by Linda Warren
They made the trek through the den, down a hall and into his bedroom. Moonlight streamed through the windows. She stopped by the side of the bed and turned him. As if sensing what she wanted him to do, he fell backward onto the bed.
Gulping in deep breaths, she rubbed her aching arms and stretched her tired back. This wasn’t in her job description. She looked down at the sleeping cowboy. Now what? She couldn’t leave him like this with his feet hanging off the bed.
Once again she picked up his boots and swung his legs around. Now his feet hung off the bed because he wasn’t positioned correctly. There wasn’t anything she could do about that. She stared down at his feet. He’d probably sleep better without his boots. How do you remove a cowboy’s boots?
Mmm. Very carefully, she supposed.
With both hands, she grabbed a boot and pulled to no avail. Damn. Were they glued on? She placed her foot against the bed for leverage and tried again. She yanked with all her strength. The boot came off so suddenly that she lost her footing and fell backward to the carpet on her butt. But she had the boot in her hand.
Never one to do things halfway, she got to her feet and grabbed the other boot. This time she was prepared and maintained her balance. She placed both boots by the bed. She made to leave but thought he looked so uncomfortable. Grabbing a pillow, she stuffed it beneath his head. That was better.
Her hand went to undo the buttons on his shirt, but as soon as her fingers touched his masculine skin she drew back. She wouldn’t go that far. He wouldn’t appreciate it. Giving him one last look, she walked to the den.
She didn’t feel right leaving and she still needed to talk to him. Without a second thought, she marched back to the bedroom and grabbed the other pillow. She’d sleep on the sofa. In the morning they’d discuss the DNA test.
B RODIE WOKE UP to thunder and realized it was inside his head. Oh, man. He clutched his head with both hands. What the hell? Patches of foggy memory began to drift across his aching brain.
After talking to his mother, he’d stopped in at the Boots and Spurs. He had a beer, then another and another. He’d had some whiskey in there, too. The more he drank, the better he felt.
He sat up and saw that he was hanging off part of the bed. At least he’d made it home and managed to remove his boots. He needed coffee, lots of coffee. As he stood, the room swayed and he sat back down. What a mess. He hadn’t been that drunk in a long time.
Before he stopped at the bar, he drove around unable to get the DNA test out of his mind. All of his life he’d known exactly who he was—Thomas and Claudia Hayes’s son, their cowboy disappointment. Now he wasn’t so sure. Doubts mingled with fact and fiction. Who was he?
Light-headed, he made his way down the hall. His one goal was to make a pot of strong coffee, but then he realized he had to use the bathroom. A quick stop and he proceeded to the den. He stopped short at the sight on his couch.
A woman lay on her stomach, her blond hair splayed across a pillow. Jeans molded her perfect bottom and sneakers lay tumbled on the floor. She was sound asleep.
Alex Donovan.
He vaguely remembered her at the bar. Bits and pieces filtered through the fog. She’d taken his keys so she must have driven him home. Where in the hell was his truck?
He walked to the window and saw her Jeep parked at the back door. That meant his truck was still at the bar. Damn. He had to go get it. The pounding in his head reminded him he had another emergency. Coffee.
Quickly making a pot, he glanced at the sleeping Alex. Besides Helen Braxton, she was the last person he wanted to see.
Chapter Seven
The smell of coffee woke Alex. She stretched and sat up, yawning, but clamped her mouth shut when she saw Brodie sitting in a chair, coffee cup in hand, watching her.
“Where’s my truck?”
His neatly combed hair was still damp from a shower he’d obviously just taken. He’d shaved and changed his clothes and his boots were back on his feet. Pushing back her hair with both hands, she ignored that flutter in her stomach.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Where’s my truck?” The dimple was nowhere in sight.
“At the bar.”
He took a swallow of coffee. “If anything happens to that truck, I’m holding you responsible.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Do you not realize how drunk you were last night?”
He stared into his cup.
“Even the bartender knew you’d reached your limit. He refused to serve you any more beer. I’m sorry, but I wasn’t letting you drive in that condition.”
“My friends would have seen me home and taken care of my truck.”
“I didn’t see any friends around.”
“Maybe because you were with me. They’re not going to interfere while I’m with a woman.”
“Well, pardon me for trying to help. And let me tell you it wasn’t easy maneuvering your big frame into the house. Drunk, you weigh a ton. Nor was it a piece of cake getting your boots off.”
His eyes narrowed. “You took off my boots?”
“Yes. Is that a crime, too?”
“Thanks,” he mumbled as he took a sip from his cup. Some of his tension seemed to ebb away.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like a cup of coffee.”
“Suit yourself.”
She found a cup in the cabinet and poured coffee into it. He didn’t seem inclined to offer any assistance so she searched until she found sugar and milk. Taking a few sips, she went back to the den. She curled her feet beneath her and continued to drink her coffee.
