Son of a Gun

Damien picked up a new photo album, this one not quite as old. He slipped one of the pictures from its tabs. Again the names were written on the back of the photo.

Damien’s great-grandfather was standing beside a magnificent black stallion. The boy in the saddle was Damien’s grandfather. The house in the background was the same as the one Damien was in right now, although several wings had been added over the years.

Alive and dead, the Lambert roots extended deep into the earth of Bent Pine Ranch. His ancestors were buried in a cemetery near the chapel that Damien’s great-great-grandfather had built for his own wedding. All the succeeding Lambert weddings, including Damien’s parents’, had been solemnized in that same small, weathered chapel.

If Damien ever married, he’d hopefully continue the tradition. The “if” loomed larger every day. Not that Damien hadn’t dated. He’d just never clicked with a woman the way he figured a guy should click with someone he intended to spend the rest of his life with.

Damien closed the trunk but didn’t bother to latch the padlock. He made quick work of delivering the boxes to his mother’s bedroom.

That done, he made a last trip up the ladder, picked up the portable safe and muttered a curse as the lid fell open. Files and loose papers scattered about the floor, a few floating through the attic opening to the hallway below. He stared for a few seconds, tempted to leave the mess until tomorrow. It wasn’t like his mother would get to all the boxes tonight.

But his father had taught him too well. If a job needed doing, do it right and do it now.

Damien stooped to his haunches and began to gather the scattered papers. There were baptismal records, old report cards, outdated contracts and files containing yellowed documents. He checked the date on a receipt for fifty head of cattle. He’d paid more than that for the last bull he’d purchased at auction.

The receipt was dated thirty-one years ago, thirteen months before he was born. He figured the old records would make interesting reading over a cold weekend.

Working quickly, he gathered the loose papers by the handful and slid them into the box without putting them in any kind of order or attempting to return them to the correct files. He paused when an old birth certificate caught his eye.

The name of the baby boy was Damien Briggs, almost identical to his name, except that he was Damien Briggs Lambert. Briggs was his mother’s maiden name.

The date of birth was exactly the same as his. He found that uncannily weird. He kept reading.

The mother was listed as Melissa Briggs. The father was unnamed. The Melissa in question must have been his mother’s sister. His mother seldom talked about her family, but she had mentioned a sister named Melissa who’d died years ago.

Somehow Damien had gotten the impression that Melissa had died when she was only a child, but apparently not so if she’d given birth to a boy on the same day he’d been born.

So where was this first cousin that Damien had never heard mentioned? Had he died in the accident that had also killed his mother?

Damien read the names and dates again. Disturbing possibilities surfaced. Was it possible that he and Damien Briggs were one and the same? Could it be that his real mother was Melissa Briggs?

No. Carolina was his mother. Hugh was his father. He’d seen his own birth certificate.

Still, the troubling suspicions refused to dislodge themselves from his mind. Acquiring a fake birth certificate listing himself as the father would have been no sweat at all for a man with the political clout of Hugh Lambert.

But then again, Hugh would never give his name to a son who wasn’t his. Case closed.

His mother’s voice drifted from the kitchen. She was home. Damien should just confront her with the birth certificate. She’d clear up the confusion. It would be over and done with.

But if his suspicions were on target, it would explain why Hugh had frequently treated him like a wild horse that he’d captured but didn’t really want in his fold.

More disturbed than he was willing to admit, Damien carried the safe downstairs and left it sitting on the coffee table. He marched out the front door, pulling it shut tight behind him.

Flakes of snow fell on his shirt and in his hair. A frigid cold settled in his bones, but he didn’t go back for his jacket. Instead, he walked toward the horse barn.

He needed to be alone to think. He needed to escape the confines of the house and to ride the open spaces of a ranch that might not really be his legacy at all.

Chapter Two

The truck jerked to a stop. Bodies squirmed and stretched. Belle balled her tiny hands into fists and swung them in the air as if she sensed the excitement growing around her.

