Ruthless by Lisa Jackson (34)

CHAPTER SIX

So now Brand had returned, acting as if nothing had happened between them, literally planting himself on her doorstep. Dani glanced down at the rental agreement and the check in her hands. She could tear them both up, tell Max she’d changed her mind and Brand to take a hike, but what good would that do?

He couldn’t hurt her again. Or could he?

When he’d left Dawson City, she’d been bereft. Heart-broken. Certain that he’d write or call. She’d planned to take off after him, once he settled down. But as the weeks passed and she hadn’t heard a word from him, she’d finally faced the painful fact that it was over, even though she’d been pregnant with his child.

She’d been scared, her life turned inside out. Her mother had been shocked, her knees nearly giving way when Dani, stuttering, had confided in her.

“What—oh, God, no,” she’d whispered, tears starring her lashes. “Dani, are you certain?”

From that point on, Irene had been a pillar of strength, but Dani had been forced to rely on her mother and Jonah McKee to make everything work.

Giving up her son had been the most difficult task she’d ever faced. No amount of telling herself it was for the best ever chased away the guilt. But from the point that a nurse had taken away her son and left her with suddenly empty arms, Dani had become determined and strong, her own person. She planned to get on with her life and try to close her mind to the past, never letting another man near her. Until Jeff. A good-time cowboy type with an easy smile and a carefree live-for-the-moment attitude, he’d been the antithesis of Brandon, a man who wasn’t the least bit threatening.

On a whim, they’d married. But their quick elopement to Reno had been the start of the deterioration of their relationship. Jeff hadn’t been suited to married life. The responsibilities were too heavy and Dani’s need for children scared him. He found other women and she divorced him. They left on speaking terms, and once again she promised herself that she’d never get involved with another man. She’d dedicate her life to the ranch, and as soon as she was on her feet, she’d adopt a child, if not a baby, then an older boy or girl. It didn’t matter. And she’d locate her own boy, wherever he was.

But she hadn’t counted on seeing Brand again nor had she ever thought they’d be next-door neighbors. “Oh, Lordy,” she whispered, borrowing a phrase her mother used whenever a situation seemed too complicated to deal with.

Well, she wasn’t the rebel seventeen-year-old girl he’d left; she was a full-grown woman now with some measure of maturity. Not that he seemed to care. In their meeting at the ranch she’d acted as if they’d only been casual acquaintances. His agreement hurt a little, but she wasn’t going to let it bother her. She and Brand were ancient history. “So stop beating yourself up about it,” she told herself as she tucked the deed and check into her back pocket and turned her attention back to Typhoon. “Sorry,” she said, scratching the horse between her eyes. “You’ve been awful patient.” Pushing all thoughts of Brandon out of her mind, she unwound the reins from the top rail and led her horse to the stables. No matter what, she wasn’t going to let a man, any man get the better of her again. Especially Brandon Scarlotti.

Dani tossed the currycomb into a bucket, unclasped Typhoon’s bridle and watched as the mare took off with a snort, galloping wildly over the packed dirt near the stables to join up with the rest of Dani’s small herd. Mares and foals picked at the stubble, tails switching, ears flicking.

In another field, the cattle were all lying in the bleached grass, their dusty hides black, gray, dun and red. She and Jeff had experimented, crossing black Angus with white-faced Herefords and even Brahmans. The lazy beasts lay in the shade, flies collecting on their faces as they slowly chewed their cuds.

She wasn’t much of a cattlewoman; the bovine part of the ranch had been Jeff’s domain, of which, she found out later, he knew little. She would sell off most of the herd this year, but if she could afford to, she’d keep a few head because a part of her enjoyed the lumbering, seemingly docile cattle. Though they could be startled or even dangerous, they appeared slow and lovably dim-witted when compared to her feisty, high-spirited horses corralled in neighboring fields. “You’re all right,” she assured them, as if they could hear or understand her.

Carrying the bucket to the stables, she worked the kinks from her neck and tried not to think about Brandon or the fact that she was going to be living next door to him for the next three hundred and sixty-five days.

“One day at a time,” she muttered as she eyed the sacks of grain and mentally calculated how long they’d last—probably until the first of the year. Now that Brand was paying the lion’s share of the rent, she would be able to survive here. But for how long? She knew that the owner of the property, Seth Macgruder, would like to sell the place to her. Seth and his wife, Katherine, had lived here for forty years before Katherine had died of a stroke and Seth, due to arthritis, had been forced to move to a retirement center.

Dani had always dreamed of having a small working ranch—nothing fancy, just a place of her own. The old Macgruder homestead had seemed perfect.

Now she had to share it. With Brandon Scarlotti. The father of the baby she had given up for adoption eleven years earlier. She’d balmed her conscience over the years, convincing herself that it was right not to tell him about the baby. After all, he’d taken off for California without a backward glance.