“What were you doing at the bar?” he asked.
“I wanted to let you know that I was informing Mrs. Braxton of the DNA results.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“P.I.’s instinct.”
“Or you got lucky.”
“Maybe.” She took a sip and the silence became unbearable. Biting her lip she ventured into treacherous territory. “The result was the same as the first test.”
“Yep. Bet you’re happy about that.”
“Not exactly.”
He frowned. “Then why are you doing this?”
“I’m a P.I. and it’s my job. Mrs. Braxton had a folder of information about you, including photos. She knew your name and that you lived on a ranch outside Mesquite. She just wanted to know if you were the baby that was stolen from the nursery forty years ago. Mothers are funny like that. They never let go of a child even when it’s taken from them.”
She expected another sharp retort, but he set his cup on the end table and ran the palms of his hands up his face and through his hair. “I don’t understand how I could be her son.” His words were full of anguish and she felt a tug at her heart.
“Did you speak to your mother?”
“Yes. She says it’s ridiculous. She wasn’t even angry because it’s so absurd.”
Alex moved uneasily. “But you know something’s wrong?”
“Yeah.” He raised his eyes to hers. “You’re the investigator. How could this happen?”
She placed her cup on the coffee table. “The baby switch would be quite simple if you both were in the hospital at the same time, but your mother and you were checked out two days before Helen Braxton was admitted.”
“So someone had to have gone into the hospital and stolen Travis Braxton?”
“Yes.”
“So where is Brodie Hayes?”
“That’s a mystery. I checked records back then and there were no baby deaths reported during that period.”
“So my mother is lying or something else is going on.�
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“Yes. Either way, there’s a baby missing.”
The silence returned in full force as he stared at the case of his rodeo memorabilia. Inside there was a photo of three cowboys, their arms around each other. Brodie was in the center, the cowboy on the right had brown hair and the one on the left was blond—all tall, boldly handsome cowboys.
“Are those your friends?” she asked as he kept staring at the photo.
“They’re my family,” was his response.
“Your family?”
“I tried to do what my parents wanted, but a year of college was all I could take. It just wasn’t for me. When I told my dad, he said if I gave up college I wasn’t his son.” He looked at her. “Guess he was right, huh?”
She inclined her head, not knowing how to answer that question. She knew that he didn’t expect one. He was just trying to get through all the feelings that had shaped his life—all the feelings that had been fueled by a lie.
“So the cowboys in the photo became your family?”
“Yeah. Colter Kincaid is the one on the right. His father was a rodeo rider so he continued the family tradition. Tully, his father’s friend, helped him. Tripp Daniels is on the left and he was estranged from his family as well, so we all had a common connection. They called us the three amigos.”
“Do you still see them?”
“Sure. Colter lives not far from me and married the love of his life, Marisa. They have two children. Tripp reconciled with his family and moved to Bramble, Texas. He’s been married about eighteen months to a woman who captured his heart the first moment he met her. They have a six-month-old son and Jilly.”
“Jilly?”
“She’s Camila’s daughter by Tripp’s brother, Patrick. He was killed in a car accident before they could get married. It’s a long and involved story, but after many years Tripp returned home because his family needed him. He and Camila found each other and they’re very happy. Both my friends are happy, but…” His voice trailed away.
“But you don’t think that kind of happiness is for you?” She finished his sentence.
He rubbed his hands together. “Nope, especially not now. My life has suddenly been ripped to hell.”
She swallowed. “Have you talked to your friends?”
“Colter’s in New York. Marisa’s mother is from there and they go there every now and then with her parents. They should be home soon. I called Tripp, but they were having a family birthday party for Mrs. Daniels so I told him I’d call later. I had intended to make the party. With everything that’s happening, I forgot about it.”
“Maybe you can call him today.”
His eyes caught hers. “Why? Do you think I need to talk to someone?”
“Frankly, yes.” She didn’t lie.
“I’m talking to you. Doesn’t that count?” His eyes demanded an honest answer.
“Of course. I just feel bad being caught in the middle.”
“Mmm.” He looked down at his clasped hands. “Thanks for bringing me home last night.”
“You’re welcome.”
The silence returned and Alex took a breath.
“Would you like to know something about the Braxton family?”
He stood in a jerky movement. “No. Don’t do that. I don’t want to know anything about them.”
“It would be easier…”
A tap at the door stopped her. “Brodie, are you home?” a male voice shouted.
“I’m in the den,” Brodie shouted back.
A tall cowboy walked in. Blond hair curled into his shirt collar—this had to be Tripp Daniels. He was older than the man in the photo, but Alex knew it was him.
“Tripp, what are you doing here?” Brodie asked. They shook hands, then hugged briefly.
