by Lisa Jackson
“Sure,” Chris said nonchalantly, totally unimpressed.
“It’s true.”
“Who was that?” Venitia asked, and Brandon noticed that somehow, while he was talking with Chris, she’d poured herself another glass of wine. Two cats—one black, one gray striped—shot through the room hissing and spitting. “Shag, Pfeffer, you stop that!”
“Dani Donahue—uh, Stewart. The woman I’m renting from.”
“Stewart?” Venitia repeated, shaking her head. “Never heard of her, but the Donahue name’s familiar.”
“Her older sister, Skye, is a doctor in Rimrock. Married Max McKee last Christmas. Dani was married to Jeff Stewart.”
“Was?” Venetia asked.
“Divorced now. She lives in an apartment over the garage, rents out the main house to me, manages the ranch, owns some stock and gives riding lessons on the side.”
“Busy lady,” Venitia said as she finished removing the cookies from the sheet. Her hands were still shaking and Brandon wished somehow this family would quit wounding each other.
“That she is,” Brandon said as an image of Dani, warm and fragrant from her bath, her hair damp, her skin so soft, entered his head. What had he been thinking about, kissing her so passionately? If the phone hadn’t rung, they might have ended up in his bed, and that thought, though pleasant, scared the hell out of him. From past experience, he knew that if he made love to Dani, he’d never want to stop.
“Okay,” Chris said suddenly, his green eyes assessing.
“Okay what?”
“I’ll spend the weekend with you and ride a horse. Even though I know you’re just trying to change the subject from Mom’s drinking.”
“Oh, Lord,” Venitia whispered, sagging against the counter.
“You got a problem, Mom. We all know it.” His eyes drilled into Brand’s. “Don’t we?”
“This isn’t the time or place.”
“It never is.”
Brand looked at his mother. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Ma, we have to. I’ll make an appointment with—”
“Don’t you dare, Brand. This is my life we’re talking about. Mine!” She hooked her thumb at her chest.
“And Chris’s.”
“I’ve managed to take care of him for eleven years.”
Chris snorted.
“They’ll take him away,” Brand said flatly, knowing he was wounding her. “We’ll talk, Ma, and when we do, we’ll make some decisions.”
Her voice quivered in indignation. “You have no right—”
“You can come to the ranch, too.”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t think so.”
“Ma—”
“Forget it—she won’t,” Chris said angrily.
Venitia forced a strained smile and, as she always did, pretended that the conversation hadn’t been tense, that everything was fine. “You two have a good weekend and I’ll stay home and relax—enjoy the peace and quiet. The house could use a good cleaning and I’ll bury myself in a book or rent one of those relationship movies that Chris hates so much.”
Chris glowered.
Venitia took a swallow from her glass. “He wouldn’t watch one with me if I paid him.”
“Depends on how much you paid,” Chris said, his jaw set and hard.
“Forget it.” She seemed relieved to have some free time and Brandon realized that for as long as he could remember and probably longer, she’d been worried about one son or the other and how to make ends meet. With him, there had been the check from his father and she’d had Al to help her raise Chris, at least for a few years, but for most of her adult life, Venitia Scarlotti Cunningham had been scrimping, saving and worrying about her boys. And drinking. The lines on her face were testament to her concern. She needed a break from the stress—longer than a weekend.
Brand glanced at the wine bottle, then looked away. She’d be all right, he supposed. It was only a couple of days. “I’ll pick you up after school tomorrow,” he said to Chris.
“Cool,” Chris responded without too much enthusiasm and Brand walked to the front door, his mother following him like a shadow.
“Workmen should be here next week,” he said. “They’ll fix anything you want. I already told them about the porch and windows and linoleum in the kitchen—you’d better pick out some new stuff for the floor and countertops and what about the bathroom? Looks like you could use a new shower stall.”
“You don’t have to do anything to the house, Brand.”