“Damn it all anyway!” Why did he have to come back now?

Dropping the bucket on the back porch, she kicked off her boots and marched into the kitchen. She’d have to tell him that he was a father; it was the only decent thing to do. “Great. Just great.” How would he react to the notion that he had an eleven-year-old son who was probably just starting to latch onto a major growth spurt? Her throat felt suddenly dry. Biting down on her lip, she opened the refrigerator and grimaced at the few items stocked on the wire shelves. A pitcher of iced tea, yesterday’s soup still in the saucepan and a head of lettuce that had seen crisper days. She’d never been much of a cook or a housekeeper and had preferred working outdoors to spending any time inside.

Sighing, she poured herself a glass of tea, searched for a lemon that didn’t exist and contented herself by opening the drawer near the door and finding her pack of cigarettes. As she stared out the window to the paddock where several pregnant mares were grazing, she lit up and drew the smoke deep into her lungs. “For old times’ sake,” she said, exhaling a soft white cloud. She saw her reflection in the glass and frowned. Is this what just seeing Brandon again could do? Disgusted, she squashed out her cigarette and crumpled the pack in her fist. After giving up the habit years before, she’d started smoking when Jeff had moved out; now it was time to stop again. She was over Jeff, over the pain of the divorce and ready to make it on her own. She didn’t need a man and she certainly didn’t need nicotine to see her through. By God, Brandon was not going to change all that!

But as she sipped her iced tea and leaned against the edge of the table, she felt the letter in the back pocket of her jeans, reminding her that a part of her life was unfinished. She’d never registered herself as a mother looking for a child, never tried to make contact because of Jeff. Besides, she’d always figured that she’d made a decision that couldn’t be changed. Jonah McKee had promised her that the boy had been placed with a loving couple who would give her boy everything he needed.

Now, of course, she and the rest of the county knew that Jonah had been a liar. She drained her glass. Jonah McKee was dead—murdered—and by his death, all the secrets of his life had come to light. Jonah McKee had made his own rules, played his own game. To Jonah, the law had been meant to be broken. So why should she trust his word that he had indeed placed her son with a loving, well-to-do family? For all she knew, Jonah could have given or sold the boy to anyone.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, denying the horrid fears that had been with her ever since she’d handed her son back to the nurse in the hospital. She should have demanded to meet the couple, checked to see that they were real. She watched the mares nuzzle their spindle-legged foals and a huge lump filled her throat. It was time to find out. After eleven years of second-guessing herself, Dani needed to find her baby, assure herself that he was being well taken care of.

She wondered what he looked like—fair like the Donahues or dark-skinned like his father? The few seconds she’d held him, he’d been red and wailing and she’d thought he looked like the man who had sired him, but what had she known? The baby had only been minutes old and she’d been a kid herself. A kid who just kept making mistakes.

Her first mistake had been getting involved with Brandon Scarlotti, the second had been becoming pregnant, the third losing contact with her son.

It was time to rectify a few things.

Dani considered herself a practical woman not prone to flights of whimsy. She believed in God, but didn’t attend church, was convinced that a person made her own way in the world, rarely catching a break, and that people created their own destinies. She didn’t believe in fate or kismet or great epiphanies, but she couldn’t fight the feeling that some greater force was playing with her life today. Why else would she discover the letter to her newborn baby on the very day that she was going to start life living next door to Brandon?

“More like disaster,” she told herself as she pulled the letter from her back pocket, scanned it once more, then struck a match and burned the damned thing, letting the dark ashes fall into the sink.

Maybe it was time to stop letting the world spin around her. Maybe it was time to be in control of her own future. Her own life. Her child’s. She had rights.

Fingers trembling, she opened the cupboard and pulled out an address book she’d had for years. Flipping the pages, she found the number for Sloan Redhawk, a private investigator who had recently married Casey McKee, Max’s younger sister.

Casey and Sloan lived outside of Warm Springs now and his office was in their small ranch house. Swallowing back the doubts of over eleven years, Dani dialed, closed her eyes and waited. After four rings, the phone was answered by a machine, with Sloan’s voice giving instructions.

As the taped message played and she waited for the beep, she cleared her throat. “Hi. This is Dani Stewart, Sloan, and I want to hire you. There’s someone I want you to locate for me—”

The telephone clicked and Sloan answered. “Just walked in,” he said. “What’s up?”

Dani’s voice sounded strangled and her heart was thudding wildly. “I, um, I need your help.”

“Name it.”

She could barely breathe. Her palms were slick with sweat “I don’t know if you had any idea, but I had a baby a long time ago. Eleven years. And . . . and I’ve lost all contact with him. The adoption was handled by Jonah McKee and I was hoping—” she crossed her fingers and took a deep breath “—I was hoping that you would help me find my son.”

