Lone Star Redemption

by Colleen Thompson

  Margie smiled at her, clearly not noticing her change of mood. “A girl after my own heart. And I assure you, the barking brigade would be all for it.”

  Gesturing toward the kitchen, she said, “I serve breakfast at eight-thirty and other meals by arrangement if you need ’em. Cooking’s nothing fancy, and I’m not the place to go for any fussy special orders. But so far, nobody’s starved here or called the health department.”

  “Works for me,” said Jessie, warming to this unassuming and plainspoken woman more than ever. And realizing that the former teacher might prove a valuable source of information on this town and the people in it. Including the Rayfords, if she played her cards right.

  “I was wondering,” she said, “if you might’ve known my sister when she was staying in town.”

  “Haley, you said?” the woman asked.

  “My twin, yes. I’m looking for her.”

  “Can’t say as I knew Haley, but I must’ve seen her around town at some point. Maybe that’s why you looked a bit familiar.” Margie shrugged and went on without taking a breath. “Now, in about an hour, I’ll have chicken ’n’ dumplings with green beans and fried okra on the table. There’s plenty to go around, if you care to join us.”

  Jessie wondered, was she being paranoid, thinking that Margie had been awfully quick to change the subject? Or had Jessie’s conversation with Zach and his mother left her attuned to avoidance? Whichever the case, she politely declined the offer and was soon shown to a small second-story bedroom and provided with an old quilt especially for Gretel’s use.

  After Margie left to attend her cooking, Jessie fed the dog and took her outside. Before she could come back in, though, the Rottweiler went on alert, her teeth bared and her growl a low rumble.

  Turning, Jessie took in a tanned and handsome jeans-clad man about her own age, holding a covered cake plate in both hands. “Pardon me, Miss Layton. I’d tip my hat, but if I drop my mama’s apple-pecan cake, she ’n’ Margie’ll have to flip a coin to see who gets to tack my hide to her barn wall. It’s tonight’s dessert, I understand.”

  Marking his use of her name, Jessie gave Gretel the command to remain watchful but quiet. “Do I know you?”

  “Sorry. No. I’m Nate. Nate Wheeler, friend of Zach Rayford’s. I’d offer you a hand, but...”

  “Your hide on a barn wall. Got it,” she said.

  “Zach told me all about your... What happened at the bunkhouse. Just wanted to tell you, I’m sorry about your friend, and I—”

  “Did you know my sister, Mr. Wheeler?” she asked, thinking that he’d recognized her awfully quickly.

  He nodded, telling her, “I knew the family—her and Frankie, anyway—enough to say hello. Not well or anything, but it’s a small town. You tend to run into people, and I’ve been around most of the past year trying to get back in shape for the circuit.”

  At her puzzled headshake, he elaborated. “Pro rodeo. I’m a bull rider—though just lately, my back and those bulls haven’t been on the best of terms.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” she said. “But about my sister—”

  “Let me take this cake inside. Then we can talk out on the side porch.”

  “I’ll get the door for you,” she said, her heartbeat racing as she fought to disguise her excitement. Because, just as Nancy Rayford had slipped up not an hour earlier, so had this man.

  I knew the family, he’d said. Not couple. The words pulsing through her brain, she stifled a loud gasp, her mind filling will a pair of green eyes she’d seen earlier today.

  A pair of green eyes that confused, excited and terrified her all at once.

  Chapter 12

  From the time he’d been old enough to sling a bucket of grain or muck out a dirty stall, Zach had been an early riser. His days as a marine corps pilot had only reinforced the habit, so that even after a nearly sleepless night, he was up and around by his usual five a.m. the next morning, meaning to head out to his barn office and crunch some more numbers to convince Virgil the switch to a cow-calf operation would be a smarter, more efficient way of doing business. Not that the longtime ranch manager had much interest in the opinions of some Johnny-come-lately who’d turned his back on his heritage until fate—and a Kabul disaster—had finally dragged him back.

