by Laura Drake
“What do you do there?”
His scarred eyebrow rises.
I stare him down. “I have to be careful.”
“Guess I can’t blame you.” He puts out a hand. “Can I have my wallet back? Or do you want to take a copy of my license?”
I don’t know if he’s kidding or not, but I consider doing just that for a second or two, then hand it back to him.
“Let me set your mind at ease. I have no criminal record, I don’t have a drug problem, and I’m gainfully employed.”
“Doing what?”
His eyes cut to the sidewalk outside the window. “I work on a ranch down there.”
My liar radar is pinging. “You’re a cowboy.” I manage to keep the scoff out of my voice. He’s tanned, but not the deep-down wind-beaten skin of a man who works in the sun for a living. I should know. I feed men like that every day. His hands aren’t calloused, and ranch hands don’t usually worry about whitening their teeth.
“Yep.”
The bitter taste of ashes from an old fire crawls from my stomach and tightens my throat. What am I, some kind of liar-magnet? “What do you want?”
“To see the baby, of course.” He sits back, stretches his arm along the top of the booth, and gives me a charming, confident smile.
A guy like this is used to barking orders, not taking them. “I don’t know why you’d think I’m stupid or what game you’re playing.” I look at him through narrowed eyes. “But you’re not a simple cowboy, and I’m not letting a liar anywhere near Sawyer.”
Chapter 4
Reese
She slides out of the booth and, with one last glare over her shoulder, flounces out the front door.
Okay, so skirting the truth wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. But I thought long and hard about how to play this on the thirteen-hour drive out. When I hit the town limits, I knew I was right to dress down. This is a raggedy small town, and I didn’t want to intimidate her or seem uppity.
So instead I came off like a weasel. Fantastic.
“Don’t look so sad. She’ll be back.” The curvy waitress holds aloft a pot of coffee. “Want some while you wait?”
I flip over the cup on the table. “You bet. Thanks.”
She pours, then continues her rounds.
Lorelei West is a honey badger wrapped in blue jeans. Not a woman who’d stop traffic maybe, but her features are pleasing. A too-long face, shoulder-length blond hair. Her full, kiss-me lips are nice, but it’s her eyes that get me. Faded denim blue, intelligent, expressive. I hope she’s not a card player, because they show everything going on behind them. Lorelei West is a handsome woman.
Who hates me.
Which is fine. I’m not here looking for a date. It doesn’t matter if the obstacle is good-looking or a brick wall, I’m getting past it. I’ve never tried to charm a honey badger, but charm runs in my family, so I’ll give it another shot, because I’m not leaving without seeing my niece. I had hope that Lorelei took the baby only out of obligation. Hoped that she’d let me take Sawyer home to the ranch, where she belongs. That hope is now shattered, pieces scattering the floor. Cleanup on booth five!
But then again, Ms. Lorelei West never came up against a St. James when he wants something. After all, I have Bo in my DNA, and God knows, his genes are strong.
I pull my phone and hit speed dial.
“Travis and Partners, attorneys at law.”
Travis had been my father’s attorney for forty years, and though his crassness and lechery set my teeth on edge, he knows where all Katy Cattle Company’s bodies are buried, and I don’t. Yet. “It’s Reese. Is Mr. Travis in?”
“I’m sure he will be for you, Mr. St. James. Hold just a moment.”
“What can I do you for, Reese?” Travis’s bigger-than-life voice booms, and I can picture him leaning back, custom boots up on his mahogany desk.
“What do you know about child custody law in New Mexico?”
“You going to get that kid? Good. That baby is a St. James. Bo would want it raised on his land.”
The “it” rankles, and I don’t think the “his land” is a slip of the tongue. I don’t need this puffed-up rooster telling me what my father would want. “The mother’s sister has the baby. She lives outside of Albuquerque. I want you to report back to me about my chances of getting custody.”
“Is the woman unfit to care for the child?”
“Not that I can see, but I don’t know her. I’m going to try to find out.”
“Okay, I’m on it. Your father would be proud of you.”
