by Lisa Jackson
Irene considered the man a god on earth, but Dani had decided long ago that he was only interested in helping himself. So why had he taken charge when he’d acted as if she barely existed, would have done anything to make sure that his older son didn’t marry Dani’s sister, Skye? Just to help Irene? Or were there deeper reasons? Dani had always wondered. Now that she was actively searching for her boy, and Jonah, curse him, was dead, her curiosity burned deeper than ever. What was Jonah’s involvement?
Somehow, she’d find out. No matter how painful the truth might be, it had to be better than not knowing.
“Hey, Dani!” A voice cracked as it yelled up at her. She threw open the window and spied Chris in the yard. The strap of an overnight bag was slung over his shoulder and he held one hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked up to the roof of the garage.
She poked her head out the open window of one of the dormers. “Hey! What’re you doing here?”
“Another visit,” Brandon said, emerging from the garage with a couple of bags of groceries tucked under his arms. “We’re celebrating.”
“Big deal,” Chris grumbled.
“It is.”
Chris shrugged, and for the first time, Dani noticed the cast on his arm, hidden beneath the long sleeves of a flannel shirt that was several sizes too big.
“What happened to you?” she asked. After slanting a glance at his brother, Chris scowled.
“Nothin’.”
“Looks like somethin’ to me. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he grumbled.
“I take it we’re not celebrating the fact that you’ve been to the emergency room.”
“Nah. Brand’s ticked about that” He almost smiled as if he’d won some kind of victory, then quickly ducked into the house.
Dani’s gaze followed him, then landed back on Brand, who was scowling darkly. “What happened?” she asked.
“A long story. I’ll let him tell you.”
Dani’s curiosity got the better of her. “Okay, I’ll wait. So what are you celebrating?”
“We broke ground on the lodge this week.” His head was tilted back, the throat of his shirt open, his skin bronzed from the sun, and she experienced that same familiar little catch in her breath. So male. So sexy. So wrong.
“Congratulations.”
“So, you’ll join us?”
She glanced at the house, dying to know what had happened to Chris. Despite his arrogant attitude, she liked the boy. But then, she liked all kids. The more rebellious, the better. Still, she hedged. She couldn’t trust herself around Brand. “I’ve got work—”
“We’ll wait,” he said, a grin stretching wide on his beard-darkened jaw.
“No, go ahead. I’ll just fix something here.”
“Dani.” His voice was louder, more commanding. “Please. Chris asked specifically if you’d come.”
Her throat tightened and she forced a smile. She and the boy were becoming close; there wasn’t any reason to disappoint him. And she had to find out how he’d hurt himself. Once again her thwarted maternal instincts were working overtime. “Okay.”
“Just show up whenever it’s convenient.” Brand disappeared under the eaves and she told herself it was just a simple little dinner. No big deal. The kid wanted to see her, and damn it, she wanted to see him. Almost as much as she wanted to be with Brand.
“It’s happening again, Dani,” she told herself, but didn’t listen to the warning.
* * *
“. . . and so when Kent insulted me, I popped him one,” Chris said as he pronged a piece of steak and began chewing. Not only was his wrist broken, but he was sporting a black eye and cut lip. “Bam, a right hook across the jaw.”
“And that’s how you broke your wrist?”
Chris slid a glance to his half brother, but Brand didn’t help him out, just sat across the table from him and waited, as did Dani. They were seated in the kitchen at a round, bleached wooden table. Brand had barbecued steaks and thrown together a Caesar salad that came in a sack, along with heating baked potatoes and garlic bread.
Chris dunked his steak in a dollop of sauce. “I broke my wrist when Kent nailed me and I went down. Tried to break my fall.”
“So this isn’t a you-should-see-the-other-guy story?”
Some of Chris’s bravado left him. “Nah. He’s okay. Just a swollen jaw.”
“What were you fighting about?”
Chris stared down at his plate and didn’t answer.
“He insulted our mother,” Brand explained.
“So you were defending her honor?”
With a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, the boy pushed away from the table. “She doesn’t have any honor.”
“Chris!” Brand said sharply.
“It’s true. You know it, I know it. The whole damned town knows it.” His face was twisted in pain, and he sniffed loudly, fighting back tears.
“I said I’d handle it.”
“Sure,” Chris said, standing. “You’ve said it before and she’s just as bad as ever. Worse. Damn it, Brandon—”
“Enough!” Brandon was on his feet in an instant. “Don’t put Ma down, not when she’s done the best she could for you and for me. And keep your language clean.”
“You can’t tell me what to do!” Chris’s nostrils flared. “Damn, damn, damn!” he yelled as he ran out the back door.
Brand started after him, but Dani caught his wrist. “Let him go.”
“After that?”
“He needs to blow off steam.”
“He can blow it off without swearing and without insulting Ma.”
“He will. But let him cool down. He doesn’t mean it—he’s just frustrated. I don’t know what happened, but you and I, we’ve both been where he is now.”
Brand didn’t seem convinced and glared out the open door to where Chris, with some difficulty, had scrambled up to the top rail of the fence and, brooding, stared off to the hills.