“I want to, Ma.” He shoved his hands through his hair. “And while the house is torn up, I think you should go to the hospital, have those tests done on your liver.”
“I don’t need to—”
“I talked to the doctor, Ma.”
“Hospitals are expensive.”
“Yeah, and death is permanent. Don’t worry about the bills, okay?”
She bit her lip and he knew what she was thinking. She’d get another lecture about the evils of drink, the way the wine was destroying her liver and health, how it was affecting her mind. There would be suggestions to seek help through counselors and programs.
“I’ll think about it,” she promised, glancing back toward the kitchen, as if expecting her younger son to be eavesdropping.
“Good. Do it for Chris.”
She swallowed, blinked hard and touched him lightly on the arm. “I didn’t mean to belittle your need to find your father.” Brand’s stomach tightened at the mention of Kendall. She hesitated then swallowed. “It’s just that . . . he wasn’t a very decent man.”
“Meaning what?” he asked, stiffening.
“Meaning that there are some things better left just as they are.”
“Family secrets that wouldn’t stand the light of day?”
“I just don’t want to see you disappointed, that’s all.”
“I won’t be, Ma,” he said, then walked out the door. He felt her stare at his back. She was lying about his father; it was something he’d suspected for years, but now he was certain. Venitia knew where Jake Kendall was, or at least where some of his relatives were, but there was something so painful to her, or so vile about him, that she was protecting Brandon.
But from what?
Brandon waved at the calico cat resting on the hood of his car and the cat scrambled down, leaving a trail of footprints on the glossy paint job. Brand didn’t mind. He just wanted some answers.
He remembered playing the tape of Dani’s conversation with Sloan Redhawk. She’d hired a P. I. to find someone; maybe he should do the same. He was getting nowhere with his mother. He drove away from the small house where he’d grown up and headed out of town to the house that he leased from Dani.
Funny, he’d been there less than a week, and it was already starting to feel like home. For the past three days, he’d avoided Dani, deciding it was best to keep his distance, but he hadn’t been able to shove her completely from his mind. Not only did he remember their lovemaking in every delicious detail, he also couldn’t shake the memory of her phone call to Sloan Redhawk. Who, he wondered, for the dozenth time, was she trying to track down?
CHAPTER NINE
“Jonah McKee was a bastard. He did things his own way. Played by his own rules.” Sloan’s voice sounded as if he were in the next room rather than miles away at his ranch near Warm Springs.
Dani blew her bangs out of her eyes and sighed. Wrapping the telephone cord around her hand, she leaned against the wall. “Jonah’s dead now. It’s time to fix things.”
“I know. I’m checking on a couple of leads, but they may turn out to be nothing. That private hospital has been sold two times, and now is part of a huge conglomerate. The doctor’s retired, living up on some lake in Canada near Banff somewhere, and the lawyer who handled the adoption is practicing in Detroit—corporate stuff. Since I can’t find a birth certificate listing you as the mother, I’m checking all boys born around that date, bu
t I’ve got to tell you, there isn’t even an admitting record with your name on it.”
Dani’s heart turned to stone. “I was there, damn it, and I had my baby twelve hours later.”
“I know. I’m still checking with the staff, but there’s been a tremendous turnover in the past eleven years.”
“Great.”
“If you can come up with some names—the nurses that took care of you or the baby—”
“I can’t remember any,” she said, closing her eyes and conjuring up the faces of the two women who were in the delivery room. A large, buxom nurse took the baby to the scales and cleaned him off, and another one, a petite woman with a cap and black hair had held Dani’s hand, kept encouraging her during the delivery. Dani had never noticed their names. “It was so long ago,” she said, feeling defeated. “I was just a kid.”
“Keep working on it.”
“I will,” she said.
“And I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks.” Dani hung up her new telephone and dropped into a chair. She was dead tired and Sloan’s call only deflated her. After eleven years of waiting, she was suddenly impatient, anxious to find her missing son. She’d already listed her name with the various social agencies; now she had to wait until one of them contacted her—if they were so inclined—or until Sloan dug up more information.