I click End. His proprietary tone started after my father died, like he’s now the purveyor of what Bo would think. The man is odious, but good at his job. A necessary evil. I sip coffee and wait.
Strange, how a little human I’ve never met has become so important to me. The feeling is gut deep. It wasn’t until I hit the wall that is Lorelei West that I discovered a wall in me, too. Getting this baby is something I need to do.
I want a do-over.
There may be no shame in being different. I know that now. But growing up in Bo’s house, different meant I was the butt of jokes, derision, and pressure to conform. I tried. I worked harder than the lowest hand on the ranch. But those three seconds on a bull proved what I’d known all along. I didn’t fit the St. James mold. So I decided if I couldn’t join them, I’d beat them. Book learning came easy to me, so I read every book in Bo’s huge library on breeding and ranching. Carson barely made it out of high school. I went to college, then on to an MBA.
They say every kid needs one champion, one person who loves them and believes in them. Maybe if my mother had lived…I’ve come to realize the stuff you missed as a kid, you can’t make up for later.
But maybe Sawyer and I could be our own family. I could be the champion that she’ll need. I’m sure Lorelei means well, but I have almost unlimited resources. I can give Sawyer so much more.
I drink coffee and imagine my new future until Lorelei walks in forty minutes later, arms full of grocery bags. She glances my way, flinches, frowns, then pushes through the swinging door to the kitchen. A minute later, she pushes back through.
I stand as she stomps up, plants a fist on her hip, and looks down her nose at me. “You’re still here?”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I lied. But I had a good reason. Could I impose on you for just ten minutes of your time? I’d like to explain.”
“Why do liars always say that? I manage to make it through every day without lying, good reason or not.” She may be frowning, but her eyes are assessing.
I push down on the frustration and try to mimic Carson’s deadly puppy-dog look. “Please?”
She blows out exasperation with her sigh, then sits.
“I just want you to know that I didn’t lie about everything. I am from Carrizo Springs, and I am a cowboy. At least some of the time. Ever heard of the Katy Cattle Ranch?”
From her widened eyes, she has. The big ranches are legendary.
“Well, since the car wreck, I’m the sole owner.”
She whistles. “Wow, when you lied about being a cowboy, you went for the gold, didn’t you?”
I rush on. “I just didn’t want to barge in here and intimidate—”
Her face goes stiff, except for the nostril flare.
It’s a gift I have, saying the exact wrong thing. “I mean—”
“I should be intimidated?” She looks me over, long and slow, and her lip curls just a bit. “By you?”
If Bo were around to see me ball up a negotiation this bad, he’d cuff the back of my head. And this is beginning to feel like the most important negotiation of my life. “I didn’t mean it that way.” My face heats at the thought of how I must look to her: arrogant, presumptuous. Maybe I do have Bo in me after all.
Her eyes are slits. “Then just how did you mean it?”
I force the frustration down. I can’t afford it. “Look, can I start over? I’m not usually an ass, though I know I
seem well practiced.” I sit on my hands so I can’t spill my coffee on her, which is about the only stupid thing I haven’t done yet. “My parents are dead. My twin brother is dead. All I’m asking is to see the last person on the planet I’m related to.”
She winces. “You and Patsy’s…boyfriend were twins?”
“People had a hard time telling us apart until I got this.” I point to the scar on my forehead.
Her eyes ease the tightness at the edges. “Losing your twin, that’s horrific. I’m sorry for your loss.” Softness turns her eyes a darker shade of blue.
“And I’m sorry for yours. Truly.”
“Why didn’t you come before now?”
“I didn’t know about the baby.”
Her mouth drops to a small O of surprise. “He didn’t tell you, either?”
“You mean you didn’t know about the baby before the accident?”
She shakes her head slowly. I can see the wheels turning. She’s deciding. I sit motionless under her scrutiny and try to look harmless.
“I’m off in two hours. I can take you to the house to see Sawyer then.” She slides out and stands.
“Thank you.”
“Just don’t make me sorry for being soft.” She walks away.