“Come on, tell me about the lodge.”
Slowly he relaxed and together they cleared the dishes, cleaned the kitchen and made coffee. It seemed strange, yet right, that they were together in this old house. Brand told her his expectations for the resort and avoided the subject of his mother; Dani explained about her plans for the ranch, how she hoped to own it and train horses at the same time. They discussed livestock for the stables and Brand offered to buy the horses from her—even give her a job organizing trail rides for the tenderfeet who would come to vacation on the shores of Elkhorn Lake.
Eventually Brandon, calmer, approached his brother. As Dani watched from the porch, she saw Brand say something to the boy. Chris didn’t move; if he responded, Dani couldn’t hear him. Whatever his brother’s reaction, Brand didn’t give up, but climbed onto the fence with him, his head bent toward the boy as he listened to him. There were words spoken on both sides, then a burst of Brand’s laughter before he clapped Chris on the shoulder and encouraged a smile from him. Dani’s heart tore as she sipped her cold coffee and watched the two brothers.
Brand, she thought, would have been a wonderful father.
Within a few minutes they returned, Chris mumbling an apology for being rude and Brandon smothering a smile. Night descended slowly, the pale sky darkening to show off a million stars. Dani had always loved the ranch at night once the chores were done and the day had seeped away; then she could feel a cooling breeze against her face and listen to the howl of a lonely coyote.
Chris was in the house, in a room Brand had set up with him that was complete with bed, television, video games and phone.
“He’ll never want to go home,” Dani accused as they walked along the path leading to the garage. “You spoil him.”
“Someone needs to.”
“I think that’s your mom’s job.”
“Or his dad’s,” Brandon said. “I’ve called Al a couple of times, left messages for him, but he never phones back. Helluva father he turned out to be.”
“So you’re trying to fill his shoes?”
Brand raked stiff fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but the kid needs an anchor of some kind. Al’s not interested and Ma . . . well, she has problems.” The muscles in his face pulled into a frown that Dani wished she could wipe away.
“It’s not easy raising a child alone, I suppose,” she said wistfully. Maybe she should have tried.
“No and Ma’s done it twice.” They stopped at the bottom of the steps leading to her apartment.
“A strong woman.”
“Sometimes,” he said, then let his thoughts wander away as he stared into the distance. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.”
She felt it then, an undercurrent in the air warning her that she should be careful. “About?”
“Well, I’ve decided it’s time I tracked down my old man, find out more about him and that part of my family that I don’t know a thing about. My mother’s not very cooperative on the subject. It’s like Jake Kendall is some deep, dark secret and I think I have the right to know something about him, even try to reach him if I can.”
“I understand,” she said. “If my father were still alive, I’d want to see him, too.” Just as I’d want to meet my son. Her throat tightened.
“So, I heard you on the phone the other night with Sloan Redhawk.”
Her heart nearly stopped beating and she felt the color drain from her face.
“I thought I’d give him a call, see if he can help me.”
“Oh, well—”
He touched the underside of her jaw, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Who is it you’re trying to track down.”
“Track down?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“The message—I heard all of it. You’re trying to find someone, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t lie. Trapped, she stared into the magnetism of his eyes and nodded. Her heart was pounding, thundering in her brain. Tell him. Tell him now.
“A long-lost relative?”
“Yes,” she said, her mouth so dry she could barely speak.
“Have you found him . . . or her yet?”
“No, but we’re still looking.” Every muscle in her body was strung so tight she thought she might explode.
“So,” he asked. “Who is it?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brand scowled as he drove to his mother’s home. A foul mood clung to him as he stared through the windshield peppered with rain. His day at work had been a complete bust and he’d barked at poor Rinda when she’d asked him for the umpteenth time where a set of blueprints was located. Syd had come with his daily set of problems and Brandon had dealt with them without his usual dose of humor—something he’d lacked since this past weekend when Dani had all but avoided him.
After he’d asked her about the mysterious phone call to Sloan Redhawk, she’d gotten all tongue-tied and serious, as if she were going to lay the weight of the world on him. He’d half expected to hear some horrible tale about her life, but when he’d pressed her, she’d held her tongue, and for the next two days he’d barely seen her. She’d given Chris a couple of riding lessons and been more than civil to him, but whenever Brand was around she’d been busy. Always with that Jack character—some ranch hand who worked for her part of the time, then took off in the winter to be a ski bum. With his tanned skin, sun-streaked blond hair and easy smile, Jack had been more than attentive, helping Dani put in new pipes in the bathroom of her apartment and checking over all the equipment—baler, plow, tractor, seed drill, you name it, Jack checked it out.
Brand’s fingers tightened over the wheel. He wasn’t a man prone to jealousy; thought the emotion was downright stupid. But when it came to Dani, his thinking wasn’t straight at all. Never had been. She managed to get under his skin like no other woman ever had.
“Hell,” he grated as he drove past the city limits of Dawson City and angled the nose of his Jeep toward his mother’s house. He switched on the wipers and dirt streaked the rain-splattered windshield. Venitia was another problem. A big one. He’d gotten a panicked call from Chris just this morning; the social worker had been out, poking around, asking questions, staring at Chris with pity in her eyes. Venitia was digging her own grave.
