Hell, Luke hated to interrupt that intimate few minutes for his cousin, but he wanted to catch Garrett before he headed out to check on the cattle, then went off to work at the sheriffs office in town.
Garrett answered on the second ring. And his greeting was, "This had better be good."
"Sorry, Garrett," Luke said. "But it is. Damn good. Or maybe damn bad would be more accurate."
"What's wrong, Luke?"
Luke could hear the concern in Garrett's tone, and he could also hear Chelsea in the background, asking if Luke was all right and what was going on. He smiled at the sweetness of having this big family suddenly all over every little problem.
"Tell your wife I'm fine. I just had an unexpected visitor drop by last night."
"He's fine, Chelsea. Give me a minute." Then Garrett sighed. "Ah, she's rushed upstairs to pick up the extension," he told Luke.
A second later the soft click told Luke that Chelsea was on the other phone.
"Go ahead, Luke," she said. "Tell us what's up."
He liked Chelsea. She was one of those rare, special women a man was lucky to stumble upon once in a lifetime. Garrett must have done something awfully good to have found her and made her his own.
"Okay," he said at last. "Last night a woman showed up here with a little boy. She says this place is hers, and that she's here to claim it."
Garrett said, "What's her name? Where's she from?"
Chelsea said, "What does she look like? Is she married?"
Luke withstood the bombardment of questions fairly well, he thought. "Her name, she says, is Jenny Lee Walker, but she goes by Jasmine. The car she's driving has Illinois plates on it."
"Number?" Garrett asked.
"DX7-381," Luke replied, rattling off the number he'd committed to memory. "She showed up with nothing at all, as far as I can see, besides her son and the clothes they're wearing, and this packet of papers from the law offices of Buzz Montana giving her ownership of this property. As for what she looks like, Chelsea, she looks like a high-priced lot lizard, and no, I don't think she's married. I didn't see a ring, anyway."
"So that means you looked," Chelsea said. "But what's a lot lizard?"
"It's trucker slang for a truck-stop prostitute," Garrett said, his tone decidedly darker. "And it's not the kind of observation a Brand man makes about a lady."
"She's no lady, Garrett. She broke in here, and when I came downstairs to see what was going on, she pulled a knife on me."
Garrett waited, but Luke said no more. Garrett said, "Why did she pull the knife, Luke?"
Luke thought on that. "I don't know. I guess I scared her."
"And?"
He shrugged. "Well, she had her son with her. I suppose she thought I might be a threat to him."
"Well damn, Luke," Chelsea said. "Seems to me that shows courage, character and devotion. I mean, you're a pretty big fella for a woman to try to take on all alone, just to protect her son." Then her voice brightened. "How old is the boy? Bubba's age?"
Luke sighed. "Whose side are you guys on here, anyway?"
He could almost hear Garrett smile. "Don't you worry, Luke. Family comes first with the Brands. Always has. But honor is right up there with it, and the Cowboy Code is our way of life."
Luke made a face. "Oh, come on. There's a code? Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?"
"It's the first time you've broken it, cousin," Garrett said. "Being kind to women and children is at the top of the list."
Luke groaned. "I was kind."
"Not if she heard that ‘lot lizard' comment, you weren't."
Luke thought about his comment last night about her clothes and her violent reaction. He still had the claw marks on his face. His cheek still stung. "Well, the fact that she's still here—sleeping in my bed, I might add—ought to indicate my extreme kindness." He swallowed. "So what's the penalty for breaking this code of yours, anyway?"
Garrett sighed. "Well, when Ben, Wes and Elliot were kids, I'd just kick their backsides. But I suppose you're a bit too old for that. Then again..."
"Come on, Garrett!"
Garrett laughed softly, a deep rumbling sound. "Relax, will you? We'll be over after breakfast, okay? We'll get this all sorted out."
Breakfast. The mention of it made Luke's stomach growl. He was starved. It also made him think of the junk-food boxes and bags he'd seen in the woman's car last night He bet the kid hadn't had an honest meal in at least a couple of days. And his mother might not have eaten much at all.
"Luke?"