* * *
Lorelei
Two hours later Sassy stands at the door of my office, untying her apron. “That cute guy is back.”
I glance at the clock on my computer. “He may be a liar, but he’s a punctual one.” Okay, the lie wasn’t that extreme, and given my past, my BS radar is set higher than most, but the thought of some rich dude not wanting to intimidate me…What a jerk.
She leans against the doorjamb. “I’ve got a dentist appointment tomorrow, so I’m going to be about an hour late.”
I haven’t been to a dentist in a decade (not that I could afford one, even if I had the time). I’ve noticed how other people have no problem putting themselves before their jobs. I’m going to have to take a lesson from them—I have Sawyer now, and she comes first. “Just get here as soon as you can, okay?”
“Sure.” She unties and folds her apron and, with a wave to Nevada, walks out the back door.
I power down my computer, throw my purse strap over my shoulder, and walk into the kitchen. “You almost done, Nevada?”
“On my way out now.”
The kitchen is neat, the grill clean. At least there’s someone I can depend on. I push through to the shadowy dining area. Reese St. James is sitting, one hip on a stool at the bar.
I’ve cashed out the till, coffee setups are ready for morning, but Sassy forgot to lower the blinds. I drop my purse on the counter with a thud, walk to the first booth, kneel on the cushions, and slide the canvas shade down. I move on to the next and notice that Reese is doing the same on the other side. We meet in the middle. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Can we go now?”
“Just one more thing. It’ll only take a second.” I grab the bag of burgers Nevada left on the counter, check the dead bolt on the back door, then push through the swinging door to the dining area. With the shades down, the only light is the streetlamp through the glass door. I step to it, and our shoulders brush.
He holds the door open, and I walk out to the warm night. The streetlight gleams off a new GMC Denali pickup. His, obviously.
I lock the door behind us. Reese jumps as a dark shape rushes out of the shadows.
“It’s okay.” The small black dog flattens his belly to the sidewalk, his tail whipping happiness.
“Is that yours?”
“No, just a stray.” I pull one of the burger patties from the bag, and the dog eases forward to take it from my fingers, backs up, and with a nervous eye on us, wolfs it down. “I should call the pound, but I keep hoping someone will take him home with them.” I toss the other patty to him, then crumple the bag. “My car is behind the café. I’ll meet you out here.”
“I’ll walk you back.”
“Don’t be silly. I do this every night.”
He glances around the empty sidewalks and across the street to the dark square. “And tonight, you won’t do it alone.”
I want to argue with his proprietary tone, but it’s been a long day and I want to get home. “Suit yourself.” I take off at a brisk walk, and he trots to catch up.
“You’re not used to people helping you.”
“And you’re used to giving orders.” I step over the old railroad tracks only partially embedded in asphalt. “Mind the rails.”
“This place really did used to be a rail station, huh?”
“Yes, before the spur shut down in the fifties.”
“The town doesn’t appear to be…thriving.”
“We do all right.” We’ve reached my car, in the alley behind the diner.
“Wow, you don’t see many tiny cars in Texas.”
“Here, either. But me and Einstein, we—”
“Einstein?”
“He’s a Smart car, right?” I ignore his chuckle, put the key in the door (the clicker died two years ago), and unlock it. I feel like I should drive him to his car, but after seeing his wheels, there’s no way I’m inviting him to scrunch into mine. “I’ll meet you out front.”
“Okay, I’ll follow you to your house.” He puts his hands in his pockets and walks into the dark of the alley.
I pull around front, then drive out to the house with the headlights of his massive truck in the rearview mirror, blinding me.
I feel like I’m walking barefoot in a field of stickers. He’s grieving, too. He should be able to see his brother’s baby, but my instinct is to go all dog-in-the-manger with Sawyer. It’s all twisted up in my head, but Sawyer is the innocent in all this. It’s my job to keep her from any more heartbreak. What’s the right thing to do?
Is he going to fight for custody? He’s a man. Even in our enlightened decade where sexes are supposed to be equal, I believe I’d still have the edge with a judge. I flip up the rearview mirror. I don’t need it out here, and the headlights on that tank are giving me a headache.
