The Second Son

Her current address had been a matter of public record. Once you had a name, you could find out a multitude of facts about anyone, if you knew where to look.

What the records didn’t tell him was where Kate Gilbraith had come up with the baby she claimed was a Randolph.

It wasn’t his. That was for sure. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had sex with a woman. No, that wasn’t exactly true. He did remember. He only wished he didn’t, considering how it had ended up. But it hadn’t been with Kate Gilbraith.

And his brothers had all sworn they’d never set eyes on her before the night of the birthday party. And, if a Randolph gave you their word on something, you could take it to the bank. That had been the legacy they’d inherited from their father and his father before him. The Randolph curse, they’d called it growing up on the ranch, but they’d all bought into it.

Nonetheless, his mom had talked Social Services into letting her take care of the newborn baby until Miss Gilbraith was well enough to do the job herself. He’d been against it. He’d been outvoted.

Branson locked his truck, a task he never bothered with in Kelman, and slammed the door behind him. Stepping over a smashed beer can, he headed across the patio and toward the back door. He noticed another beer can on the edge of one of the padded lounge chairs. Looked like the residents’ taste, or that of one of their friends, ran to Coors. And no one around here was a neatness freak.

The back door was closed. He knocked. No one answered, but the door squeaked open. Just a few inches, but enough that he could hear someone rummaging around inside. Maybe looters, since he knew the woman of the house was not home. Maybe the person who’d shot Miss Gilbraith. Maybe not. “Police. Come out and identify yourself.” No one responded.

Taking the safe approach, he eased his pistol from its holster. Soundlessly, he slipped through the open door and into a shiny kitchen, black chrome appliances, dirty dishes piled in the sink. The noises continued, coming from upstairs. He tiptoed up the stairs and across a carpeted runway that seemed more a loft than a hallway. He peered over the railing and into the lower-level living area.

There was a big-screen TV, a sectional sofa in dirt-brown leather and a bearskin rug thrown down in front of the fireplace. And more empty beer cans scattered about among stacks of magazines and newspapers.

He made his step light, making his way down the hall and past a series of closed doors. A crash of wood on wood, probably the forceful closing of a drawer, alerted him that he was getting warm.

Stopping, he peered through the open crack of a bedroom door. The woman making the noise was facing the other direction, but there was no mistaking the gender. She was in a wedding dress, with rows of minute pearl buttons that went far lower than the tiniest waist he’d ever seen on a full-grown woman. Or maybe it just looked that way above the yards and yards of billowing satin that cascaded over her hips and fell to shapely ankles.

She was bent over, ransacking her way through a dresser drawer. She pulled out a pair of short shorts and held them up for a second before stuffing them back in the drawer. If she was a looter, she had a strange way of dressing for the job, and she was apparently very picky.

The room had French doors that opened onto a balcony and a terrific view of hilly land that sloped to the banks of a sparkling pond. A nice setup. Evidently Kate Gilbraith had changed her ways, or else found that crime did pay.

He watched her for a few more seconds before deciding to let the woman in white know she had company. “Police. Keep your hands in plain view, and turn around nice and slow.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and then twirled around lightning fast, the one hand that was in view dangling a lacy scrap of underwear.

“You don’t follow orders too well,” he said.

“You scared me half to death.”

“Not following police orders can get you the other half of the way. Why didn’t you respond when I knocked and called?”

“I didn’t hear you.” She eyed his gun, her eyes flashing suspiciously. “Did Charles send you after me?”

“Afraid not.”

“Good.” She tossed the underwear she was holding to the bed. “Is this about Kate? Is she in trouble?”

“Right now, it’s about you. Do you live here?”

“No way.”

“Then why don’t we start with you telling me what you’re looking for in those drawers?”

“And if I don’t, you’ll shoot me? You San Antonio police are such a friendly sort. If you really are a cop. That doesn’t look like a police uniform you’re wearing to me. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to put that gun away and flash a little ID?”

She twitched her head and an avalanche of auburn curls broke loose to fall around her face. She was prettier than he’d first noticed, a cute nose, full sensuous lips and a long, regal neck. Some guy was missing out on a hell of a honeymoon.