  Though Zach had listened to the more experienced man’s objections, most of Virgil’s “Grand Rayford Tradition” talk had boiled down to nothing but “This is the way we’ve always done it.” But judging from the past few years’ worth of figures, that way hadn’t been cutting it in quite some time.

  A lot of men in Zach’s position might have ignored the recent drought’s high toll on the cattle business, especially since the oil revenues had more than made up for the loss. But if he’d learned one thing from his old man—other than the necessity of a good escape route—it was that both beef and oil prices fell as often as they rose, bankrupting a lot of good people in the process. Including old families like his, more and more of which had sold off or broken apart their massive holdings over the past few decades.

  Though as recently as a couple of years ago, he’d have said he didn’t give a damn whether the place fell to pieces and went to strangers, his father’s death had given him pause and somehow the work itself, the grit and patience it required, had gotten under his skin. Or maybe it was the idea of passing it along to the next generation someday, of teaching Ian’s daughter to be the land’s caretaker, teaching her with gentle patience instead of harsh words and brutal blows.

  The thought of the child who had breathed new life into his dying legacy hacked at him like a machete, and he wondered how he’d stand it, how he’d bear the burden of a life he’d never asked for, without her to blunt its harsher edges. And how he could possibly explain away his mother’s failure to come clean from the start.

  Not that she exactly had, as yet, he thought, wincing with the memory of how she’d claimed to be too ill and exhausted to come down to last night’s dinner. But now, she knew that he knew, so it couldn’t be much longer before he pried loose the whole story.

  The problem was, once he had it from her, he’d have no choice other than to take the truth beyond the safe confines of the family mansion. To Jessie or George Canter? Zach broke out in a cold sweat at the thought.

  Groggy and distracted, he took longer than usual to shower and dress, and he was tossing back his second shot of espresso when the phone started ringing. Not his cell, which he used almost exclusively, but the house phone, so he rushed to pick it up before it could wake his mother, who had rarely been known to get up earlier than eight.

  To his surprise, however, she had already picked up and was speaking, her voice threadbare as it was shaky. “He’s always out of the house by now, yes. Now, stop worrying and just tell me, what am I going to do? He knows.”

  “Knows what?” a gruff voice answered, male and aggravated.

  Familiar, too, Zach thought, though he could not immediately place it. Virgil?

  “He knows about Eden,” his mother answered, fear tightening her voice like old guitar strings. “And what’s more, he’s been talking to that reporter again, that other Layton girl, her twin. What if the two of them put it all together and they take my baby from the only happy home she’s ever known?”

  My baby. Those two words pounded at Zach’s temples in time to his surging pulse.

  “You don’t have to worry about the Layton woman,” the gruff voice reassured his mother. But Zach was no longer certain it was the ranch foreman on the other end. Then who? He racked his brain for an answer before his mother shut it down cold.

  “What do you mean, I don’t have to worry? If she finds out somehow, if she even guesses, the Rayford name will end up smeared all over the news. I could go to jail, to prison for the rest of my life! Or maybe even worse, since this is Texas. I could even— I could b
e put to— They could send me to the death chamber.”

  Nausea hit Zach like a gut punch, and it was all he could do to keep from shouting. What the hell had his mother done? Had she stolen Eden rather than accepting the child who Haley Layton had voluntarily left in her care? Or could—and he could barely draw breath as the thought struck—could his gentle, fearful mother have killed the person whose bones he’d photographed?

  “Nobody’s putting you in prison, much less executing anybody,” the gruff voice said. “I swear on my life. And I promise you, too, this Layton woman will be gone from here today, if I have anything to say about it. Either that, or she’ll be spending the night inside my jail.”

  * * *

  The barking broke in the frigid predawn silence, giving Jessie away. She should have figured Zach would take Eden’s pets out first thing in the morning, should have remembered that even puppies were capable of sounding the alarm.

