by Lisa Jackson
Brand’s jaw was tight, his eyes a fierce shade of blue. “Neither one of us planned it, Dani.” His lips flattened into a hard, uncompromising line. “I had no intention of seducing you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I know, I know, but—” Her fingers fluttered in the air, as if looking for something solid to hang on to. “Things got out of hand . . . way out of hand. If we’re going to live here this close, well, even if we weren’t . . . This can’t happen.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, as if he were trying to erase his anger. “Who called?”
“What?” She was already bending down to pick up her shampoo bottle, the candles, the bath-oil beads, everything that had spilled from her bag.
“Who called?”
“What does it matter?” Not now. She couldn’t tell him now. Not while she was emotionally turned inside out. One candle holder had rolled beneath the counter. She picked it up and straightened.
“Whoever was on the other end of that phone was like a bucket of cold water for you,” he said. “So, was he a friend?”
“Yes, I guess he’s a friend.”
“Someone you’re in love with?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. You think that I . . . that I’m involved with someone? How could you even suggest . . . when you and I . . .” She couldn’t believe her ears.
“Who, damn it!”
“You heard him. It was Sloan. Sloan Redhawk. He’s married to Casey McKee.”
His eyes were thunderous, and deep ravines scarred his forehead. Dani shook her head. If this wasn’t so damned tragic, it would be downright funny.
“Sloan and Casey have only been married a few months and he’s absolutely one hundred percent devoted to her.”
“Then why’d he call?”
She slung the strap of her bag over her arm. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s a private investigator. I need him to do some work for me.”
Brand’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of work?”
“As I said, it’s personal.”
“Something to do with your ex?” Why the thought of Jeff Stewart caused his guts to twist he didn’t know. But the sick idea that Dani’s husband had mistreated her and run around on her made him want to strangle the stupid son of a bitch. And you’re any better, Scarlotti? Didn’t you run out on her when you knew she loved you—when you loved her? Who’re you to sit in judgment?
“This isn’t about Jeff,” she said, reaching for her bag.
“Then who?”
“Brand, don’t push it.” This time she opened the door all the way. “I think it’s time I went home.” She stepped onto the porch, swore and didn’t bother to transfer the load of laundry from the washer to the dryer. She couldn’t trust herself with him. Running down the steps and along the path, her robe flowing open to show off her long, perfect legs, she flew up the stairs to her apartment.
Brand closed his eyes and willed away the vision of her. She was right about one thing: they couldn’t live this close together if he was forever hoping to get her into his bed and, damn it, that’s exactly what he wanted.
“You had your chance,” he growled at himself and then spied the answering machine, red light blinking. Knowing he was intruding where he wasn’t wanted, he played back the messages to the last one—the entire conversation between Dani and Sloan Redhawk. Then he played it again. Why was Dani interested in birth certificates? Who was she trying to find? Gnawing on his lip, he drummed his fingers on the counter. It was none of his business, plain and simple, and yet anything Dani did fascinated him.
It seemed to be his personal curse.
* * *
“You can’t be serious!” Skye’s eyes were wide, her color high as she stared at her sister.
“I can and I am,” Dani said, wondering if confiding in her older sister had been a mistake of grand proportions. “Watch this,” she said, pointing to the corral where Hillary was atop Cambridge, the palomino gelding her father had bought her. The horse approached the jump at a smooth lope, then sailed over the white rails of a two-foot-high fence. If one hoof hit either of the rails, the fence would topple. It wasn’t much of a jump, but it was a start and Hillary executed it perfectly.
“I did it! I did it!” Hillary crowed proudly.
“Good girl,” Skye said with a bright smile, though her fingers were digging into the top rail of the fence to hide the case of nerves that Dani had already seen.
“She’s a natural,” Dani said.
“Wanna see again?”
“Sure.” Skye nodded and smiled but her fingers never relaxed their death grip on the fence.
“Now, remember, Hillary, talk to Cambridge through the reins. Let him know what you want by the feel of the bit in his mouth and your position on the saddle. You’re in charge.”
“I know all that,” Hillary said.
“Shouldn’t she be wearing a crash helmet?”
“And a seat belt, but watch.”
As Hillary repositioned Cambridge at the far end of the field, Skye placed a hand on Dani’s arm. “Why have you decided to look for your son now?”
“Because I have to know. It’s time, Skye. I always told myself that I’d do it someday, but for one reason or another put it off. I can’t any longer. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Because of Brandon?” Skye asked as Hillary aimed Cambridge at the jump and leaned over his shoulders. The horse shot forward, loping easily, approaching the jump before his muscles bunched and he soared again, carrying Hillary easily over the rails.
“Whether he came back or not, I wanted to find out.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“I haven’t talked to anyone except Sloan. And now you. Maybe that was a mistake, but I thought you might need some information in case Sloan wants to go through some of Jonah’s personal papers. He might also need access to some of the old hospital records in The Dalles where I had the baby. Since you’re a doctor—”
“Forget it. What you’re suggesting isn’t just unethical. I think it’s illegal.”