Or maybe they’d already started, judging by a jagged rip in her skirt. So, there had to be a good reason for the bride to be ransacking someone else’s home.

He holstered the gun, took out his wallet and shook it open. She stepped closer and peered at the small print on his ID.

“I’d hate to have to shoot a bride,” he said when she averted her gaze from the wallet to his face. “Hate to even book one. You’d make too much of a scene at the jail. So why don’t you start talking?”

She rubbed the back of her neck, stalling, probably coming up with a story she thought he’d buy.

“I’m looking for my sister,” she said, turning back to the drawer and pulling out a pair of jeans.

“I doubt she’d be in one of those drawers.”

“A sheriff with a sense of humor. How novel.” She threw the jeans across the bed and kicked off a white shoe with a heel high enough to give her a nosebleed. Bending over, she rubbed the ball of her now-bare foot before kicking off the other pump.

“I’m still waiting on an explanation as to what you’re doing in Kate Gilbraith’s apartment.”

“Look!” She accented her call to attention by wildly gesturing with hands that showcased her long, painted nails. “I’ve already had a day you wouldn’t believe. Including a ride across town on the back of the police escort’s motorbike.”

Lifting the hem of her skirt, she revealed a pair of shapely legs, one with a fresh burn on the calf where an exhaust pipe had apparently caught her.

“What’s the matter? Was the traditional bridal ride in a limo too tame for you?”

“Right. But I’ve had my quota of excitement for the day, so why don’t you just be a nice cop and tell me what’s going on with my sister?”

Branson studied the woman in white. He didn’t notice a family resemblance. His instincts told him she was up to no good and that Kate Gilbraith probably wasn’t her sister. But his instincts had been known to be tainted.

“When was the last time you talked to your sister?”

“A week ago. We chatted on the phone. Actually, we argued on the phone. I thought that was why she quit taking my calls. Now I’m not so sure.”

If she’d said sometime within the past two days, he’d have known she was lying. Now he had to consider that she might be telling the truth. “What makes you think I’d know what happened to your sister?”

“I take it you’re not here doing routine security checks. And the gun you had out a few minutes ago didn’t indicate you’re here as a friend.” She threw her hands up, clearly exasperated. “Look, I know something’s up. You can tell me what it is. I just want to know that Kate’s all right.”

“My turn to see ID,” he said. “Do you have any on you?”

Her lips twisted into a defeated scowl. “Afraid not. The only thing I have with me is my beeper.” She ran her hands along her hips, smoothing the shiny fabric so that it hugged her curves. “No pockets on these dresses. Of course, you could call Mr. Charles Castile and ask him to identify his missing bride. I’m sure he’d accommodate you.”

“I don’t believe I know the man, so I don’t know why I’d believe him any quicker than I do you.” Actually, he had heard of Castile. Nothing good. He was a rich attorney tied to the coattails of Joshua Kincaid. Sleep with a snake, and you probably were a snake. At least that’s how Branson saw it. “So, about that ID…”

The woman propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a very unfriendly cop?”

“All the time. But I thank you for the compliment just the same. Now, let’s start again. Where would you have to go to get some identification that shows you’re Kate Gilbraith’s sister?”

“Look, mister. Being Kate’s sister is not something you’d want to lie about. At least not unless you were denying it. But it’s easy enough to prove I’m who I say I am.” She walked to a bookshelf on the far side of the room and stretched to her tiptoes. She was a couple of inches short of reaching the top shelf.

“Let me help you.” He stepped behind her and retrieved the photo album she was reaching for. He blew a layer of dust off of it before handing it to her.

She tore into it, turning a few pages and then tapping her finger on a picture of two girls mounted on a painted carousel pony. The younger of the two was skinny with an abundance of reddish-brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. The image in the snapshot wasn’t nearly as fetching as the woman standing in front of him, but it was obvious they were one and the same.

The older girl in the picture was somewhere in her mid-teens. There was no mistaking her either. It was the same woman who had come calling at the Burning Pear a few nights ago.

