While Gran ladled up another serving, Dylan took a seat, a single seat, like any normal person, but he seemed to take up more than half the space at the table. Gracie could only tap her fingers on her glass of tea and watch the clock. As important as his visit might be to Clay, she didn’t want her friend walking into an ambush tonight.

Dylan dug in and savored the first bite. “Even better than it smells. And is this homemade bread?”

“Yes, but not quite fresh,” Gran said. “I usually bake daily, but with Chester in the hospital, I haven’t had time.”

“Is your husband ill? Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Broken hip.” Gran worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “The doctor says he should be as good as new, but it will take a while. That’s why Gracie’s here to help out until he’s back on his feet.” She patted her granddaughter’s hand.

Dylan reached for another slice. “Is Dr. Harris his physician?” he asked, as smooth as the butter he slathered on his bread. “Gracie mentioned he’s a good friend of hers.”

“She did?” Gran’s eyes sparkled. “Why, yes, that’s true. They’ve been best friends since childhood.”

“Classmates?”

Gracie jumped in to prevent Gran from providing more background than necessary. “Clayton was a year ahead of me in school.” She wasn’t sure why she didn’t want Dylan to know the true nature of her relationship with Clay. But for the time being, the less he knew, the better. “Why do you care?”

“Just trying to get the lay of the land,” he said.

“That may take a while.”

He shrugged and leaned back, unconcerned and relaxed, like a man with a plan and all the time in the world. “I can give it however long it takes.”

His steel-blue gaze locked with hers. She no longer doubted Clay’s claim had brought Dylan here, but she couldn’t picture him embracing the idea of a newfound sibling or being all that eager to share the wealth.

A rap on the back door interrupted the exchange. Her friend tromped into the mud room.

“Gracie!” A grin split his face as he wiped his feet. “I’m so glad you’re home. East Langden is no fun without you.”

At the table, Dylan craned his neck to see the newcomer. Clay was out of his sight, but it would be only a moment before he stepped into the kitchen. When wearing his professional persona, Gracie knew he could be as controlled as a horse in a harness. But otherwise, he could be skittish and contentious when provoked, and sometimes, he spoke without thinking. She hated for him to be in a situation where he couldn’t put his best foot forward.

She rose and flung herself at him, hoping to segue the hug into a detour outside. “It’s great to see you, too.” Gripping his forearm in her hands, she pulled him toward the door. “Let’s go to the carriage house to talk.”

“Sure, okay.” He beamed at her enthusiastic greeting but stood his ground. “First, I have a message for Nora.”

Gracie tugged harder. “I’ll pass along any messages later.”

“Nonsense,” Gran said. “Let him come in.”

Reluctantly, Gracie turned back into the room. She stood foursquare in front of Clay, ready to protect him as she’d done throughout their childhood. Dylan set down his spoon, apparently sensitive to the charged atmosphere. Obviously, the two men were spitting images of one another, but as Clay moved toward the table, Dylan didn’t react to the resemblance.

Naturally, Clay could identify Dylan as easily as Gracie had. For many of their teen years, they had kept a scrapbook with news clippings about the famous family that didn’t claim him. The grip he clamped on her shoulder relayed his tension.

“Well.” His throat worked over words that failed to emerge. Stone still, he paused as if puzzling out this unexpected Bradford presence.

“Come in, Clayton. Meet Dylan Bradford.” Bless Gran for her calm manner, even though she must know the significance of this first meeting.

Dylan’s gaze flashed sharply to the new arrival’s face. Protective as ever, Gracie held her arms out at her sides, like a school crossing guard, holding Clay back. He brushed past her and held out his hand. She experienced a flash of pride at his composure.

“Clayton Harris,” he said. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you.”

Chapter Four

Dylan wiped his mouth with a napkin before he stood. The upper hand would be lost if he revealed the hostility boiling inside him. Instinct urged him to regard the asshole with utter indifference, but contempt for his audacity wrestled with more rational intentions. Sheer impulse advised him to take as much satisfaction as he could from beating the holy shit out of the presumptuous jerk, there and then.

Imposing a rigid guard over his expression, he took the proffered hand and shook it with one quick pump before dropping it like a dead fish. Similar in height, they stood eye to eye, each of them measuring, assessing.

Dylan sneered at the hopes and expectations that leaped to life in the other man’s eyes. “Sorry I can’t say the same.”

“Maybe not,” the man said, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

“Why?” Dylan crossed his arms.

“It means you’re taking my claim seriously. Your mother didn’t.”

“Or it means I’m more serious about disproving it.”

“That won’t be easy,” Gracie spoke up. Both Dylan and Clayton glared at her. Clearly, the down-home beauty didn’t know when to mind her own business.

“I’ve been trying to determine my parentage for years,” Clayton said, “and the trail always leads back to Matthew Bradford.”

Dylan jerked his chin. “Maybe that’s wishful thinking.”

“No.” Clayton’s chin-jerk mirrored Dylan’s. “I’ve tried my damnedest to prove that I’m not the son of a crooked, womanizing politician who wouldn’t face up to inconvenient responsibilities. Now, I’m just trying to resign myself to the truth. So if you can prove otherwise, I’m on your side. But nothing short of DNA tests will keep me from getting the information and acknowledgement I deserve.”

Dylan clenched his fists rather than take a swing at the annoying son of a bitch. His mother had taught him better. She wouldn’t want him to start a brawl in this nice Mrs. Lattimer’s kitchen, no matter how much physical satisfaction he might gain from it. He forced his hands to relax, preparing to leave rather than stay and cause Gracie’s grandmother distress. “Well, now, that’s exactly why I’m here. To make sure you get what you deserve.”

And that was one promise he intended to keep.

The next morning, Dylan washed down a handful of aspirins with a swig of tap water. This headache and lack of sleep could be attributed to the asshole claiming to be his father’s other son as much as the lousy motel.

Anyone so unwise and uninformed as to call his father a crooked politician was too stupid to be taken seriously. If only Clayton’s claim could be dismissed as easily.

Stepping out of the shabby hotel room, he closed the metal door sharply, determined to do whatever he had to do at the cabin to avoid a return stay at the Granite Inn.

After arriving at his newest property, he discovered even worse decay than he’d spotted the night before. The decrepit old place needed more than a thorough cleaning to make it livable.

Still, he wouldn’t mind roughing it if he could get some of the necessities in working order. He climbed back into the Navigator and went into town in search of three things. A phone to replace the one he’d dropped into a puddle the night before, workers to help with the cabin, and some kind of food that would pass for breakfast.

Several hours later, he pulled up Liberty House’s circular driveway for the third time in less than eighteen hours. Never in his life had he returned so often to a place where he felt so unwelcome.

But he was ready to beg if he had to. With his stomach growling in protest to the only food he’d had that day—strong coffee and stale donuts from a Stop’n’Shop on the edge of town—Dylan studied the beautiful old house and grounds.