“This is something I have to do.”
“But what happens if you do find your baby?” Skye demanded, her eyes worried. “He’s what—ten years old now?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven! Do you know what it would do to a boy that age to find out that his biological mother is around? What if his adoptive parents haven’t told him the truth? What if he thinks he’s their biological child? What about his siblings? What about his folks—the ones who’ve nurtured him?”
“I’m not going to try to take him away,” she cut in. “I just want to find out if he’s okay.”
“That’s what you say now, Dani, but you’re playing with fire here.” Skye shook her head.
“You know what it’s like to want a child.”
“So now you want him?”
“No—I don’t know. I just have to find out if he’s okay.”
“Oh, God, Dani, this could turn into a disaster,” she whispered.
Hillary rode to the fence, and Cambridge, stretching his neck, shoved his soft nose into Dani’s chest. “Are you fighting?” she asked her stepmother as her proud smile faded.
“No, honey, just having one of those heavy discussions.”
“Well, don’t, ’cause my mommy says you’re not supposed to fight with your sisters.”
“That’s because you pick on the twins.”
“Do not, they pick on me!”
“And you fight with your cousin Cody.”
“That’s different—he’s a boy. A mean boy.”
Dani laughed. “How can a three-year-old be mean?”
“He’s Jenner’s son,” Skye said with a wink. “That should be explanation enough. So, Hillie-girl, are you all done here?”
“That’s it for today. She just has to help put Cambridge away.”
“Yuk!” Hillary muttered.
“Hey, he worked hard. He deserves a little special treatment. It’ll onl
y take a minute.” Hillary’s lower lip protruded, but Dani ignored it. “Take him inside. I’ll be right there.”
Skye sighed as Hillary turned the reins and the good-natured gelding ambled away. “I hope you know what you’re doing by looking for your son,” she said, worry shadowing her eyes. “I hope to God you know what you’re doing.”
So do I, Dani thought as she slid through the gate and started disassembling the jump. So do I.
* * *
Venitia stared at her son as if he’d just said he’d come from Mars. “I’ve told you all I know about your father,” she said, reaching for the glass of wine on the kitchen counter. The warm odors of peanut butter and cinnamon scented the air. The timer clicked loudly as one batch of cookies cooled on a rack near the window. Venitia made a big show of scooping spoonfuls of dough and plopping them onto a baking sheet that was black from years of use.
“You haven’t told me squat. All I’ve got is a name, Ma. Just a damned name. No memories, no photographs, just some vague ideas of who he was supposed to be.”
Her hands paused over the mixing bowl for a second. “Oh, Brand, for the love of Saint Mary, just leave it alone. Your father was useless, okay? Just plain useless. But we survived without him.”
“If that’s what you call it.”
“That’s the way it was.” She dropped the last of the dough on the sheet and shooed a cat out of the open window. After a long swallow of wine, she picked up a fork and made prints on each new cookie. She acted as if the conversation was over, just as she always did.
This time Brand kept on pushing. “He sent you money until I turned eighteen. You must have had some idea where he was.”
“I never paid any attention.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe.”
He couldn’t stop a cruel smile from sliding across his face. “Now that’s where you and I differ, Ma. I think it matters a lot what a kid thinks, especially when it comes to things about his old man. And besides, I’m not a kid anymore.”
“I know that,” she said softly.
“Just tell me a little bit more about Kendall. “Where was he from?”
“Oklahoma.”
“I know, but where in Oklahoma. It’s a big state.”
“I don’t know.”
“What about his parents—my grandparents? Or sisters or brothers or cousins or—”
She shook her head and her gaze was glued to the nearly empty bowl of cookie dough. “We’ve been over this before. A hundred times at least. I don’t know anything more today than I did ten years ago or twenty or thirty. He sent me money orders.”
“Like clockwork.”
“Yes.”
“From all across the United States and Canada—you never missed a check. Always came on the first. At least you told me he drifted around the country.”
“He did. That’s right.”
“It’s odd, Ma. Don’t you see? The mail isn’t that dependable especially when you’re talking about the entire continent, and what about the guy, huh? A drifter who won’t even stick around to meet his kid and yet makes sure, makes damned sure, that the check gets there on time.”
“What’re you saying, that I’m lying to you?” she asked, her voice lifeless.
“Just that it’s unusual, really unusual.” He studied the lines on her face and hated himself for wounding her. “I’m gonna find him, Ma.”
“No! Oh, Brandon. What would be the point?” she objected, licking her lips nervously. “He could be dead—he quit paying support when you turned eighteen.”
“The month I turned eighteen. The very month. Like he remembered. Never sent a birthday card, no note, never talked to you or wrote you and yet, damn it, he knew the minute I hit eighteen. Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Wonder what?” she asked in the same flat tone. She reached for her wineglass and held it with trembling fingers.
“If he was keeping track. Somehow. Some way.”