"What? Oh, yeah, after breakfast. I'll see you then. And thanks, Garrett, Chelsea."
"That's what family's for, Luke," Chelsea said.
Drawing a deep breath, Luke hung up the phone. Family. He was willing to bet that if the woman upstairs had any family at all besides her son, she wouldn't be here.
Hell. Looking at the poor little kid was like looking at a dim reflection of his own past.
Sighing, Luke went to the kitchen and opened the fridge to see what he could find for breakfast.
Chapter 5
* * *
SHE SMELLED SOMETHING THAT TICKLED her senses and crept into her dreams. She was young again—eight or nine years old, at the most—and she was at her best friend Mary's house for a sleepover. First thing in the morning, Mary's mom made this huge breakfast. It was the smell of bacon cooking that woke young Jasmine that morning. And she lay there for a minute and thought how cool it must be to have a mom like Mary's. To wake up every morning to the smell of bacon cooking, or the sound of her humming softly in the kitchen.
At home, Jasmine woke to the smell of stale cigarette smoke and beer. Her own mom greeted her most mornings by groaning in hangover misery and telling her to get the hell out of her room. There was usually a strange man in her bed on those mornings. She didn't want to go home again after a sleepover with Mary. Or with Jeannette or with Valerie. She didn't want to wake up to overflowing ashtrays and half-filled beer glasses and spilled food and whatever man her mother had decided would be more important than her daughter this week. She didn't ever want to go home again. She lay there, at Mary's house, and she told herself that when she was a mom someday, she would be the kind of mom who made bacon in the mornings. She would never let anything ever be more important to her than her child. Especially not some strange man.
"Mommy?"
Jasmine opened her eyes slowly. She was lying on her back in a strange bed, and her little boy's smiling face hovered an inch above her own. "Smell that, Mommy? It smells just like home on Sundays!"
Jasmine blinked the haze from her brain, lifted her head and kissed Baxter's nose. "It does, doesn't it?" she asked, sniffing the air and smelling bacon and coffee and something sweet.
Baxter nodded hard, grinning, eyes wide. "Is it Sunday, Mom?"
"Nope. It's only Saturday."
He shrugged. "You think Mr. Brand is cooking us breakfast?"
"I don't know, honey."
"Can I go find out?"
"No, not just yet." She got out of the bed and looked down at herself. She'd slept in her clothes, minus the nylons and shoes, and they were wrinkled and messy. A glance in the mirror across the room almost made her jump. Her hair was wild and her makeup smeared. She looked like hell. She didn't want to face anyone like this.
The bedroom was nice, though. She'd come in here in the dark last night, and frankly, she'd been too tired to care to look around. She'd crawled into bed to snuggle with Bax until he fell asleep. The plan had been to get up and find a shower afterward, but she'd been out cold before she got around to it. She saw the bathroom now, as she looked around. It was just through a small door to the right, and a peek inside told her there was a tub and shower, towels and washcloths. Thank goodness.
She turned back to finish her inspection of the bedroom. The outmost wall was lined in tall narrow windows with sheer white curtains that let the sun beam through them like a golden spotlight. The bed was an old-looking four-poster, made of some da
rk, lustrous hardwood, and the large dresser matched. The bedside stand didn't. It was newer, and cheap looking, wood veneer, not the real stuff. And there was a small portable television set on top of the trunk at the foot of the bed. Not a picture on the wall. Not a rug on the floor. No trinkets or knick-knacks in sight. How long did that Luke character say he'd been living here? Three months? He sure didn't settle into a place fast, did he?
A tap on the bedroom door made her jump. "Who is it?" she asked, staring at the door, which had no lock, and praying it wouldn't open on her. And then she realized what an inane question she'd just asked and rolled her eyes.
"It's Luke. Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes, if you're hungry. And, um, if you need something to wear, you can snag a pair of sweats and a T-shirt out of my bottom drawer."
"What makes you think I don't have anything to wear?"
"You going to tell me you do?" he asked her. Or was he daring her?
"I'll be a half hour," she said, choosing to ignore his challenge. No human being could possibly get ready for anything in fifteen minutes.