The back doors squeaked open and a welcoming burst of fresh but frigid air filled Emma’s lungs. The darkness of night had set in completely since their last stop. She cuddled Belle closer inside the folds of her rebozo.

“El fin de la línea,” Julio called.

The end of the line. They’d made it safely.

An elderly man near the door stuck his head out and then frowned. “No Dallas.”

“Esto es Dallas, anciano,” Julio insisted.

But they were clearly not in the city. Others began to voice their fears.

“Estamos en Dallas?”

“Espero que no sea probemas.”

“Tonto,” Julio quipped. “If I let you out in the middle of town, you’d be arrested in minutes. You can see the highway from here,” he shouted over their complaints. “Catch a ride into town or walk. You’ll be in the outskirts of Dallas in less than a mile.”

Emma didn’t complain. If he was telling the truth, she could make that even carrying Belle. As soon as she came to a convenience store, she’d call for a cab and have it take her to the nearest cheap motel.

The grumbling and curses continued, making it clear that the occupants didn’t trust Julio. Not that they could do anything about it.

Emma placed Belle on her lap while she gathered her rebozo and wound it around her as she’d seen other mothers do, knotting it into a sling so that it would keep Belle cuddled against her chest and leave both hands free as she climbed from the trailer.

The woman who’d befriended her and fed Belle pushed a plastic bag holding a pacifier into Emma’s hand. “This one is sterile. To comfort the infant until you find milk.”

“Gracias.” Emma slipped the wrapped pacifier into the deep layered folds of her wrap and reached for the paper bag that held her new purchases.

Julio grabbed Emma’s arm when she reached the door and yanked her back into the trailer. “You stay.”

Her stomach rolled. Not this. Not again. “The baby,” she whispered, as if that would make a difference to this beast.

He shoved her against the wall. “Do as I say or you won’t be getting out of here alive.”

One of the men looked back, shame in his eyes that he didn’t have the strength or the courage to stand up for her. She avoided meeting his gaze, not wanting him to get shot on her account.

Dread ebbed through her veins. Would she never be free?

Once the trailer was empty except for her and Belle, Julio shoved her against the wall and slammed the double doors shut. A few minutes later, they were bouncing along again, litter left by the former occupants rolling and scratching along the floor.

Emma’s body was jerked around like a marionette, and she struggled to make certain it was just her shoulders and elbows that banged into the side of the trailer and not Belle’s head.

Belle began to cry and Emma offered her the pacifier. The baby continued to wail, fighting the nipple. Eventually she locked her lips around it and stopped fretting.

Emma fought the growing panic as the truck rumbled along. The thought of rape made her violently ill. But how could she fight him off? Julio was twice her size and carrying a weapon.

Had she escaped ten months of captivity only to be raped and killed by some half-drunk thug on a deserted road? And if she was, what would happen to Belle?

The answer to that was too heartbreaking to consider. Emma would have to find a way to save them.

Unfortunately, no miraculous ideas came to mind.

Belle was sleeping when the truck bolted and then jerked to a stop. Emma’s heart jumped to her throat when the doors clanked and rattled open. She jumped up as Julio climbed inside, the illumination from his flashlight in the confines of the trailer casting a demonlike glow about his face.

An owl hooted in the distance. The wind whistled through the tops of trees. But there were no highway sounds. No lights behind him. No sign of anyone to hear if she screamed for help.

Julio moved toward her, the smell of whiskey strong on his fetid breath. “Put the baby on the floor,” he demanded, “and then lie down on your back.”

“You don’t want to do this,” she said.

“Sure I do, mujerzuela.”

She shook her head at the cruel taunt. “I’m not a slut. Please, I’m a mother. Let me be. I paid my money.”

“I’ll let you be when I’m done with you. Do as I say and I won’t hurt you or the baby. Cause trouble and you both die here. Now, put the baby down and spread your legs.”

It was foolish to try to fight him. It would get her hurt or killed. Then the monster Caudillo would have won without even being here.