She grabbed the glass of lemonade she’d poured. Ice cubes clinked as she pressed the glass to her head in hopes of warding off another headache. Every muscle in her body ached and now she was depressed. Jonah McKee had covered his tracks, and her baby’s tracks, as well.
“You won’t beat me,” she vowed as if Jonah could hear her, as if she had to make him understand her determination to find her child. “This is just a setback, that’s all,” she told herself. “What did you expect?”
She heard the sound of a truck pull into the yard and turned to look out the window. She half expected Jack to stop by, but the rig parked near the stables wasn’t Jack’s old pickup. A Jeep of some sort—a couple of years old from the looks of it—backed into Brand’s spot in the garage below Dani’s apartment. A minute later, Brand, wearing sunglasses, his jacket slung over his shoulder, an overnight bag in one hand, emerged. Along with him was a gawky kid who looked somewhere around thirteen.
The boy was lanky, with shorts that brushed his knees, coffee brown hair that flopped around his ears and features that were too big for his face. He swaggered as he walked and carried a skateboard with him. A kid with an attitude. She smiled; he reminded her a little of Brand as a boy and she realized that this must be his brother.
To her horror, they mounted the steps to her apartment. Within seconds, there was a series of loud raps on her door.
Great. Just what she needed. It was difficult enough to deal with Brand, a man she couldn’t look at without feeling her pulse jump. Somehow she had to get over this fascination. But then her thoughts turned back to the night in his kitchen, her bathrobe gaping open, his mouth touching her intimately, and her insides turned to jelly.
“Coming,” she yelled as Solomon, startled from a nap on top of her desk, bolted across the room. Dani opened the door to find Brandon standing on the landing. His easy smile was in place, his gaze as blue as the summer sky. The boy hung back suspiciously, staring at her through a shank of long hair that hid his eyes.
“This is my brother, Chris,” Brand said as she stepped out of the way, silently inviting them inside. “Chris—Dani Stewart. She’s my landlord.”
“Hi,” the boy mumbled, not bothering to meet her gaze.
“Hi.” Dani waved to her small kitchen. “I was just having some lemonade. How about you?”
The kid glanced at Brand. “Nah. Thanks.” He looked as if he’d rather be any place on earth than her cramped quarters.
“Sure?” Maybe he was just being polite. “I’ve got a pitcher already made.” She turned her attention to Brand and steadfastly pushed aside all memories of their night together. “How about you?” God, her face felt tight, her smile plastic.
“Sounds good. Thanks.”
Dani poured another couple of glasses. “Here ya go.” She smothered a smile when Chris swallowed half his down in one long gulp.
Brand, amused, caught her gaze over the rim of his glass as the boy finished his drink. Without a word, Dani refilled it.
“Chris is gonna be staying with me for a few days,” Brand explained. “I promised him that if you had the time, I’d buy him some riding lessons.”
Dani managed to hide her surprise. Boys this kid’s age weren’t usually interested in riding horses—they were already primed for cars. “Oh, well, sure. I, um, could do it tomorrow,” she said, mentally checking her schedule. “In the afternoon, around three?”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Chris studied the floor, then he tossed his hair from his eyes and Dani’s breath caught for a second. He looked so much like his brother. Only the eyes were different. Chris’s were a hazel green and not quite so deep set as Brandon’s, his face a little rounder, his chin not so square but time would file off the softer edges. “I think horses are a pain,” he grumbled.
Dani shot Brandon a look. “So why do you want to ride?” she asked the boy.
“It was his idea.” He hitched his chin toward Brandon.
“Oh,” What was going on here?
A smile tugged at Brandon’s lips. “I told him you were a hotshot rodeo rider.”
“That was a long time ago.”
The kid, who had just the hint of peach fuzz on his upper lip seemed suddenly defiant. “Brandon says you used to race horses and do tricks on them.”