  Too well trained to respond in kind, her own dog remained silent as a shadow at her side.

  “Who’s there?” Zach called, swinging a flashlight’s beam to illuminate the spot where she was standing, not far from the entrance to the barn.

  “It’s me, Jessie,” she said over the pups’ racket. “I was having trouble sleeping—” mostly because of a second, even more frightening, anonymous text she’d received at three a.m. “—and I figured anybody who takes his coffee strong as yours might be, too. Besides, don’t all you farmers get up with the chickens?”

  “Ranchers. I’m a rancher. We grow beef here, not beans and barley,” he said irritably. “And what the hell’re you doing sneaking around here, at this hour, without an invitation? But wait. Why should today be any different than any other time you’ve trespassed?” Glaring down at the puppies, he said, “Quiet.”

  The two balls of fluff fell silent but couldn’t be still, bounding up and play-bowing toward Gretel. Head lowered, the Rottweiler gave a warning growl that sent them slinking off to hide behind the rancher’s long legs.

  “Get out from under my boots, you big babies,” he scolded, but there was more exasperation than heat in his voice.

  “I wasn’t sneaking around,” she told him. “Like I said, I was waiting to see you.”

  He shook his head and then sighed. “Might as well come in, I guess. I’ll get the coffee started. Then you can tell me what you came for that couldn’t wait until the sun’s up.”

  Once he had rolled back the large metal outer door, she followed him into the barn, where he put the two pups in a kennel with a bowl of kibble.

  “This way, we can talk in peace,” he explained, “though I expect you’re bringing your monstrosity inside again.”

  “I was about to say how adorable your puppies are, but if you’re going to call my sweet Gretel names...”

  “If that dog has a sweet side, I sure as hell haven’t seen it.”

  “You’re really grumpy before caffeine, you know it?” If he thought he was in a bad mood now, wait till she hammered him with what she’d figured out last night.

  “The caffeine’s not the problem. I’ve already had two cups.”

  She threw up her hands. “What do you have, an IV drip by your bedside?” Light as her tone was, an image of Zach, in bed, stole into her thoughts. And she would bet her bottom dollar he wasn’t the kind to wear pajamas. She winced, reminding herself that the last thing she should be thinking of was his naked body.

  Judging from his smile, he didn’t notice. “That’d be a real timesaver, but I think I’d miss making it myself.”

  Inside his office, he washed his hands and started up his espresso machine before pulling out a small bag of beans, which he measured carefully and ground.

  “I’m really not that picky,” she said. “Just plain old instant would’ve been fine.”

  “I’m going to pretend you never said that,” he said, and went back to the precise moves she found so fascinating to watch.

  She found it oddly sexy, the idea of such raw power tempered to create something for her enjoyment. Would he be as painstaking, as thoughtful, as a lover? The question sent fresh heat rushing to her face, rising like the fragrant steam off the espresso.

  As hard as she was trying to keep her mind out of his bedroom, her thoughts relentlessly dragged her back there, leaving her wondering what it might be like to see those blue eyes staring down into hers. To run her fingers through the shiny black hair, or slide her palms over the roughness of his dark, unshaven jaw...

  She jerked her gaze away, telling herself it was only lack of sleep that had her brain skidding off the rails. Lack of sleep and stress, coupled with the memory of him lifting her into his arms and telling her to close her eyes before he’d carried her past Henry’s body. He had stanched her bleeding, too, wrapping her hand after calling an ambulance to come and help her.

  That was when it hit her. “I never thanked you, did I?”

  He took a seat near hers, passing her the cup.

  “For this? There’s no need.”

  She shook her head. “For finding me, that night in the bunkhouse, when you’d already been injured in your truck. For saving my life.”

  He shrugged. “That might be overstating it, don’t you think? You had your car, a phone.”

  “I was in shock when you showed up. I’d already passed out once, and my old cell had no signal. I would have bled to death there, would have left my mother all alone. Thank you for that,” she said, and meant it. “And thank you for being so kind about Henry.”