She was still standing when Julio put his hand beneath her skirt and trailed his hand along her thigh, inching closer to her intimate areas. Emma’s insides rebelled and her instincts took over. Her knee flew up and caught him in the crotch. He yelped and staggered backward. She swung at him and her fingernails dug into the flesh below his left eye, leaving two bloody trails.

He muttered curses and recovered his balance, slapping her so hard her brain seemed to rattle in her skull. Belle began to wail. If Emma didn’t stop now, the baby would surely get hurt.

She was about to give in when she spotted the sharp blade of a knife he grasped with his right hand.

“Please, no. The baby needs me.”

He spit in her direction, the spittle falling short and landing near her feet. “Should I cut your pretty throat or just shred your face so that you never tempt another man again?”

“Please. Mercy. Please.”

He dabbed at the blood on his face with the dirty cuff of his sleeve and then swung at her. The knife slashed her left arm a few inches above the elbow, barely missing Belle.

Julio swung again, but this time he missed completely and lost his balance when the blade connected with nothing but air.

Bracing herself with her left arm against the side of the trailer, she got in a quick kick that struck him in the back of the knee. He fell facedown onto the hard, filthy floor.

Emma scurried to jump out the back door. Expecting to hear Julio’s footsteps behind her or the sound of a gunshot, she didn’t look back until she reached the cover of trees and brush at the side of the narrow dirt road where they were parked. To her amazement, there was no sign of Julio.

She shuddered at the icy sting of the wind in her face and the feel of warm blood running down her arm. Working quickly, she tightened the rebozo around the wound, hoping the pressure would slow the bleeding.

Belle started to cry. Emma fought back her own tears of fear and frustration. She had had no idea which way she should go, but she stumbled ahead, vaguely aware of the snowflakes sifting through the canopy of pine needles and melting against her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around Belle and held her close in a futile effort to keep her warm.

Finally, she stepped into a clearing and spied a stretch of barbed-wire fencing. Relief pumped a reviving surge of adrenaline though her veins. If there was a fence, civilization couldn’t be that far away. Her pace quickened with her pulse.

Careful not to let the barbs touch Belle’s tender skin, Emma stretched the top wire so that she could maneuver through the fence and step into the tree-dotted pasture.

Something rustled in the grass behind her, and Emma took off running, terrified that Julio might be mere steps behind her. She didn’t stop running until she was panting for breath and her legs felt like they were about to give way and send her slamming to the ground.

Her heart still pounding, she fell against the trunk of a towering pine tree. Belle began to fret, and her fussing quickly escalated to a wail.

With her back against the scratchy bark of the tree trunk, Emma slowly sank to the ground. Her fingers searched and found the pacifier nestled in the deep folds of her rebozo. She poked the nipple into Belle’s mouth. This time Belled quickly locked her lips around it. But in in a few short minutes, she spit it out.

Belle began to wail again. Emma closed her eyes and pictured herself in a comfortable rocker, cuddling Belle while the hungry infant fed on nourishing formula. Heat from logs blazing in a stone fireplace warmed them both, so real she could smell the odor of burning wood.

The sound of galloping hooves penetrated her consciousness. She opened her eyes and jerked to attention, but there was no horse in sight.

Like the fire and the rocker, it was only her imagination. No one would be out riding after dark on a night like this. No hero was going to come to her rescue.

She forced herself back to her feet. If she fell asleep with only illusions of comfort, the helpless infant in her arms might die before morning from the cold if not from hunger.

* * *

THE WIND WAS PUNISHING even though the old leather work jacket Damien had taken from the tack room protected him from the worst of the cold.

He’d ridden hard, letting King go full speed across the familiar trails just the way the steed loved it. Fortunately, the ride had given Damien a chance to lower his aggravation level and ease his suspicions.

This wasn’t like the disagreements he used to have with his dad. Riding hard wouldn’t negate the questions. The answers would have to come from his mother. No doubt she’d be able to explain everything. And most likely he’d overreacted and none of it would have anything to do with him.

Sisters might easily decide to give their sons identical names if they’d given birth on the exact same day. One thing he knew for certain: his mother would never have willingly shut her sister’s son out of her life. Either that son was dead or his father had kept Carolina away from her nephew.