But he’s rich. More than Unforgiven rich; he’s Texas-high-roller, stinking rich. Sweat slicks between my palms and the steering wheel, and I shove the thought under the floor mat. I’ll deal with that if I have to. Pray God I don’t have to.
I’m tired. It’s been a long, emotional day. I’ll give him an hour, then I’ll shoo him out.
I pull into our dirt drive, imagining the house through his eyes. Compared to his life, we must seem worn-down, weathered, weary.
Well, he can judge all he wants. We are rich in what’s important—love. And whatever he has, nothing trumps that. I park, hop out, and am beside his door when he steps out. “I’m going to try to explain who you are to my momma, but she’s had a stroke, and she may or may not understand. I just want you to know, so you’re not surprised.” I shoot him a pointed look, hoping I don’t have to say the rest. If you so much as look at my momma wrong, I’ll take you apart.
“I know I haven’t presented myself well so far, but I do have manners, and I promise to use them.”
“Okay, then.” I turn on my heel and head for the screen door. I’m nervous. That’s why I notice the hole in the screen, the worn-through linoleum and the chipped plaster where Patsy rammed the table in the wall while turning cartwheels in the kitchen when we were little. Our house may look battered to someone who doesn’t know every nick and imperfection is a memory.
My irritation eases, thinking about the memories we’ll make together in this house, Sawyer, Momma, and me. The doorjamb in the pantry will be her growth chart—a line and her age, right beside Patsy’s and mine. I wonder what the tooth fairy pays these days. Then there’s back-to-school shopping, school plays…I sigh.
Patsy’s death left a huge hole, but it made me a mother. Momma has accepted the baby with open arms and heart. If Reese tried to wrench Sawyer away, with Momma’s delicate mental state…My heart taps a Morse code SOS on my breastbone. Well, he just better n
ot, or he’s going to come up against one rabid New Mexican momma bear.
I pull the screen door open. “Momma?”
* * *
Reese
I’ll bet this farmhouse was something in its day. But that day is long past. There’s a wide front porch with wooden rockers set back from the railing. Weed-choked rosebushes climb through the railing, trailing leaves. A partially collapsed barn looms behind the house, spooky in the shadows. Hard years and neglect have taken their toll. They either don’t care that the house is falling down around them or they don’t have any money to put into it. To be fair, it’d cost a fortune to rehab it. Probably better to leave it to the barn’s fate.
My world, solid just a week ago, feels like this house looks: shaky, with the underpinnings falling out. And I know my life will change again after meeting Carson’s baby. I like kids fine, but I haven’t been around them much. What if I don’t feel a thing for her? What if she hates me? What is the proper protocol in this situation? I like to be prepared, but there’s no way to study for something like this.
Suck it up, boy. A St. James does what needs be done. The voice in my head is Bo’s. It gets my feet moving.
Lorelei is holding the sagging screen door open. When it slaps behind me, I’m in a kitchen dating from the ’60s. An old porcelain stove and oven, a Formica table and chairs covered in cracked vinyl. But there are fresh gingham curtains at the window, and on the sill, a flowering violet in a planter shaped like a burro. Everything is worn, but spotless.
“Momma?”
“We’re in here,” comes a voice from the other side of the old-fashioned arched doorway.
I follow her into a “parlor,” where two older women sit on a couch complete with doilies, playing with a baby.
Carson’s baby.
“Momma, this is Reese St. James. His brother was—” She halts when the other lady on the couch shakes her head. “He’s Sawyer’s uncle. Reese, this is my mother, Mary West, and Mrs. Wheelwright, the angel who helps us around here.”
“Pleased to meet you both.” The words are for the women, but I can’t take my gaze off my niece. Her eyes are Lorelei’s, but the rest is 100 percent St. James. I have photos of Carson and me as babies, and…“Do you mind if I sit down?” I drop into an overstuffed armchair without waiting for permission. There’s something wrong with my legs.