  “I warned you before, don’t mistake me for a kind man.”

  “I’ve seen you with your mother and with the little girl, too, so I’m afraid your secret’s out.”

  “They’re family. That’s different. I protect my own.”

  She speared him with a look. “Even when they’re not yours, really? Not Eden, at any rate.”

  He went very still: no questions, no denial, no emotions on display. But the reporter in her noted the way his blue eyes dilated slightly and a vein pulsed, creating a flutter at his forehead.

  “Whatever you’re trying to say, just come on out and say it,” he said flatly. “So I can get on with my day.”

  Her own blood surging, she said, “Let’s all stop pretending, please, Zach. Because I know, and it’s obvious to me that you do, too. Eden’s not a Rayford—in spite of what you’ve told me.”

  He banged his cup down so hard, half of the espresso sloshed onto the top of his desk. “I haven’t lied to you. Not once.”

  Heart racing, she burst out, “That’s garbage and you know it. You sat and listened to your mother tell me Eden’s lived here nearly all her life. And you said nothing, not a single word, to correct the statement. And a lie of omission’s just as bad as—”

  “What the hell would you have me do?” He threw up his hands. “Make out my own mama to be a liar before I even had the facts myself? You forget, I’ve only been back for a few months.”

  “Did you come before or after Eden? If that’s really even her name.”

  “That child—that little girl’s my mama’s life. You understand that?” He came to his feet so suddenly that there was a flash of black and tan and white as Gretel leaped between them, showing him her teeth.

  Jessie gave a hand signal, and the dog lay down beside her, where she was told, “Bleib,” to stay in place. Because as angry and upset as Zach appeared, Jessie didn’t fear him.

  Maybe it was because she recognized the struggle behind the bluster, along with the pain and fear that had provoked it. How could she blame him? In his shoes, she knew she might have felt the same way.

  “After Ian— After Mama got word of my brother’s death, I took leave and came home, quick as I could.” He sighed. “I barely recognized her. She was all but catatonic. She wouldn’t eat or drink or move, and she barely
reacted to my presence even though I hadn’t seen her in years. Some stupid grudge over what happened with my old man, before you ask. But when I saw how thin, how worn down, she’d gotten, I finally realized what a damned cruel thing I’d done, not reaching out to her in all that time. And I was scared to death I’d lose her before we had the chance to make things right.”

  Jessie pressed her lips together, trying to hold on to the fury that had kept her awake much of the night. But part of her couldn’t help feeling compassion for the abused and angry boy who had returned a grieving man. A man mature enough to acknowledge his own role in a family torn apart by violence. A man who cared about his frail mother, just as she’d cared about hers.

  Not that that excused either of the Rayfords’ actions, but it did help to explain his.

  “When they offered me the discharge,” he said, “that’s when I knew I had to head to California, muster out and pack up a few things. I wasn’t happy pushing papers, anyway, and you and I both know, there was no way I was ever getting to fly again, not with all the publicity.”

  “But what happened in Kabul wasn’t really your fault, was it? In spite of the early reports, you weren’t really the one who caused the—”

  “I might not have been the one to bump his wing, but it was never about what I did, not to anyone that mattered,” he said, pain deepening the creases on his forehead. “It was what I failed to do. And what I let friendship blind me to, until it was too late.”

  “It wasn’t a cover-up, then, was it? Not like that reporter—”

  “One of the many ‘facts’ she got wrong. There was no cover-up, never even for a second. Just loyalty to a man I figured I could help on my own.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said simply, going quiet as she imagined how terrifying it must have been, that moment when Marc Hernandez, a younger pilot Zach had taken out on a maneuver, had clipped Zach’s wing before spiraling down out of control into an apartment building. The moments after, when Zach had somehow managed to steer his own jet toward the surrounding desert before ejecting, and watched helplessly as his fellow officer exploded in the fireball that had destroyed so many lives.