Unless Damien’s mother harbored family secrets so terrifying and depraved that she’d kept them hidden all these years. …

The thought of his mother with deep, dark secrets was so inconceivable it was almost laughable. Honesty was practically synonymous with the name Carolina Lambert in their part of their country. So was charity and friendship.

The snow fell harder, huge flakes that were beginning to cover the winter feed grass. In some parts of the country, the first snowfall of the season was a rite of passage into winter. In Dallas, they sometimes went years without a decent snowfall. This one just might be it, though it wouldn’t stay on the ground long. Warmer weather was forecasted to arrive in a couple of days.

He turned King back toward the ranch, letting him choose his own pace, until Damien spotted a young buck drinking from Beaver Creek. He reined in King and admired the stately deer. It looked totally at ease with the weather, though the wind wailed through the pine needles like a tomcat. Or like a baby.

Too much like a baby.

Damien’s senses sharpened. He stretched in the saddle and spotted a woman, her shoulders stooped, trudging along in the opposite direction. He quickly caught up with her. When she turned around, he noticed that all she had for warmth was a shawl wrapped around her and the wailing infant she cuddled close to her chest.

What the devil was she doing out here with a baby on a night like this? Damien scanned the area for trouble as he climbed from the saddle.

“Are you alone?” he asked as he shed his jacket.

She nodded. “Yes, but please don’t hurt me.”

Fear bled into her pleading voice. The accent was clearly American and Southern. “I have no intention of hurting you. How did you get here?”

“I…I ran my car into a ditch. I saw the fence and hoped there was a house nearby where I could find shelter. The baby is cold.”

“There’s no highway out here.”

“There is a road,” she protested. “I just left it.”

“An old logging road, but no one drives on that in a car. It’s full of ruts and dangerous potholes.”

“I know that now. But it was dark when I turned onto it and I mistook it for a driveway.”

He slipped his jacket over her shoulders.

It practically swallowed her. He was six feet tall and broad shouldered. She was a good six or seven inches shorter and petite. The jacket would keep her and the baby both warm until he could get her out of the weather.

She winced as he tugged the jacket tighter. He looked down and spotted the crimson stain on her wrap.

“You’re injured.”

“It’s nothing, just a scratch.”

But it had bled too much to be a mere scratch. Her story of the ditched car sounded more suspect by the minute. “Are you sure someone didn’t dump you out here?”

“I told you, I lost control of my car and now it’s stuck in a muddy ditch. I must have caught my arm on the fence when I climbed through the strings of barbed wire.”

She turned away, clearly not wanting to say more. He wouldn’t push the issue yet.

“Here, let me help you onto the horse. You and the baby can ride. I’ll keep the reins and walk beside you. We don’t have far to go.”

“Where are you taking us?”

“To a roaring fire where you and the baby can get warm. What is it anyway, a boy or a girl?”

“A girl. Her name is Belle.” She looked around. “Where am I?”

“On Bent Pine Ranch.”

“In Dallas?”

“Actually, you’re in a tiny community known as Oak Grove, but Dallas is the closest city.”

“How far are we from the city limits?”

“About twenty miles as the crow flies. Thirty miles if you’re not flapping your wings. Where were you going anyway?”

“To visit my aunt, but I must have made a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Maybe several. Where does she live?”

“On the outskirts of Dallas.”

“That covers a lot of territory.”

He helped the woman into the saddle and then zipped the jacket with both her and the baby inside the cocoon of warmth. “My name’s Damien,” he said, once they started toward the ranch house.

“I’m Emma.”

“Do you have a last name?”

She hesitated a tad too long to be believable.

“Smith… Emma Smith.”

That beat Jane Doe, but not by much. The swaying rhythm of King’s walk seemed to calm the baby. In minutes, she stopped crying altogether.

Questions about his own past withdrew to the back corners of Damien’s mind as the focus of his attention shifted to the more immediate concern of aiding the mystery woman and child.