* * *

“How do you know Dani?” Max asked Brand as he guided his truck along the smooth county road that rimmed Wildcat Creek.

Settled low on his back, Brand glared out the window and barely heard the question.

“You grew up in Dawson City, didn’t you?” Max was nothing if not persistent.

“Yeah.” Brand rubbed his chin, feeling a day’s worth of stubble and wishing to high heaven that he’d never set eyes on Dani Donahue again. She brought back too many memories of a time he’d tried desperately to forget. Though he’d known there was a chance he’d see her again, a high probability that she’d never moved away from her family, he hadn’t expected to be living next door to her; nor had he anticipated the rush of emotion that had swept over him. Hell, one look at her and he was a randy teenager again. What a dumb reaction. “We ran with the same crowd for a while.” No reason to lie.

“She never mentioned it.” Max downshifted as the truck started climbing toward the summit of Elkhorn Ridge. Max’s brows drew together in strict concentration, as if he was trying to figure out a puzzle but didn’t have all the pieces.

“She didn’t, eh? Well, it wasn’t that big of a deal,” Brand lied, his chest constricting a bit, the memories he’d tried to suppress for years rising from the back of his mind like the morning mist on Elkhorn Lake. Near this very canyon, he and Dani had spent their last night together, making love until the sun had painted the sky a pale golden hue. Guts churning, he willed away the memories that he’d managed to bury without too much trouble. All those years in California, he’d forced himself not to pine for her, had been determined not to think about her after the first few months. Their lives had been on different courses and he’d told himself that their affair was just the passionate throes of youth. So why, with just one glance from her amber eyes, did she manage to awaken all those ghosts of the past? With a single look, nearly twelve years seemed stripped away.

He studied the countryside. The road was narrow at the summit, and far below, the creek sliced through Stardust Canyon.

He realized that Max was still waiting for more of an explanation, more specifics to explain his sister-in-law’s reticence to lease to Brand. “As I said, I knew Dani a long time ago, just before my mother got married and I took off for California.”

“She didn’t seem to want to lease to you.”

“She didn’t, did she?” Brand acknowledged with a bitter smile. “Well, I was always getting into trouble.”

“You ever date?”

“No,” Brand said quickly. It was the truth. “We just ran into each other at parties. That kind of thing.” He found his sunglasses and settled them onto the bridge of his nose, and Max, for the moment, seemed appeased. He grew quiet, nearly brooding, and for a minute, Brand thought that he was digesting everything he’d learned this afternoon until Brand realized where they were—the very spot where Jonah McKee had died.

Max’s gaze drifted from the ribbon of asphalt to the steep canyon walls. Brand guessed from the gossip he’d heard that Max was thinking of his bastard of a father, who had been driving this stretch of road when Ned Jansen, a man he’d swindled, had taken the law into his own hands and forced Jonah’s Jeep off the road. Jonah McKee had met a sudden and brutal death in the swift waters of Wildcat Creek at the bottom of the ravine. A fitting end, Brand thought, feeling not a drop of remorse for the man.

“You know Dani well?”

“Well enough,” Brand said. The Jeep was getting hot. Too close. He loosened his tie. He didn’t want to remember Dani, the girl he’d left behind when he’d started over. It had been best for both of them. They’d been on a collision course ever since they’d first met. “But like I said, it was ages ago.”

“There it is,” Max said, the shimmering waters of Elkhorn Lake visible through the trees.

Brand felt a small grain of satisfaction. This was his new project. Long ago he’d decided that Elkhorn Lake, nearly a mile wide and several miles long, would be a perfect place for a new resort. Already the clear waters were a haven for speedboats, water-skiers, fishing craft and even houseboats. Several farmers had sold adjoining properties on the north end of the lake and the deal was coming together. That part of his life seemed to be working, but it was the only part. He had his mother and half brother to deal with, and now there was Dani. Beautiful, independent Dani.

He was still brooding about her when the town of Rimrock came into view. As they turned onto River Drive, Max slowed for the speed limit. He glanced at Brand. “I think you should know something about Dani.”

“What’s that?” Brand braced himself.

“She was married.”

“So I gathered.”

“It didn’t work out. The guy turned out to be an irresponsible bastard who ran around on her.”

Brand held on to his temper, but the term “bastard” always set his teeth on edge and the thought of a man cheating on Dani only made it worse.

“Well, it’s over now,” Max went on. “The divorce was final six or eight months ago. She’s tough as nails on the outside but . . . well, she’s still picking up the pieces.”

“Oh.”

“She doesn’t need someone messing with her mind.” Max glared at Brand as if he knew his darkest secrets.

“Someone? Meaning me?”

“Meaning anyone. She’s working like hell to get back on her feet and I don’t want to see her knocked down again.”

“Sounds like a warning.”