She tapped her finger on the picture. “That’s us. Me and Kate. See. It says so right under the picture. Kate and Lacy at the county fair.”

She turned a couple more pages. “And this was us last year, taken at my apartment.” She ran her finger along the edges of the snapshot. “Me and Kate. See. We’re sisters. Satisfied?”

But the picture was of a threesome. “Who’s the guy?”

“Adam Pascal, my boyfriend at the time. I have extremely poor taste in men.” Lacy let the cover slip from her fingers, and the photo album slammed shut.

She looked up at him, concern etched into the fine lines around her eyes and pulled at the corners of her full lips. “I’m Lacy Gilbraith, just like I told you. Now, please, tell me what’s happened to Kate.”

Branson swallowed hard. He’d bet his best pair of boots the woman wasn’t telling the whole truth. But judging from the snapshots in the photo album, she was Kate’s sister. Now he wished he had better news to deliver.

“What makes you think anything happened to your sister?”

“She didn’t show for my wedding. She would have unless something was terribly wrong.”

“Why don’t you sit down,” he said, motioning to the only chair in the room not draped in articles of clothing.

“No. I’m fine. Just tell me about Kate.”

The tremor in her voice and her suddenly drooping shoulders assured him that his words and changed attitude had sucked the fight right out of her, that she sensed something was seriously wrong. In her new state, she looked incredibly fragile. For the first time in a long time, he felt the urge to open his arms to a woman.

Instead, he plunged ahead, explaining how Kate Gilbraith had crashed his mother’s birthday party at the Burning Pear with a most unexpected guest. Explaining that she’d been shot, and that she’d dropped to the floor and into a semicoma state that the doctors couldn’t penetrate even though her physical condition had improved significantly.

“I’d like to see my sister.”

“I can drive you to the hospital.”

She nodded, accepting his offer. “But not in this.” She held up the skirt of the bridal dress, looping one finger through the unsightly rip. “I can find something of Kate’s to wear, but you’ll have to help me get out of this dress. It is not a one-person operation.” She turned her back to him, her fingers already fiddling with the top button.

Branson’s throat grew scratchy dry. Undressing women was not in his job description. Not that he had anything against the task. He was a man, after all. But he doubted seriously his fingers would fit around anything as delicate and small as that row of pearl buttons that stared back at him.

Lacy’s fingers made quick work of the top few buttons. “I can’t reach much lower, so you’re going to have to help or we’ll be here all night.”

Branson nudged his Stetson back an inch or two to keep it from crashing into Lacy’s head. Bending, he forced his fingers to the task, fiddling endlessly with the first reluctant button. He leaned close, and the mind-numbing fragrance of Lacy’s perfume worked havoc on his senses, making the task at hand even more difficult.

Long minutes later, he was only three buttons down and dozens more to go. He struggled to steady his breath as his rough knuckles collided with the silky flesh of Lacy’s back. Damn. Here he was undressing another man’s bride, and his own libido was acting as though it had a honeymoon coming.

Button by button, inch by inch. The opening grew wider, revealing more flesh, finally dipping below her waist to the top lacy band of her panties. His fingers, and other parts of his body, grew stiff and his chest constricted painfully.

She wiggled and stretched her neck as far as she could, trying to see what was taking him so long. “I hope you’re better at apprehending criminals than you are at undoing buttons.”

“Just hold still. And suck in your breath so I have room to work.” His words came out a little gruffer than he’d intended, in an effort not to reveal the effect this undressing act was having on him.

“Yes sir, Sheriff.” She held her breath for a few seconds then let it out in a resounding whoosh. “So whose baby was this that Kate delivered to your house?”

“It wasn’t mine. I can guarantee you that.”

“Oooou. Touche´.” She wiggled a little more, tugging on the skirt and pulling it lower over her shapely hips. “But I wasn’t accusing. Actually, I meant, who was the mother of the baby?”

He stopped struggling with the contrary pearl dots. “Are you saying this baby wasn’t your sister’s?”

“Absolutely not. I see her at least once a month, whether she wants to see me or not. She’s as thin as a rail. I’d have noticed if she were pregnant.”

“Then where did she get the baby?”

