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"Yeah. He’s in Gillette," Drew finally said.

Jolie eyed her husband, thinking that she should feel more relief than she did.

If only she could read Drew’s thoughts! But even after all these years, she couldn’t begin to hazard a guess. He’d never been one to wear his emotions or his thoughts on his sleeve. Not with her, anyway. Drew...well her tall, dark, and intense husband usually gave new meaning to the idea of one keeping their thoughts to themselves.

She realized she was chewing the inside of her lip and deliberately made herself stop. She wished Drew wouldn’t stand in the doorway like that. It made her feel decidedly edgy. Even after all these years she was still overwhelmed by the feelings he roused in her. It wasn’t just sexual, either. It was something entirely more complicated.

And it was something she, alone, felt.

She forced herself to focus on the topic at hand rather than the mystery that was her husband. "Do you think Darian will come to Weaver, then? To see you, I mean?"

"To see you, more likely." Drew lifted one sun-bronzed shoulder in a faint shrug.

"He has no reason to want to see me," she said carefully. She couldn’t help but wonder what that shrug meant. So uncaring, yet somehow a hair too casual. Or maybe she was just looking for signs of...of something that wasn’t there. "You’re his brother, Drew."

"Half-brother."

She’d always thought it odd how both men had always made that particular distinction when referring to one another. They’d shared a father, with Drew nearly 10 years older than Darian, but the two men were as different from each other as night was from day. And they’d never gotten along. At all.

"Half, then," she allowed. "But it’s been seven years since he went away. Of course he’ll want to see you." Just because she found the idea abhorrent didn’t mean it wasn’t a possibility.

The corner of Drew’s mouth curled, but the movement held no amusement. "Yeah. Maybe if he’s screwed up and needs me to clean up the mess."

Jolie stiffened, feeling a pain deep down inside her. A pain that was with her always, even though she managed to ignore it for the most part. Time seemed to have a way of doing that, she’d learned.

She pushed to her feet and looked up at Drew. Her husband in all ways save one — he didn’t love her. He never had. And the pain inside stemmed from fear that he never would.

She moistened lips gone dry. "Like you had to clean up the mess he made with me, you mean," she whispered even as her heart silently cried out for him to deny it.

But only silence, thick as a humid summer day, hung between them...