalia Duke had on last nightduring his performance before dinner. The man is riding a horse in an arena and another features him and a woman dressed similarly posing with an older man.
“That’s Stedman and Millie from their tour with the Bill Pickett rodeo last year,” Rusty says, joining me at the table.