Baxter tugged on her skirt "Mom, can't I go down now? I'm starved. And I already washed up."
She glanced at her son, saw that he had indeed washed his face and tugged a comb through his hair. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but that couldn't be helped. Still, she didn't want to let him out of her sight.
"Jasmine?" Luke's voice came through the door, deep and soft. "You're five hundred miles from whatever happened in Illinois. I'll watch him close, I promise. Why don't you let him come on down to breakfast?"
She glared at the door, almost let the words on the tip of her tongue spill out, but bit them back at the last possible moment. She swallowed hard, ignoring the redneck and turning to her son. "Bax, I'll hurry as fast as I can, okay, baby?" she said softly. "But please, don't go down to breakfast without me."
He pouted, sighed, hung his head. "Okay, Mom. I'll wait for you." Then he turned to the closed door. "We'll be down in a few minutes, Mr. Brand."
There was a hesitation. "Okay, Baxter. I'll keep it warm for you."
Jasmine hugged him close. "Thank you, hon." Then she glanced at the clock on the bedside stand and wondered if she could break the land speed record for shower, hair and makeup. She yanked open the bottom dresser drawer, and fished out a pair of gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt with some logo or other on the front. She didn't bother to look too closely, because it didn't really matter what the design was, it was still going to look like she was wearing a tent. She kissed Bax on the cheek and headed into the adjoining bathroom. "I'm gonna leave the door open a tiny bit baby," she told Baxter. "So all you need to do is call me if you need me, okay?"
"Okay," he said, climbing onto the bed with a remote in his hand. He aimed it at the TV set and she knew he would be okay for a few minutes.
Luke thought it odder than odd that the woman wouldn't let the kid out of her sight long enough to have breakfast when he was obviously hungry. What kind of a mother was she, anyway? Even his own overprotective, clinging mother hadn't been that bad. Hell, it didn't sit right with him. And he tried to wait, he really did, but fifteen minutes came and went, and he still didn't hear that boy coming down the stairs.
Fine. If she didn't want her son down here alone with the big bad Brand, he would just take matters into his own hands. He lifted the stoneware plate from the spot he'd set for Baxter at the table, heaped it full of food, filled a glass with milk and headed up the stairs. Once again he tapped on his own bedroom door, trying not to slop the milk as he did it.
"Who is it?" the little guy asked.
The sound of his voice brought a smile to Luke's face for some reason. Hell, the kid was cute. "It's Luke. I figured there was no sense making you wait for breakfast, so I brought you up a plateful, if that's okay."
The door whipped open so fast Luke almost dropped the plate. "You bet it's okay. Thanks, Mr. Brand."
Luke smiled, holding out the plate to the kid, looking nervously past him. Baxter grabbed his arm and tugged him right inside, though. He could hear the shower running, and the bathroom door was only half-closed. The woman wasn't shy, that was for sure. Then again, she probably hadn't expected him to come back. Much less come all the way inside this time. "Come on," Baxter said. I'm watching Star Rangers!"
Luke glanced at the TV set, at the super heroes spin-kicking their way across the screen and the bad guys. "That's my little cousin Bubba's favorite show, too."
Baxter tugged Luke to the bed, and Luke sat down. The little guy did, too, but on the nearby chair, and he dug right into his food. In between bites, he said, "There are kids here?"
"Oh, a couple. Bubba's the closest to your age. You might get to meet him later on."
Baxter smiled, pushed his glasses up on his nose and kept on eating. "I knew there was bacon," he said. "At home, every Sunday morning, my mom gets up early, and she makes this big breakfast for all of us, with bacon."
"Oh yeah? For all of you?" Luke asked, sensing a shot at some information. And more than that. He hadn't exactly pegged Jasmine as a Sunday breakfast kind of a mother.
"Me and Aunt Rosebud and Mom," he explained.
"The three of you live together, then?''
The boy's face fell. He stopped eating, stared at the floor. "We used to. But...not anymore. Aunt Rosebud's gone to live with the angels now."