“Brandon remembers a lot,” she said, curiously eyeing the pair. While she and Brandon were seeing each other, she hadn’t competed in one rodeo. She’d stopped when she was about sixteen, at a time when she’d become more interested in boys than horses and when she’d realized that she couldn’t count on prize money if she didn’t win and she needed a steady job with wages she could depend upon. That’s when she’d begun to wait tables and collect tips.
“Can you really stand on your head in the saddle?” Finishing his drink, he sucked on an ice cube, then cracked it with his back teeth.
She laughed and shook her head. “No.”
“What about picking up a handkerchief with your teeth while the horse is running?” The ice cube crunched loudly.
“Oh, Lord, no.” She pinned Brandon with a knowing glance. “Is that what you’ve been telling him?”
“Just repeating what I heard.”
“And embellishing a bit, I’ll bet.” She sent Chris a chagrined smile. “I just raced and trained horses. I could sit backward and get up on my knees, but that’s about it. Everything else your brother’s been pitching to you has been a big stretch of the imagination.”
Chris rolled his eyes as if to say “big deal.” He shifted from one foot to the other and studied her carefully. Dani was painfully aware of her appearance—dirty and sweaty clothes, her hair pulled back, her face probably streaked with dust, without a hint of makeup. What had Brandon thought he would accomplish by bringing him here?
“I don’t like horses,” Chris stated baldly.
“Why not?”
“They’re stupid.”
Dani saw instant red. She thought of all the horses she’d worked with over the years, all the soft noses, liquid eyes and quick hooves. “Horses are incredibly bright creatures,” she said, hating the sound of her voice—almost preachy, it was. “They’re loyal, courageous, and will, if you treat them well, do anything for you. And that,” she said with a crisp smile, “is a lot more than you can say for most people.”
Chris made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.
“Now, I’ll admit that some of them can be royal pains, a few are mean spirited, and some aren’t as bright as others, but in general, they’re as smart as they need to be.”
“Right.” Sarcasm dripped off his words
.
Brandon sent him a look that could melt lead. “He’ll be ready tomorrow at three.” He placed his empty glass in the sink and Chris followed suit. “Thanks, Dani.”
“No problem,” she said, though it was a lie. Everything with Brandon was a problem. Within seconds, they were gone, out the door and down the steps.
Dani should have been relieved. Instead, she felt disheartened. The apartment seemed strangely empty without Brandon and his cocky half brother.
* * *
“I guess I should warn you about Chris.” Brand’s voice caught her off guard. She’d just closed the stable door and the soft chorus of crickets whispered through the night. No quiet cough or sound of gravel crunching under boots had signaled his approach. He was waiting for her, sitting on the top rail of the fence, his hands braced around the old wood on either side of him. The moon, not quite full, rode high in the sky and cast its silvery glow over the landscape.
“What’s to know?” she asked, walking closer to him and seeing the starlight catch in his eyes. Her heart did a silly little flip and began to pound.
“He might be here a lot.”
“Fine with me,” she said, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I like kids.”
“He’s trouble.”
“Weren’t we all?”
Brand chuckled softly. “I blamed my . . . well, trouble with the law on the fact that I didn’t have a dad hanging around pointing me in the right direction, though my mother tried her best. But I probably would’ve been hell on wheels even if old Kendall had been in the picture. Chris was with his dad for quite a while, but he’s still starting to rebel.”
“It’s all part of growing up. Besides, Chris seems older than eleven.”
“Always has,” Brand said, then frowned. “I didn’t know him much when he was a little kid—didn’t even see my ma all the while she was pregnant or the first couple years of Chris’s life—too caught up in my own, I guess, and I never cared much for Al Cunningham. Still don’t.” His skin seemed to tighten over his face. “He sure doesn’t seem to give two cents for a kid he helped bring into the world.”
“Not all men are cut out to be fathers,” she said, the pain in her voice evident.