Son of a Gun Page 3

  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 cho
ice 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.

  “We have company,” Damien said, interrupting chatter that was so noisy no one had heard them come in through the mudroom and walk to the kitchen door.

  Heads raised and immediately all pairs of eyes focused on Emma and Belle. Belle began to wiggle and fuss, sputtering cries that were likely the prelude to full-fledged bawling.

  The two men pushed back from the table and stood in true Texas cowboy gentleman fashion. An attractive middle-age woman at the head of the table looked up. Her piercing gaze met with Emma’s, and Emma’s whisper of reprieve took a nosedive.

  This was not a woman who’d be a pushover for Emma’s lies. Nor would she welcome trouble into the midst of her family.

  “This is Emma Smith,” Damien said. “She drove up from Victoria to visit her aunt. Somehow she took a wrong turn and ended up on the logging road that runs parallel to Beaver Creek.”

  “What were you driving, a tank?” one of the men questioned. “The holes in that road would swallow a normal vehicle.”

  “Apparently one of them did,” Damien explained. “The car is now likely sinking like quicksand.”

  Emma breathed easier. The explanation sounded far more feasible coming from Damien. She’d always been a rotten liar.

  “Thankfully, I wandered into your pasture hoping to find help, and Damien came along,” Emma said.

  The woman who’d eyed her warily at first smiled as she stood and walked toward Emma. “We wondered where Damien had gotten off to. But when Tague checked and found his horse missing from the barn, we figured he’d gone out for one last check on the cattle.”

  “Lucky for me and Belle that he did.”

  “I’m Carolina Lambert, Damien’s mother.”

  So he wasn’t a simple cowboy. He was a Lambert. Obviously wealthy and likely powerful, yet he’d easily passed for your everyday wrangler. Already she loved Texas.

  Carolina stood, walked over and leaned in for a closer look at the squirming infant, whose face was turning redder by the second.

  “Oh, poor little sweetheart. You must be cold. We’ll take care of that.” Carolina looked up. “She’s adorable.”

  “Thank you.”

  Damien made quick introductions of the rest of the people at the table as Belle tuned up. The two men were his brothers, Durk and Tague. Both were tanned and muscular and shared Damien’s good looks. Tague sported a ready smile. Durk eyed her suspiciously, his handshake firm.

  Damien’s grandma Pearl was silver-haired, petite and wrinkled but with a mischievous sparkle in her violet eyes. His aunt Sybil looked to be in her sixties. She wore heavy makeup and her neck and wrists were weighted down with chunky silver and turquoise jewelry. A black wig topped her head like a hat. Emma hoped hers was not nearly so conspicuous.

  “You’re the best-looking stray Damien’s ever come home with,” Tague said. “Of course, your closest competition was a mangy yellow dog with a bad drool.”

  “Glad I beat that out.” She managed a smile.

  “Have a seat,” Grandma Pearl said. “You need some soup to warm you up. A little sherry wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  “Mother thinks sherry is the cure for everything,” Sybil said. “I’ll get you some soup.”

  “Maybe we should give Emma a chance to catch her breath and warm up before we start pushing food on her,” Carolina said.

  Belle began to wail.

  “Why don’t you let me take her for you,” Carolina said. “You must be exhausted.”

  “She’s hungry,” Emma said. “I really need to feed her.”

  “Of course. And I’m sure you’d appreciate some privacy,” Carolina said. “Come with me to the family room. There’s a rocker near the fireplace.”

  Emma took a deep breath, preparing herself for the next lie. Nothing about this was going to be easy, but it was still a million times better t
han freezing to death or being violated by Julio.

  “I know how irresponsible this sounds, but I was so upset when I walked away from the truck that I left Belle’s bottles of formula behind.”

  Durk’s eyebrows arched. “I thought you said you were driving a car.”

  “It’s an SUV,” she said, as if that explained it. “Anyway, it’s imperative that I go into town and get bottles and formula for her.”

  “No use to go into town for that,” Carolina said. “My neighbor Karen has a son about the same size as your Belle. She’s over frequently since we’re both on the library committee and planning a new extension. I keep bottles and formula here for her. Disposable diapers, as well.”

  “She uses Similac,” Sybil said. “What kind of formula do you use with Belle?”

  “Similac.”

  “Now, that’s luck,” Sybil said.

  Grandma Pearl clicked her tongue against her false teeth. “Luck has nothing to do with it. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “Indeed he does,” Carolina agreed.

  “I’ll go stoke the fire,” Tague said.

  Carolina walked over to the counter. “I’ll get a bottle ready.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your dinner,” Emma said. “Just point me to the formula and I’ll take care of feeding Belle.”

  “Nonsense,” Carolina said. “I’ve finished my soup. And dessert and coffee can wait until you’re ready to join us. I’ll get the bottle. You just take Belle to the fire so the both of you can get warm.”

  “Thanks so much,” Emma said. “And thankfully we’re warmer already. My teeth have totally stopped chattering.”

  “Did you say you have false teeth?” Pearl asked.

  “No,” Emma said. “My real ones were chattering from the cold.”

  “Mother, are you wearing your hearing aids?” Sybil asked.

  Pearl smiled. “I might have left them on my dressing table.”

  “Do I just follow the directions on the can of formula?” Carolina asked.

  “Yes. And you can’t imagine how I appreciate this.”

  Unexpected tears began to well at the back of her eyes. Simple acts of kindness and words of faith had become foreign to her. Now they were warming her heart and making her feel guilty at the same time.