He didn’t fully buy the ditched-car story, though he couldn’t come up with any more logical reason for her to be out in his pasture on a night like this.

It didn’t matter at this point. The woman and the baby needed help. Even if she was lying, he had no choice but to take them home with him.

* * *

EMMA STUDIED THE COWBOY walking beside her. He was ruggedly handsome, with a chiseled jawline, a classic nose and hair that jutted out over his forehead from beneath a worn Western hat. Masculine. Virile.

Protective. She’d never appreciated that quality in a man more than she did right now.

Hopefully he wasn’t the overly inquisitive kind. If he did ask questions, she’d have no choice but to elaborate on her original lie. If she told the truth, he’d call the cops.

Not that she wouldn’t like to sic the law on Julio, but publicity of any kind would make it that much easier for Caudillo to find her.

“You picked a bad night for traveling,” Damien said. “The bridges and overpasses are all slick and icy.”

“I didn’t expect it to turn this bad when I left home.” That was the understatement of a lifetime. She’d left last March, expecting a week in paradise. She’d gotten ten months in hell.

“Where are you from?” Damien asked.

“Originally or now?”

“Now.”

“Victoria, Texas.” Another lie, but she’d heard someone in the trailer mention it and she knew it was south of Houston.

“Where are you from originally?”

“Nashville,” she said, this time answering truthfully. She hadn’t lived there since…since the last major upheaval in her life.

The smell of burning wood grew stronger. She hadn’t imagined it earlier. A few minutes later, she caught her first glimpse of smoke rising from three chimneys that accentuated the steep lines of a multi-gabled roof.

The house was two-storied and sprawled out in several directions, as if it had stretched over the open land like creeping phlox.

“Who owns the ranch?” she asked as they drew nearer.

“The Lamberts.”

He surely wasn’t a Lambert, not wearing the tattered leather jacket he’d lent her. More likely he was just a working cowboy. “Where do you live?”

“You’re looking at it.”

That surprised her. “Do you and your wife have children?”

“Nope. No children. No wife, either.”

“So, how many people live in the house?”

“Six when we’re all present and accounted for.”

“That sounds like a houseful.”

“Always room for one more.”

“I won’t be staying,” she said quickly. “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can get a ride to the nearest motel. Any will do.”

“You’re nowhere near a motel, and you’d be hard-pressed to find transportation into town tonight. Even if you could, I wouldn’t recommend it. You might end up worse than merely in a ditch. Besides, there’s plenty of room here.”

As they approached the house, she was even more awed by its sheer size. But that wasn’t all it had going for it.

A large glass-enclosed porch extended across part of the back of the house. The lamps were turned on and their soft glow fell across sofas, rockers, hooked rugs, potted plants and baskets in all shapes and sizes. A round table in the middle of the room held a huge winter arrangement of greenery, berries and cones.

To the left of that was a covered entryway that led into the house, and to the left of that were wide, uncovered windows that opened into a massive kitchen filled with people. Evidently, they were enjoying a late dinner.

Damien stopped at the base of a winter-bare oak near the back of the house. He took the reins and looped them over a low branch, securing the horse before reaching to help Emma dismount.

Anxiety swelled inside her. There would surely be questions. They’d know she was lying. They might just call the sheriff and have him come pick her up. All it would take was a fingerprint check and then there would be no hiding from the glare of the media.

Woman Kidnapped While Vacationing in the Caribbean Islands Escapes, the headline would read.

No one escaped Caudillo and lived to tell about it.

Damien’s touch was firm but gentle. “Relax,” he said, obviously sensing her nervousness. “The Lamberts can be a cantankerous bunch, but they don’t bite. You’re safe.”

Safe. Even the sound of the word made her breath catch. But the safety Damien or the Lamberts could provide was only temporary, little more than an illusion.

* * *

SURPRISINGLY, THE ANXIETY eased the second Emma stepped into the kitchen. The warmth, the odors, the easy chatter and laughter among the people gathered around the scarred oak farmhouse table was the total opposite of what she’d lived with for much of the past year.