“Just a piece of advice. Look, Scarlotti, I’m not blind. I saw the way she reacted when she saw you. I don’t know what happened between you two and I don’t want to. Besides, it’s none of my business.”

“You got that right.”

“Just be careful, okay? Tread softly.”

“I’m not interested, okay? We were friends a long time ago, got into a little trouble—drinking under age, that kind of thing—but that was all.”

Max wasn’t buying it. His expression clouded. “Whatever you say, Scarlotti. I just wanted you to know the ground rules.”

He parked in a reserved spot in the lot for McKee Enterprises. They shook hands, and Brandon, with his new lease tucked into his briefcase, climbed into his car—a new midnight blue Mercedes—and drove to the Lucky Star Motel a few blocks away. There, he wedged his car between a rattletrap of a pickup and a dirty station wagon that sported one door held closed with bailing twine and a hand-scratched plea—Wash Me—scrawled on the back window. So much for blending in. His gleaming luxury car stood out like the proverbial sore thumb.

The Mercedes would have to go. It worked in Southern California, where it was almost a necessity to make bankers, investors and rivals understand you meant business, but here, where everyone drove four-wheel-drive rigs and pulled horse trailers, the car would be a hindrance. People wouldn’t be in awe so much as envy. Brand was a practical man. The Mercedes would go and he’d buy a Jeep—one that was three or four years old at that.

He pocketed his keys and climbed the outside stairs of the shoddy motel. He could afford better, but this one had had the first vacancy sign he’d seen when he drove into town yesterday. He hadn’t bothered to move to fancier quarters and he had no intention of staying with his mother and half brother. She begrudgingly had taken his advice and kept the house, and when her marriage to Al had disintegrated, she and her son, Chris, had moved back to Dawson City. Brand wasn’t anxious to be constantly reminded of his youth, so he’d found his own place.

“Great, so you moved in next door to Dani Donahue.” He unlocked the door and stepped into the room. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke and some kind of rug deodorizer that was supposed to be fragrant. Cracking open a window, he muttered, “Stewart. Dani Stewart. She was married. Remember that, okay? She’s probably still hung up on the guy.” He slung his tie over the back of a chair and unbuttoned his shirt. What was Max’s warning all about? How much did he know about Brandon’s affair with Dani? Hell, it had been ten—no—nearly twelve years ago. Ancient history.

But it was still there. That sizzle. He’d felt it when she’d raised her golden eyes to his and notched her chin up a degree in silent defiance. She might have settled down, become a model citizen, but lurking in the amber depths of her eyes was the spirit of a rebel, the girl who had straddled his Harley and, without a lesson, driven off; leaving him stranded one night when they were alone together. The girl who had laughed at his ambitions to make something of himself. The girl who had told him that it didn’t matter if you were rich or poor. The girl who had skipped school to spend the afternoon in a field making love with him, the girl who had willingly given him her virginity and adoration. The girl he’d purposely left behind.

A headache began at the base of his skull where his neck muscles were clenched into tight knots. He didn’t need to remember her small breasts pointing upward to a cloud-scattered sky. He didn’t want to think about the long, supple legs and the thatch of red-blond curls at their apex. It wasn’t smart to concentrate on how her spine had arched off the carpet of grass and wildflowers, how her whole body had jolted every time he’d entered her, how her legs had wrapped around his naked torso, how she’d smiled upward, breathing rapidly, her hair fanned out on the grass as she’d clung to him, her sweat-slickened body melding so perfectly to his.

He’d spent every waking hour trying to find ways to be with her, making love to her in fields, barns, in the back seat of his mother’s old Ford, in the river while skinny-dipping. Wherever he could.

And she’d let him—she’d reveled in his lovemaking, enjoying it as much as he.

“Damn, what a mess.” He shouldn’t have signed the lease. It would be impossible living next to her and not remembering. He stripped off his shirt, poured himself a drink and walked onto the balcony, where he stared across the railroad tracks and watched a half-starved dog nudging through the garbage. Brandon whistled and the beast took off, running and ducking through the shadows as if he’d been beaten a hundred times before. Brand felt an immediate kinship with the dog—a setter of some kind. He knew what it felt like to be beaten down so far you never thought you’d climb up again.

He took a sip of his liquor and scowled as it burned a path down his throat. He didn’t drink all that much—usually considered it a crutch. With an oath he poured the Scotch onto the bleached barkdust two stories below. Things had changed since he’d been here last. He’d left town at the bottom and come back on top.

Everything would be just fine, except that he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do about Dani.

* * *

“I was wonderin’ when you’d show up,” Venitia said, reaching for her glass as Brand walked through the front door. The smell of stale smoke, cheap perfume, cleaning solvent and grease hung in the air just as it always had. If he’d crossed the threshold with his eyes closed, he would have recognized the odors of the home where he’d spent his youth. Even though there had been several years when Venitia hadn’t lived in the house while she and Al were living in Washington, those years when Brand had rarely seen her, the little bungalow hadn’t changed.