“I’d think you’d know the answer to that if the baby’s a Randolph.”

“I said your sister claimed the baby was a Randolph. There’s a big difference.”

Lacy twisted from the waist, and the skirt slipped lower still. Branson’s breath grew so hot it burned his lungs. He’d seen nearly naked women before, but never one like this. Actually, he hadn’t seen all that many, when you got right down to it, and none in many a Texas moon. Still, he would have doubted this type of perfection existed in real life.

“Sorry, cowboy. The show’s over.” Lacy took him by the shoulders and spun him around to face the door. “You can wait in the hall while I change into something of Kate’s.”

Branson walked away, thinking Charles Castile had to be one of the luckiest men alive, but wondering why in the world the man wasn’t here to undress his own wife on her wedding day. He paced the hall while he waited, forcing his thoughts from Lacy to the newest fact in the case at hand.

If the baby wasn’t Kate Gilbraith’s, whose child was she? Had Kate kidnapped the infant, left some new mother fearing for her baby’s life? Only, if that were the case, why hadn’t Kate demanded money? Why had she just placed little Betsy in their hands and fallen at their feet, a bullet firmly embedded in her shoulder?

The best clues as to what happened probably resided with Kate or with the person who’d tried to kill her. And in spite of Lacy’s protestations of ignorance, Branson had an idea she knew a lot more about what had happened than she was admitting.

After all, she was here in Kate’s apartment when she should be cavorting in some luxurious honeymoon suite.

Branson jerked as the sound of breaking glass ordered him to full attention. He peered over the railing as a tightly wound contraption of glass and metal crashed through the living-room window. It careened across the carpeted floor and slid under the sofa.

Adrenaline rushed through him. “Under the bed,” he ordered, racing back into the bedroom. He grabbed Lacy and shoved her resistant body in that direction. A second later, the room rocked with the explosion of a homemade bomb.

Chapter Three

Lacy shifted beside Branson and then dissolved into a spasm of ragged coughing. He turned toward her, the muscles in his arms straining as he pushed against the mattress that had collapsed on top of them. “Are you all right?”

“Probably not.” She sucked in a gulp of air and raised her knee, giving herself a little leverage with the mattress. “But I’m alive.”

“Good. If you want to stay that way, we should get out of here. Fast.” He scooted toward the edge of the bed, holding up the mattress so that she could follow.

He watched while she stood. She was a little unsteady, but he didn’t see any blood or signs of bruising. And fortunately, she’d traded the yards of satin for jeans and a sweater, and the nosebleed heels for a pair of loafers.

Grabbing one of her hands, he pulled her through the door and into the open hallway. His eyes stung from the haze of black smoke that hit him in the face. He squinted, making a quick assessment of possible escape routes.

Flames licked and sputtered around the sofa and were racing in a jagged line toward the front door. That left the back door, a path through thick smoke, broken glass and who knew what else. A gas leak from any appliance could send the kitchen portion of the house, including the back door, orbiting into space at any second.

Lacy muttered a word she hadn’t learned in Sunday school. “I say we run for it.”

She tried to wrestle her hand from his grasp. He held on and turned back to the French doors that led off the bedroom. “How are you at leaping from second-storey balconies?”

“I’ll leave that to you and superheroes. I’ll take the patio door.”

“Too dangerous.”

She fell into another bout of coughing. He took that opportunity to drag her back into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. She stumbled after him, tripping once on the dress she’d shed just in the nick of time. He pushed the French doors open and gulped in a lungful of semiclean air. She grabbed the doorknob and held on, resisting his attempts to coax her onto the balcony.

“You’re not going to go coward on me now, are you?” Branson pried her hand loose. Manhandling women was not his style, and he got no enjoyment from it. But there was no time to argue when she had no choice.

She shook her head doubtfully. “If we jump from here, we’re going to break something, possibly my skull.”

“Break or burn. It’s your choice.” It was a rhetorical option, and he didn’t wait for her answer. He let go of her hand and leaned over the railing. It was a fairly long drop, but all they really had to do was crawl over the guardrail, hold on to one of the pickets and dangle until they could wrap their legs around the main support column. From there it was just a fireman’s slide to the ground.