Luke felt like a rat. His prying had ruined the kid's breakfast. What kind of a bully was he, anyway? "Hey, I have some friends up there, too," he said, forcing a smile. "I'll bet your Aunt Rosebud and my buddy Buck are having a heck of a good time with those angels."
Baxter lifted his head a little. "You think so?"
"Well, sure I do. Buck, he loved a good Sunday breakfast himself."
"And did he like to dance, too? Aunt Rosebud's a great dancer. Almost as good as my mom."
So his mother danced? Interesting. "He loved to dance, Baxter. Why, I'll bet they're gonna be best friends before long."
"Yeah," Baxter said. He smiled a little, and even started to pick at the food again. "Yeah, they will for sure." Then he paused and looked up. "Your friend Buck, he wasn't a bad guy, was he?"
"No, Bax. He was one of the best good guys I ever knew."
Baxter smiled more fully and devoted his attention to his food. Luke wanted to ask him about those bad guys he kept referring to, but he thought that just then it was more important for the child to eat than for Luke to have his curiosity satisfied. He could wait for his answers.
It occurred to him then that the shower had stopped running. And he turned to glance toward the bathroom door just as the woman stepped through it, wearing nothing but a towel and an expression of surprise.
"What are you doing in here?" she blurted.
"I'm sorry." Look away, he told his eyes. They wouldn't budge! He couldn't make them budge. She was a totally different woman now. An incredibly beautiful woman. "B-Baxter was hungry and I, um, I felt bad making him wait, so I brought his breakfast up."
"And stayed to supervise while he ate it?"
He couldn't get over the difference in her with her face scrubbed so clean it glowed pink, and her hair wet and plastered to her head. He'd missed everything about her besides the thick coat of makeup. She had the face of a wood fairy. Tiny, elfin nose and a small, rounded chin. Sculpted cheekbones and full lips. And those eyes. Why on earth had she ever thought she needed to plaster coats of color over those eyes? They were huge and round and dark brown in color. He suddenly wished she would smile. He needed, suddenly, to see that face with a smile.
She didn't, but he kept looking anyway. His gaze skimmed down her neck and over her shoulders and arms. Toned. Firm. The woman was as fit as any he'd seen. She looked as if she worked out with weights or something. The towel hung loosely to the upper half of her thighs, and they, too, were shapely and toned. Her bare feet...she had the cutest little feet....
"You finished?" she asked.
He snapped hi
s gaze up to her eyes and felt the skin under his collar get hot. "I, um...yeah. Yeah, I am." Unable to say anything remotely intelligent, he turned to leave. "Your breakfast is still warm, you know, if you want it. Although, maybe you don't. I didn't think...you probably don't eat that kind of..." As he spoke, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her munching a slice of bacon she'd snitched from her son's plate. "Or...maybe you do." He shrugged, more baffled than before, and opened the door to leave.
"Luke," she said.
He turned.
"That was nice, what you did. Bringing Baxter's breakfast up like that. Thank you."
He felt a smile tug at one side of his mouth. "That's okay."
"I really will only be a few more minutes," she said. And amazingly, incredibly, she smiled. Just a little bit. It was halfhearted, just a slight pulling of her lips upward at the corners. But even then it transformed her face. Made her eyes sparkle and dug dimples into her cheeks.
Oh, hell.
"Well, good. I'll be downstairs, then." Finally he got out of there, closing the door behind him and realizing he hadn't really been breathing in several minutes. Or it felt like it, anyway. He let the air out of him in a rush and headed for the kitchen. What was the matter with him, anyway? She doled out a grudging halfhearted thanks with an eyedropper, and he was reacting as if she'd kissed his feet in gratitude.
* * *
THE MAN MUST BE SOME kind of Neanderthal. It was obvious, because he didn't own a hair dryer. And his shampoo had been that practical kind with the conditioner already mixed in. He was definitely primitive. And big. His sweatpants and shirt positively hung on her.
But he'd been kind to Baxter, and that meant something. Even though she knew perfectly well it was more than likely all for show. An act to get what he wanted, win her trust and then stab her in the back, or get her into his bed and then stab her in the back, or whatever. They always wanted something.
Texas Homecoming Page 5