“I had business in Rimrock.” Striding into the living room, he felt the same cloying feeling he’d experienced as a teenager that the dingy wallpapered walls were about to close in on him.

His mother was sitting in a corner of the couch, one foot propped on an ottoman, the television turned down low. A talk show was in progress. Newspapers were spread on the coffee table and a half-worked crossword puzzle had been transformed into a coaster for her glass. One of her menagerie of cats wandered across the back of the couch, a second was seated on the window sill, tail switching as he stared through the glass at birds fluttering around a feeder.

The phone rang and she answered it quickly. “Hello . . . No, he’s not here right now. Can I take a message or tell him who called? . . . I’m not sure, any time now . . . all right, then.” She hung up and sighed. “Your brother. Not even twelve and the girls are calling. Just like you.”

“I don’t remember the girls calling.”

“They did,” she said with a wistful smile. “Night and day for a while.”

“I was older.”

“Times were different.”

He hadn’t come here to discuss his adolescence; in fact, he’d been reminded of that painful time of his life too much lately. Get used to it. Living next door to Dani is only going to make it worse. Settling onto one of the overstuffed arms of the couch, he asked, “How’re you feeling?”

The corners of her mouth tightened. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what the doctor told me.”

“He shouldn’t have told you anything.” She reached for her glass and took a long swallow.

He cringed inside knowing that every drink was killing her bit by bit. Her liver was already damaged and she wasn’t doing it any favors. Cirrhosis was in her future if she didn’t abstain. But her dependence upon “a couple of glasses of wine” hadn’t diminished over the years. How many times had he come home from school to find her passed out on the couch? How many times had he cooked dinner himself—usually canned spaghetti or macaroni and cheese or peanut butter sandwiches? He wondered if his kid brother did the same and felt guilty for not doing something about the situation earlier. He’d tried, right after Venitia’s divorce from Al, but she’d shunned all his attempts at help.

“I thought you gave that up.” He tried not to sound as if he were standing behind a pulpit as he motioned toward the glass in her hand.

“And I thought you agreed not to lecture me.”

“I’m just concerned about your health.”

“My health. Not yours.”

“What about Chris?”

She finished her drink. “He’s doin’ okay.”

Brand sat down on the edge of the sofa. “He’s not doing okay. He wrote me a letter. Said he was worried about you.”

“I’m—we’re both doin’ fine.” A calico cat crawled across her lap and settled in, purring softly. Venitia absently patted the animal’s head. “I know you think you can come in here and wave your money around and make things better, but you can’t.”

“You could move. I found a house closer in—”

“I don’t want to move. I like it here. You’re the one who talked me into keeping it,” she reminded him with a smile. “And you were right. It’s bought and paid for now.”

“But you could have a newer place with a garage and a sun porch and—”

“And strings attached. No more. I had enough of that when I owed Jonah,” she said with a sad shake of her head. “No thank you, son. I know that your intentions are probably for the best, and I appreciate your concern, but just leave me alone.”

“Maybe you’ve been alone too much.”

“I’ve got Chris. So what if Al turned into a jerk and left us behind?” She found an empty pack of cigarettes, crumpled it and tossed it into a brown paper bag she used as a wastebasket. Her lips pursed. “Never had much luck with men,” she said reflectively as a hummingbird flitted to a feeder near the front window. “Your pa took off without even botherin’ to marry me and then there was Al.” Clucking her tongue, she shook her head. “He couldn’t stick around, either. I know you think I should move. Start over. But this is my home, Brand. It may not be the fanciest house in town, but it’s mine and I feel safe here. Comfortable.”

They’d been over this ground a hundred times. “Okay, but at least let me fix it up for you. Weatherstrip the doors, put in double-paned windows, shore up the porch, that sort of thing.”

Sighing, she pushed herself to her feet. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know that.”

“You already pay most of my bills.”

“I can afford it.”

“It’s not right, a son taking care of his mother. Should be the other way around.” She crossed to a secretary pushed into one corner, opened a drawer and found a fresh pack of cigarettes.

“You did take care of me.”

“Not very well.”

“The best you could, Ma. Now I’m able to afford to help you out a little.”

She tapped the pack on the desktop before opening it. “I don’t like taking handouts, even from my own son.”

He wasn’t going to argue with her. “The bottom line is that this is your decision. Just don’t think of it as charity.”

Footsteps clomped on the front porch. The door swung open and banged hard against the wall. “Sounds like your brother’s home,” Venitia said as she lit up. Relief crossed her eyes and Brand realized that Chris was giving her the same worries that she’d been through with him.

His half brother thundered into the room. He was a skinny kid, tall for his age, with dark brown hair, green eyes and the hint of what would someday be a mustache. Though only eleven, he could easily pass for fourteen. “Hey, Brand!”