He described the procedure to Lacy. She grasped the handrail with both hands.

“Ladies first,” he said, not trusting her to follow if he left her up here by herself.

“Always the gentleman.” Her voice was hoarse, the effects of the smoke and her recent bout of coughing.

But he could read the resolve in her eyes and the serious jut of her jaw. She’d do what she had to do. He climbed over the railing and then helped her do the same.

“Wrap your hands around my forearm,” he said, holding on to the railing with his left hand and extending his right arm.

A shock wave rumbled through the house. The flames had found something they liked. Probably aerosol cans or paint. The result wasn’t nearly as strong as the original explosion but enough of a shudder that Lacy dropped her hesitancy.

She grabbed his arm. Her grip was sure, stronger than he’d expected. A second later she was dangling, swinging her long legs until they hugged the post. She let go of him, and by the time she hit the ground he was riding the same stick horse to safety.

She looked around as his feet pounded the earth. “I suppose you have a car around here somewhere.”

“My truck is out back.” Not stopping for further explanations, he pulled her along, loping over the grass and rounding the back side of the house. The frightening crackle and pungent odor of burning wood dogged their movements.

Branson stood by the truck, checking out the situation. So far, the flames were contained in the one town house, but if the fire wasn’t extinguished quickly, the blaze could spread to neighboring residences.

“Who lives next door to your sister? Invalids? Kids? Anyone who would be home during the day?”

“It’s vacant. It’s been for sale ever since she moved in.”

He breathed a little easier. At least no one else was in danger. He ran to the front of his truck, jumped into his seat and reached for his cell phone. But someone had beat him to the 911 call. By the time an operator had answered, the scream of sirens was already closing in on them. He broke his connection just as Lacy slid into the passenger seat.

“Close the door and buckle up. I’d just as soon be gone when the local law officers get here.”

She reached for the seat belt. “A cop who doesn’t trust cops. I knew there was something I liked about you.”

“I thought maybe it was because I just saved your life.” He fit the key into the ignition and yanked the gear to reverse. “Besides, I didn’t say that I didn’t trust cops,” he clarified, backing out of the parking space. “I’m just not interested in explaining to them right now why I’m involved in an explosion on their turf.”

“That’s right. You’re not from around here. Not really a cop either. Cowboy Sheriff Branson Randolph. It has a nice ring to it.” She put three fingers to her temple and massaged. “Or maybe the ringing is just in my head.”

A fire truck came racing toward them. He stopped to let it pass and then took the first left. “So, are you still up for a trip to the hospital, or would you rather call your new husband and get him to take you?” He pointed to the cell phone that rested on the seat between them. “You’re welcome to use my phone.”

She offered a tentative smile. “You’re not backing out on me, are you, cowboy? How was it you put it, turning coward?”

“Why would I?”

“For starters, we almost got killed back there.”

“I doubt seriously the explosion was meant for you. Or do you live there, too?”

“No. Kate lives there with her boyfriend. It’s actually his place.”

Branson kept his eyes on the road, but his concentration was centered on Lacy. He knew that how a person reacted to questions was as important as the answer they gave. “Exactly how much do you know about Kate’s life?”

“Kate’s thirty-three, six years older than I am. I’m not her keeper.”

Avoidance. He wasn’t surprised. A bride still in her wedding dress who wasn’t interested in even calling her husband probably had a few secrets of her own.

“I didn’t mean to offend you with my answer,” she said when he didn’t question her further.

“You didn’t.”

“Something did. You’ve got that hard-as-nails look on your face again, the same one you had when you walked in on me in Kate’s bedroom.”

“I just don’t like playing games when I don’t know the rules or the desired outcome. Someone shot your sister and then blew up the house where she resides. You pretend to be all worried about her, but when I try to help, you evade me with ‘I’m not her keeper.”’

“See. I knew you were offended. But, you see, Sheriff, I don’t know if you’re just the good-old-boy lawman you’re pretending to be or one of the brutal boys I read about in the paper. I don’t know if you’re out to help Kate or arrest her.”