for his eyes; for the space of a heartbeat they were haunted by sorrow for a homeless people and a ravaged land.
âWe all do the best we can. Itâs never enough, is it?â His voice was as hard as ever; the fleeting moment of shared commitment, however unintentional it had been, was gone like a puff of thistledown on the wind.
âIs that what you believe? That one person, no matter how hard he tries, canât make a difference?â
âIâd say thatâs what about ninety-nine percent of the people in this world believe,â he responded, answering obliquely but meeting her questioning gaze head-on. It might have been her imagination but it seemed to Rachel as if his expression had softened slightly. âYouâre one of those very few dreamers who are willing to back up their beliefs with damned hard work.â
âIâm not a saint.â
âNo. Youâre a woman.â
âWhy are you here?â She couldnât let the conversation get any more personal.
Brett continued to watch her, his expression noncommittal, any emotion in his eyes hidden by shadows cast by his thick, dark lashes.
âWeâre on our way to Chiang Rai to arrange for a final shipment of teak to be brought out before the rainy season.â
âOnly teak?â
His frown was back, darker, angrier than before. âDo you think Iâd tell you if there was more?â The expression in his eyes was easy enough to read now. It was contempt. Rachel felt the chill of it all the way to her bones.
âI didnât meanâ¦â
âYes, you did. Surely, your brotherâ¦at the Census Bureauâ¦warned you not to ask too many questions of a man in my profession?â
âActually, he told me to stay the hell away from you. Period.â
To her surprise he laughed. âHeâs smarter than I thought. You should stay away from a man of my reputation, if you value your own.â
âBullshâ¦feathers.â Rachel had the satisfaction of seeing Brett Jackson blink in surprise. âDonât you think I can make my own decisions about people? And why didnât you ask me Micahâs opinion of your trustworthiness. Heâs supposed to be your friend.â
âI didnât have to ask about Micah.â His voice was lower, less rough.
âHe said I could trust you with my life.â
âYes.â Brett said softly.
Rachel couldnât believe they were having this conversation, in the middle of the main camp thoroughfare, with people all around. She felt as if they were alone, the last man and woman on earth. She didnât know what to do with her hands. She stuck them in the pockets of her gray cotton shorts. She didnât know what to do with her eyes. She looked down at her worn, dusty canvas shoes.
âAnd which of your brothers do you believe?â There was an extraordinary, intimate note of challenge in his voice. Awareness raced across her nerve endings, as though he had touched her with his words. The sun dropped below the horizon and the light grew dim and hazy around them, sealing them more tightly into a world of their own.
She looked up, directly into his eyes, daring her demons, risking what little composure she had left in their hard blue depths. âBoth of them.â
âSo, thereâs bedrock common sense beneath the missionary meekness.â
âIâm not meek. And Iâm not a missionary. Look, I apologize if I offended you. Although, with your reputation, Iâd imagine youâd be used to others being suspicious of your motives by now.â To her utter amazement he smiled, then laughed, a deep, rich laugh that warmed her heart.
âYou donât back down, do you, Rachel McKendrick Phillips? You know what is right and what is wrong and anyone in the middle be damned.â
âThatâs not true. Iâm very open-minded. And I never pretend.â
âNo,â he said thoughtfully.