“Hey.”

“Is that your car?” he asked, eyes round as saucers.

“’Fraid so.”

“Cool!”

“Want a ride?”

“Are you kiddin’?” He was practically bouncing off the walls. The kid was energy in motion. Though it was eighty degrees outside, he wore long baggy jeans, a long-sleeved flannel shirt tossed over a ratty T-shirt and a baseball cap turned backward.

“Oh, Lord,” Venitia whispered.

Brand tossed Chris the keys. “I’ll be right there.” Chris, all arms and legs, sprinted out the door.

Venitia sighed, a soft cloud of smoke trailing from her mouth. “I’m afraid he’s a little out of control. He didn’t take Al’s leaving very well, and he’s discovering girls or they’re discovering him—they call all the time.”

“Does he call them back?”

“Not really. He’d rather be skateboarding or in-line skating, but he’s beginning to show some interest.”

“He’s too young.”

“You were twelve.”

“No way—”

“Polly Henzler started calling you in the seventh grade.”

“She was just a kid.”

“You didn’t think so at the time.” Venitia peered through the window. “Uh-oh, he’s in the driver’s seat. That’s a dangerous sign.”

Brand started for the door. “We’ll be back in an hour or two. You need anything from town?”

“A jug of milk and a bottle of—” She cut herself off and smiled slightly. “Milk’ll do.”

He walked on the porch just as he heard the engine rev. Vaulting over the rail and a row of withering petunias, he raced to the car and convinced his half brother to slide into the passenger seat.

“This is one kickin’ car,” Chris said, his dirty fingers caressing the leather interior gently. “How much did it cost?”

“Too much.” Brand looked over his shoulder and reversed out of the two gravel ruts that were his mother’s driveway.

“Are you rich?” Chris angled his head upward, his eyes squinting against the sun.

“I do all right.”

“Are you a millionaire?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“An easy one.”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to—”

“Are you a millionaire?” Chris insisted, playing with the electronic windows.

Brand slid the kid a look and slipped the car into drive. “None of your business.”

“A billionaire?”

“No.”

“So you are a millionaire!” Chris let out a long, low whistle. “When I grow up, I’m gonna be just like you instead of a loser like my old man.”

“Al’s not a loser.” Brand forced himself not to wince.

Chris’s smile fell away from his face and he looked suddenly older than his years. His jaw jutted forward defiantly and his lips were pulled hard against his teeth. “Yeah? Well, what do you call a bastard who leaves his wife and kid?”

“Maybe he was just—”

“A loser.” Chris slid down in his seat and stared out the windshield. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

Brand understood. He’d never met his own father, never seen a picture of the old man. Kendall had had enough of a conscience to send money orders every other month or so—no letter included. Venitia had never heard from him again, but she’d decided to have her baby alone despite the fact that her parents had disowned her and her sister, good old Aunt Roma, had never spoken to her since.

Frowning at the dark turn of his thoughts, Brandon drove Chris to McDonald’s for a burger and soda.

“Someday I’m gonna have a car just like this,” Chris said around a mouthful of his cheeseburger as they drove home.

“What kind of car you drive doesn’t make a difference.”

“Sure it does,” Chris argued and Brand held his tongue. He remembered once thinking that if he was as rich as Max McKee and had a dad who bought him expensive cars and boats, he’d have the world by the tail.

“I’m selling it.”

“No way!” Chris’s face fell. For the moment, he forgot his cheeseburger. Incredulous, he asked, “Why would you do that?”

“I need something a little . . .” Less flashy. Not quite so ostentatious. Unlike L.A. “. . . more rugged.”

“Jeez, Brand, don’t do it for a while, okay?”

“You can come and help me pick out something else.”

Chris’s infectious smile returned. “A Ferrari or a Porsche or—”

“A Jeep.”

Chris chewed slowly. “Will it be jacked up with big tires and have a CD player and fog lights and—”

“We’ll see,” Brand said.

“It could be good. Not as good as a Benz, but—”

“Better.”

Chris slid a French fry past his lips and waved wildly when Brand passed a group of kids on in-line skates, bikes and skateboards.

“Friends?”

“Nah. Some jerks from the eighth grade.”

Boys he wanted to impress. Brand’s insides grew cold. He remembered how important it was. How he hated to be considered poor, though that wasn’t the worst of it. There were quite a few of his classmates who didn’t have much money, others who grew up without one of their parents in the picture, but he was the only kid he knew who had never laid eyes on his father. The only one who was truly “a bastard,” or “illegitimate.” Words that still cut him to the bone. When and if he ever came face-to-face with good ol’ Jake Kendall, he’d . . . what? Spit in the guy’s face? Call him a coward? Rant and rave at all the injustices and pain Brand and his mother had suffered? What if the guy were dead, or seriously ill or just scratching out a living and feeding his six kids?