“I told Camila that you didn’t sound right on the phone last night. After the party, I kept tossing and turning and Camila finally said to go see what was wrong. I headed out early this morning. I know you wouldn’t have missed the party if…” He stopped as he saw Alex sitting on the sofa. “Oh, man. I’m sorry to intrude.”
Before Alex could speak, Brodie said, “It’s not what you think. This is Alex Donovan. She’s a private investigator.”
Tripp frowned, clearly not understanding anything.
Feeling out of place, she gathered her hair together and searched on the sofa for her clip. Running her hand between the cushions, she finally located it and clipped back her hair. It gave her some semblance of order, even though her emotions were disorganized and muddled.
“What’s going on?” Tripp asked.
“Have a seat,” Brodie replied, and Tripp took the chair Brodie had vacated. Brodie sat on the sofa next to her. “Remember all those times I told you I had to be adopted?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s worse than that. Alex was hired by Helen Braxton to find her son—a son who was stolen from the nursery almost forty years ago.”
“Are you saying…”
“Yep. I’m Helen Braxton’s biological son.”
Tripp pulled off his hat and scratched his head. “Have you talked to your mother?”
“She said it’s ridiculous and a lie. Aunt Cleo was there when I was born and she stayed with my mother until they brought me home.” He stood abruptly. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on. Last night I got so drunk that Alex had to drive me home.”
“I wondered where your truck was.”
“If you have time, could you take me to the Boots and Spurs?”
The phone rang, preventing Tripp from responding. Brodie went into the kitchen to answer it.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Alex said to Tripp. “He’s going to need someone to talk to.”
“We’re there for each other, no matter what,” Tripp replied, and paused. “Is this for real?”
“Yes.”
Brodie came back, his sun-browned skin a pasty yellow.
“What is it?” Alex was immediately on her feet.
“My mother…had…a massive heart attack.”
Alex grabbed her shoes. “I’ll get you to the hospital in no time. Let’s go. I know all the shortcuts.”
“I’ll follow,” Tripp called as they went out the door.
Alex didn’t have time to put on her sneakers. She jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Brodie crawled in and sat as if turned to stone.
“She’ll be fine,” Alex said.
“I don’t think so. Her heart was weak already. I should never have told her.”
“You can’t blame yourself.” She whizzed onto the freeway.
“Who do I blame, Alex?” She felt the heat of his eyes on her. “Tell me. Who do I blame?”
She took an exit without slowing down and drove through a yellow light. “You can blame me. I took the case.”
“That would be too easy.” He shifted nervously in his seat. “Does this thing go any faster?”
“I’m breaking the speed limit now.” She whipped down a side street and the hospital came into view. Pulling into the circular drive, she braked to a stop.
Brodie jumped out. “Thanks.”
It took Alex ten minutes to find a parking place and thirty seconds to get her shoes on, then she hurried inside.
At the information desk she was told that Mrs. Hayes was in CCU and not allowed visitors. Only immediate family was allowed in at the appropriate times. She thanked the lady and walked off. Having visited this hospital before, she knew where the CCU unit was located.
She took the elevator to the fourth floor. There was a waiting room with phones and vending machines. It was full and she did
n’t see Brodie anywhere. Turning down a hall, she saw him talking to a lady with graying brown hair. She started to turn and leave, but she had to know how Mrs. Hayes was doing. Taking a seat down the hall, she waited.
“H OW IS SHE ?” Brodie asked Cleo.
“The doctor hasn’t told me anything, but I couldn’t deal with this alone so I called you.”
Brodie was taken aback. “What are you talking about? When did mother have the heart attack?”
“About two this morning.”
“What! And you’re just now calling me?”
“She wouldn’t let me. Before she went out the last thing she said was not to call you.”
“Cleo, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would she not want you to call me? And why would you listen to her?”
“Claudie was acting very strange last night. She woke up screaming and when I went into her room she said she’d had a bad dream. Then I heard her gasping for breath. I immediately called 9-1-1 and when I tried to call you she became more agitated.”
“Cleo…”
Dr. Finley, Claudia’s cardiologist, came out of CCU and Brodie rushed to his side. “How’s my mother?”
“Follow me,” Dr. Finley said and walked into a small room. He turned to face Brodie. “I’m not going to lie to you. Your mother’s had a massive heart attack and I’m not sure why she’s still alive. Her heart has weakened considerably. She came around about an hour ago and she’s in an agitated state. She’s not making a lot of sense, so be prepared when you see her. We’re trying to keep her calm. Seeing you might help.”
Brodie swallowed. “How long does she have?”
“I don’t know. We’re monitoring her and doing everything we can. Surgery is out of the question. She wouldn’t survive it.”
“When can I see her?”
“I’ll take you to her, but like I said, be prepared.”
Brodie had had to face a lot of things in his life and he wondered if he was ready for this. He followed Dr. Finley into the unit. Beds were partitioned off with curtains. The nurse’s station was in the center of the room so they could see and monitor each patient.