“No—”
“Too many things don’t add up, Ma, and someday I might settle down, get married, have a kid of my own. I would like to know a little family background—medical history as well as the usual things—where the family settled, how long we’ve been in America, which side we were on in the Civil War, who the damned black sheep are!”
His voice had risen to the point where it thundered through the kitchen, then, seeing the shimmer of tears in his mother’s eyes, he swore under his breath and placed both hands on the kitchen counter. His shoulders were so tight they ached.
“Look, this is something I’ve thought about for a long time, okay? I was never ready to face him before, I guess, not until I was ready, until I knew that . . .” That what? He wouldn’t be disappointed? Brand knew that he’d never felt strong enough to face the man who had sired him until now, until he’d become successful—until he’d been able to afford the damned Mercedes.
Feeling like a hypocrite, he closed his eyes and mentally started counting to ten. He was at seven when he heard metal wheels sliding across concrete. A second later, Chris dropped his skateboard on the back porch and swaggered into the house.
He shot a glance at Brand. “Thought you moved out,” he grumbled as he snagged a cookie from the cooling rack.
“I did.”
“Yeah, so what’re you doing hanging around here?” Green eyes glared up at him defiantly and Brand realized for the first time that the kid thought he was abandoning him again. Even though he hadn’t been around much in all Chris’s growing-up years, suddenly the boy, just starting adolescence, wanted to be with him, which was probably good considering that Chris was already getting into his share of trouble.
He’d had his first run-in with the law a year ago—at the Fourth of July parade when he’d set firecrackers off too near one of the horses and it had reared, throwing its rider before rampaging through the crowd. Luckily no one had been hurt. Then there was the incident when Chris had been caught with his dad’s old shotgun and had been accused of peppering road signs with buckshot. Yep, he was on the fast track to no place good.
“I thought you’d like to come and see the ranch,” Brand invited.
Chris shrugged as if he couldn’t care less, held the cookie in his mouth and swung the refrigerator door open. He poured himself a monstrous glass of milk and ignored Brandon’s remark.
“Where’ve you been?” Venitia asked, obviously relieved that the conversation about Brand’s father had been forced to a close.
“Hangin’.”
“Hangin’ where?” his mother persisted as the timer buzzed. She pulled a sheet of cookies from the oven using a pot holder that had been scorched around the corners for years.
“Down at Bigg’s.”
Bigg’s was a convenience store similar to the franchised minimarkets but locally owned by the Bigg sisters, Zelda and Connie, both divorced and raising young children. They had taken back their maiden name, bought the mom-and-pop operation from their ailing father and tried to make a go of it. Everything in the store was oversize to keep people reminded of their name. Teens and preteens hung out in the parking lot, usually just to get together but sometimes causing trouble.
“Who were you with?”
“Just some kids.”
“Who?”
“Sean,” he said, his voice edged in belligerence.
Venitia stiffened. “You know how I feel about him.”
“He’s not a bad guy,” Chris said, defending his friend just as Brandan had done years before.
“Then why is there always trouble when Sean’s around? Hmmm? I don’t like you hanging out with him. He’s been in trouble with the law already. Got caught sneaking into the Jamison place just last week. Bess Jamison raised holy—well, anyway, she was fit to be tied.”
“She’s always fit to be tied,” Chris sneered. Brand agreed, but held his tongue. “So what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that what Sean did i
s called breaking and entering and trespassing and who knows what else. He’s broken the law. If anything comes up missing, he’ll be blamed.”
“Ma’s right,” Brandan said.
“You don’t even know Sean.”
“No, but I was him.”
“What?”
“I was the kid all the parents didn’t like—the guy who was always in trouble. It got me nowhere. Believe me.”
Chris took a big swallow of his milk. “Looks like you did okay to me.”
“I got lucky.”
“Well, so will I,” he said cockily.
Venitia sighed wearily. “Not if you hang out with that Sean.”
“Sean didn’t steal anything, okay? He just looked around. And besides, what’s it to you? You’re half-crocked most of the time!”
“Chris!” Brandon roared, and his mother seemed to crumple in on herself. “That’s enough.”
“It’s true. You know it’s true.”
“This isn’t about Ma.”
“Well, it should be.”
Venitia’s back stiffened.
This was going nowhere fast. Brand clapped the boy on his shoulder. It was time they had a heart-to-heart. “Why don’t you come and hang out with me this weekend,” he said. “I can get you riding lessons.”
“On a horse?” Chris said as if he’d tasted something bad. “Girls like horses.”
“I know a woman who could give you lessons.”
“Big deal.”
“Not just any woman,” Brandon said. “This one trains rodeo stock. She used to barrel race and do tricks.”
“Tricks?” Chris asked, chewing on his cookie as the timer went off again. Venitia, still pale, pulled out the final batch.
“Yeah, I think she could stand up in the saddle, do a handstand and lean over so far that she could pick up a handkerchief with her teeth—all this while the horse was running at top speed.”