Years ago, Brandon had sworn he’d beat the living tar out of the man, pound him with his fists to let Jake know the rage and agony he’d suffered. But now Brand had mellowed, made his place in the world, and though he suspected that he’d spent the past twelve years trying to prove to himself and everyone around him that he was as good as the next guy, he no longer felt the need to use his fists to show how tough he was.

He slid a glance at Chris, who had devoured all his food, put the scraps and garbage into the bag and was drinking the remainder of his soda while eyeing the side streets and parking lots, hoping to see someone he knew, someone he could impress just by riding in a damned car.

Brand turned onto the street where he’d grown up. The trees that were planted too close to the sidewalk had caused it to buckle, and weeds were as common as flowers in the yards. His mother’s was distinctive. Along with the overgrown flower beds that were the norm for the neighborhood, she had flower boxes and hanging pots with trailing blooms on the front porch. Birdbaths and bird feeders stood high over the unmown grass. An old-fashioned swing, in sad need of detergent and water, sat on the porch with three cats curled on its lumpy cushions. “Just how many cats does Mom have now?” he asked Chris as he cut the engine.

“Eight . . . no, seven. Inky died a couple of weeks ago. Got hit by a car.”

“Seven? But why so many?”

“They just end up at our house,” Chris said with a shrug. “She feeds ’em, posts notices that she found ’em and eventually keeps ’em if no one else’ll take ’em. They’re all neutered.”

“Good. Otherwise she’d have a couple of hundred.”

The cats were a new obsession with Venitia. She’d always had one or two hanging around, but when a stray had shown up, she’d found a home for it. Now it seemed that the cat just settled in with the rest of the family.

Chris opened the door and climbed out of the car. “I kinda think they’re cool. Especially Lazarus. He’s the one she found and gave up for dead—had feline leukemia or somethin’.”

“But he made it.” Brand locked the door.

“Yep. He’s part Siamese and tough as nails, that’s what Ma said.” Chris bounded up the steps and Brand followed, eyeing the dandelions that dared grow between the cracks in the sidewalk and the thin layer of barkdust that had bleached in the sun. Venitia had always taken pride in her yard. Until Al left and she’d been forced to move back here. Then she’d started letting things slide.

Brand walked up the front steps, making a mental note that the bottom one was loose and that the gutter needed replacing. He was keeping a list, and whether his mother wanted his help or not, he was going to improve the house—add smoke detectors, insulation, a new roof and windows. If she wanted a little bit of remodeling, he’d even throw that in, but if she didn’t, he’d back off once he knew that the building was safe.

He touched the molding near the window and watched as the caulking crumbled. Yep, the place needed a lot of work, but he had the time and the means and he’d convince his stubborn mother to let him help her.

He opened the screen door and caught Chris sifting through the mail stacked on the old lace cloth covering the dining-room table. The letters and bills slipped through his fingers and his eyes darkened with pain. He glanced at Brand and his chin slid forward defiantly. “Did I get any mail?” he yelled toward the back of the house.

No. answer.

Brackets showed near the corners of his mouth making him look older than he was. With a pang, Brand was reminded of himself and the chip he’d carried on his shoulder at that age.

“Just lookin’ for some CD’s I ordered through this company. You get six for a penny a piece.”

“Didn’t come, eh?” Brand said with a smile, as if he bought the kid’s story, even though there wasn’t any doubt in his mind that Chris had been looking for a letter from his father. A part of Brandon ached for Chris. He knew what it was like to be rejected, to live with false hope.

However, if Brand had anything to say about it, Chris wasn’t going to live the rest of his life thinking his dad didn’t love him. Brand was going to call that useless son of a bitch and convince Al to show some interest in his own kid. He thought for a second and decided that while he was at it, maybe it was time to try to find out if his own useless father was still alive.

Chris escaped to his room at the back of the house and Brand walked into the living room where his mother was propped up on the couch, a forgotten glass of wine sitting on the table, the ashtray filled with half-smoked cigarettes. She was snoring softly, blissfully unaware of all the emotional turmoil in her two sons.

“Come on, Mom,” he said, gently lifting her off the couch. It was barely seven o’clock, hours away from nightfall. “Let’s get you into bed.” Then, as he had since he was twelve, he hauled his mother into the bedroom, laid her on the bed, drew the covers to her chin and closed the door softly behind him.

“She’s pathetic, isn’t she?” Chris’s voice was thick, filled with unreleased sobs. He stood in the shadows of the hallway, his hair falling into his eyes.

“No, she’s—”

“Just don’t tell me she’s sick, okay? That’s what that neighbor lady, Ida Kemp, is always telling me, but I’m not a baby anymore. I know the score. Mom’s drunk. Just like always.”

“She’s got a problem.”