Gritting his teeth, he knew he was in for the battle of his life—and hers. But it had been coming for a long time. She, probably unsuspecting, would be home from work by now as it was nearly five, and he wanted to catch her before she’d gotten too far gone. He’d called a treatment center early this morning and made a reservation for her; now all he had to do was talk her into drying out. “Good luck,” he muttered to himself and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror. His mouth was firm and set, white lines around the edges, his eyes hidden by reflective glasses against the glare of a sun partially hidden by gray clouds. He looked more like a prison warden in an old B-movie than a concerned son.
“Get a grip, Scarlotti,” he growled, parking next to the curb. Several cats were hiding in the bushes, avoiding the rain that fell from the sky intermittently. He noticed that some of his crew had been out. A new unpainted post shored up the porch and old gutters had been ripped away to be replaced by newer prepainted downspouts and pipes. Even the sagging step had been fixed. The windows hadn’t been changed yet, but first things first; the men who’d done the work here had managed to wedge it between their other jobs.
Stuffing his sunglasses into his breast pocket, he knocked lightly on the screen door, then let himself in. He found her in the living room, curled near the arm of the sofa, her feet tucked beneath her. For once he didn’t spy a bottle of any kind in the room.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, her colorless lips compressed, no hint of makeup on her face. She looked older than she was and Brandon felt like a heel.
“Why?”
Wrapping her arms around her chest, as if to ward off a chill in the warm room, she glared up at him with wounded eyes. “I got a call today. From a Dr. Kelly Bush, a friendly woman who seems to think I’ll be admitting myself into some place called the Blue Haven Clinic.” Her fingers drummed on the shiny arm of the couch. “I assume this is your doing?” It wasn’t really a question. More like an accusation.
“Guilty as charged.” He sat on the other arm, hands clasped loosely between his knees, one foot swinging, as he told himself not to let her talk him out of this. Sure, he felt like a damned heel. Who wouldn’t? But if someone didn’t intervene, she’d lose everything she held dear. Including her second-born son. “Chris is worried, Ma, and so am I.”
“Chris is just a kid.”
“Doesn’t mean he can’t worry.”
She made a sound of disgust in her throat. “I suppose he told you about the social worker.” Staring through the window, Venitia tried hard to keep her chin from trembling.
“This is hard on him, Ma.”
She blinked and swallowed. “And what about me? Isn’t it hard on me, too?”
“Of course it is,” he said in his most soothing tone as a tear tracked from the corner of her eye.
With agitation, she motioned in the air. “What’s supposed to happen to Chris while I’m away—while I’m in treatment, huh? What about him? I will not, will not, have him go into some foster home and Al—” She bit her lip and closed her eyes. “Al doesn’t want him.”
“What?” Brandon was on his feet in an instant. Fury roared through his blood. “Doesn’t want him,” he repeated, his lips curling. “He should have thought of that before he fathered the boy!”
“Oh, Brandon, if you only knew,” she said on a heavy sigh.
“I do know, Ma,” he said, hooking his thumb at his chest. Leaning close enough, to smell the cigarette smoke still clinging to her hair, he said, “I was treated the same way, remember?”
“You don’t understand.”
“And I never will!” he roared. “When a man becomes a father, he’d better take responsibility or risk fouling that kid up forev
er.”
Tortured eyes met his. “What if he can’t afford a child? What if he really didn’t love the woman involved? What if the baby was just a mistake?”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Brand muttered, then it hit him. She wasn’t talking about Chris any longer. “What’re you trying to say, Ma?” he demanded.
“That . . . oh, God, Brandon, if you only knew how much I loved you, how I adored you, how full you made my life. Would a father have made any difference?”
“A helluva lot.” Crossing the room, he tried to gain control of his temper, which always shot into the stratosphere when the subject of fatherhood was brought up. Turning, he pinned his mother with a furious stare. “Tell me everything you can about Jake Kendall.”
“I—I already have,” she said, her voice faltering, her eyes sliding away.
“But you’ve told me nothing.”
She took in a tremulous breath, looked up at her son, then back to the floor.
“Why don’t I know a damned thing about him?”
“Because he doesn’t exist, Brand. Doesn’t now, didn’t then.”
“What?” he snarled. Fear, dark and foreboding, spun through his mind, and it occurred to him, not for the first time, that she might not know who’d sired her bastard; maybe she played fast and loose those days and there were lots of men who could have been the one who . . . A dull ache throbbed relentlessly at the base of his skull. “What do you mean?” His voice was low and hoarse.
She licked her lips nervously. “Jake Kendall was a figment of my imagination, a name you could cling to, a . . . an excuse for your father not to be around.”
“So who was the real guy?” Dread thudded through his brain.
“I swore that I’d never admit the truth,” she hedged. “That was the agreement—he’d pay child support and help out and I’d keep his name out of it.”
His heart was pumping. “So you do know him. It wasn’t because there were too many men—”