“I’ll say. She can’t go one day without a drink.”

“It’s deeper than that.”

“Bull!” Chris ran into the living room, snatched up the wineglass and hurled it against the window. Birds perched on the feeder on the other side of the glass squawked and flew off, feathers fluttering, a cat near the window slunk behind the couch and blood-red stains ran down the old panes. Chris’s rage wasn’t spent. “She’s a drunk, Brand, and everyone in town knows about it! Some lady from social services has been out a few times, and no one says it but I think . . . I think they’re going to take me away from her!” His chin wobbled before he sniffed loudly, wiped his nose with his sleeve and fought tears. “Maybe it would be good,” he muttered, disgust twisting his face.

“No, Chris—”

“You don’t know how it is!”

He did. Oh, God, he knew. The lies, the hidden bottles, the numbing fear that he’d find her dead instead of just passed out, the ever-present knowledge that he might be taken away from her. “I know it’s tough.”

“Do you?” Chris challenged, then ran from the room. He slammed his door shut, just as Brandon had a hundred times before.

A lock clicked as Brand walked down the hall and rapped with one knuckle on the stained paint of the door to the room he used to sleep in. “I think we should talk.”

“Nothin’ to talk about.”

“Sure there is.”

“Go ’way.” A minute later, heavy-metal music of some kind thrummed through the wood panels.

“I’ll be in the living room.”

No answer, just the nasal wail of a singer and the thick beat of bass guitars.

Brand wanted to break the door down, to try to talk some sense into the boy when there was no sense to be made. But maybe the kid needed to cool off. Everyone was strung tight, much too tight.

Brand would wait on the couch, all night if he had to, then he’d set down some rules. This might be his mother’s house but if she didn’t pull herself together, she’d lose her younger son. Her older one would see to it.

* * *

Dani dropped the last box onto the end of the old couch and rubbed the kinks from the middle of her back. Her stomach rumbled, sweat dripped down her face and back and a headache was building behind her eyes. Every muscle in her body ached from packing crates and hauling them up the stairs. She’d barely slept four hours last night, tossing and turning and staring out the window at the moonlight-drenched fields or the hours on her digital clock radio. Thinking of Brandon and the baby. Rotating her neck, she winced as she walked to the sink and turned on the water. Creaking pipes and a rush of water the color of rust greeted her. “Oh, great,” she muttered, waiting until the water was clearer before splashing some on her face. In her rush to move out before Brandon landed permanently, she’d forgotten that these pipes needed replacing.

She wasn’t worried about getting the job done—she’d become an ace plumber and electrician ever since she’d been on her own—but she hadn’t had the time.

“Add another job to the list,” she told herself and found a diet cola in the refrigerator. She’d have to live on bottled water until she could find the time to replace the pipes and faucets in both the kitchen and bath. “The joys of being single.” She popped the top off her can of orange soda and gulped down half of it. And now she’d have to deal with Brandon Scarlotti and all the emotional baggage he brought with him.

Of all the people to lease the place—why Brandon?

She let out a brittle laugh and reminded herself she didn’t believe in that kind of hogwash. She flopped on the couch, an old one made up of rawhide-covered cushions tossed over a scratched maple frame. A basket of laundry, not yet folded, rested near a wagon-wheel coffee table. She rifled through the clean clothes looking for a handkerchief or towel and settled for a clean sock to mop the sweat from her forehead. She was used to hard work—hours in the saddle, wrestling a calf to the ground, shoveling manure or fixing broken pipes—but this move was different, emotionally draining as well as physically exhausting.

She’d promised herself that she’d never be dependent upon a man again. But she’d never learned how to forget—or how to face the past, which she would have to do every time she looked into Brandon’s blue eyes.

“Damn it all,” she muttered, staring wretchedly at her surroundings. Her other furnishings consisted of a small end table, two chairs, braided rug, one free-standing lamp and a table with drawers that served as her desk. Behind a screen was her bed and a mirror, the bureau near the front door. There was a bathroom big enough for one person to stand in and a kitchen complete with two-burner stove, midget refrigerator and sink tucked behind folding doors.

She searched vainly for a bottle of aspirin and ended up walking to an open window, where she leaned against the sill and listened to the sounds of the evening—crickets beginning to chirp, a saw shrieking in the far distance and somewhere a dog barking. Dusk was laying dark shadows over the land and she saw a star glimmering in the lavender sky.

How many nights had she seen the evening star and whispered those words? How many times had she thought about the child she’d borne? Her child. Brandon’s child. A nameless, faceless couple’s child.

Headlights caught her attention and the smooth purr of an engine cut through the night. Her heart squeezed as she trained her eyes on the dark blue car streaming down the lane, leaving a plume of dust in its wake. She forced all thoughts of her baby from her mind. She couldn’t be maudlin or emotional, not now.

Because, like it or not, Brand was back.