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Coming Home To You
Fay Robinson


Unforgettable. Fay Robinson made me laugh and made me cry. A wonderful love story… I wish it hadn't ended. - Lindsay McKennaA famous man…and his brotherKate Morgan is committed to writing the definitive biography of singer-songwriter James Hayes, who died in an airplane crash six years ago. James had been an icon for his generation, and he'd had an important influence on Kate.His brother, Bret Hayes, refuses to be interviewed, refuses to talk to her. The tragedy changed his life, too. He only wants to be left in peace, breeding horses on his Alabama farm.Bret and Kate clash because she won't give up. There are simply too many questions, not enough answers. And the more she investigates, the less she seems to learn–about James. But his brother…well, she's falling in love with the reclusive, uncooperative, mysterious Bret. Which is the one thing that's not supposed to happen!"Coming Home to You is a wonderfully moving story…I absolutely couldn't put it down." - Sharon Sala







“What gives you the right to mess with my life, Morgan?

“You know what you remind me of?” he went on. “That character in the cartoon that whirls around like a tornado and chews up everything in its path.”

“That’s not fair! I’m not like that.”

“Yeah, you are. Ever since you whirled into town, you’ve done everything in your power to make me miserable. Do you think I don’t know you’ve been running around all day, asking questions about me and my brother, bothering my friends—”

“Your friends? I’ve got news for you, Hayes. You’re grossly lacking in the friends department. I couldn’t find ten people in this town who could even recall talking to you, much less counting you as a friend.” Kate poked him in the chest. “And it’s pretty obvious why. You’ve got a personality problem only electric shock could fix.”

Bret gave her an incredulous look. “You think I’ve got a personality problem? Well, lady, let me tell you something. You’re the most irritating person I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. You’re annoying. You’re devious. Your mouth stays open so much I’m surprised something hasn’t nested in it by now. You’ve trespassed on my property, ruined my breakfast, followed me around with no purpose but to harass me. And I’ve had enough!”


Dear Reader,

In Coming Home to You, the worst nightmare of horsebreeder Bret Hayes has rolled into Lochefuscha, Alabama. She is Kate Morgan: beautiful, intelligent but also very dangerous. Her unauthorized biography of his late brother, James, will cause more pain for his family. And she could uncover their complicity in the death of the once-famous musician.

Bret is determined to do whatever it takes to get rid of the “ratchet-jawed” Kate. If he can guide her away from the truth—and tape her mouth shut—everything could work out. Or maybe not. He’s fallen in love, and she’s the one woman in the world with the power to destroy him.

I thought it would be interesting to pair a journalist with a man who has dark secrets and to explore the issue of personal rights versus the public’s right to know the truth. But the heart of this story is a wonderful romance between two people who are perfect for each other. It simply takes them a bit of time to figure that out.

I loved writing this story. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Sincerely,

Fay Robinson


Coming Home to You

Fay Robinson






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Fay Robinson believes in love at first sight and happily ever after—beliefs based on experience. Some years ago, she wrote a story on a firefighter for her local newspaper and that night she told her best friend, “Today I met the man I’m going to marry.” She and her firefighter recently celebrated their twenty-fifth anniversary.

Fay lives in Alabama within one mile of the place where her paternal ancestors settled in the early 1800s. She spends her spare time canning vegetables from her husband’s garden and researching her family history. You can write Fay at P.O. Box 240, Waverly, AL 36879-0240. And she invites you to visit her Web site at http://www.fayrobinson.com (http://www.fayrobinson.com). You can also check out the Friends and Links section at http://www.eHarlequin.com (http://www.eHarlequin.com).




Praise for Coming Home to You


“Fay Robinson is a writer with a great feel for human emotion. Coming Home to You is a wonderfully moving story of a family’s loss and a man’s guilt over his brother’s death. It’s a lesson in learning to trust and love, and I absolutely couldn’t put it down.”

—Sharon Sala, author of Butterfly, MIRA BOOKS

“Coming Home to You is top-notch. A compelling, delightful blend of the tense and tender. Ms. Robinson has outdone herself.”

—Vicki Hinze, author of All Due Respect

“Coming Home to You is unforgettable. Fay Robinson made me laugh and made me cry. A wonderful love story of great breadth and depth. I wish it hadn’t ended.”

—Lindsay McKenna, author of Morgan’s Mercenaries: Heart of Stone


For my mother, who was fearless.

And for Jan Nowasky, the sister of my heart, for cutting the path and leaving the light on for me to follow.




Acknowledgment


My deepest appreciation to Mayo Lancaster for his help with the research on horsebreeding. And to Auburn, Alabama, Police Chief Ed Downing for answering my questions and letting me cool my heels temporarily in a jail cell. You’re right, Ed. It sucks. Any errors in this material are mine and not theirs. Thanks also to my husband, Jackie, whose gentleness and love of horses inspired the hero of this book.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#u2b038533-4193-5ff1-aba2-07866e6457c8)

CHAPTER TWO (#u3fda4389-b6bc-55e9-971c-01b14f82be0c)

CHAPTER THREE (#u2a40ad3e-7386-5a25-b952-2f0bcfc978a3)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ucf1fe146-95af-580d-9374-ee6a8ebd2c04)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u75ffcb0b-28c6-50a2-beb5-578826bd5712)

CHAPTER SIX (#u71048e07-2773-54dc-b805-98652d90b2e1)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


THE GROWL STARTED low, deep in the dog’s throat, then exploded into an earsplitting yodel. Kate froze with her hand outstretched toward its misshapen head and her body bent at an uncomfortable angle. The ugly mutt couldn’t weigh more than twenty pounds, but most of that was teeth. Long sharp-looking teeth. And they were inches from her fingertips.

“Sweet little dog,” she cooed, trying to calm it.

Her words had the opposite effect. A ridge of fur shot up on the dog’s neck. Another yodel burst from its throat, then settled into a long menacing growl. Its one erect ear flattened against its skull.

Oh, great. Now what?

She considered jumping up on one of the porch chairs, but discarded the idea. None were tall enough. The pickup truck she’d noticed parked at the side of the farmhouse wasn’t an option, either. Too far away. Getting inside the house seemed her best chance for escape.

Two feet to her left, the front door stood open behind a rusting screen. Moments ago she had knocked, then cupped her hands and peeked in, admiring the hardwood floor and the old washstand covered with family photographs.

Something else had caught her attention as she snooped, something that only now penetrated the conscious part of her brain. The hook on the screen door was in the eyebolt. The door was locked.

Wonderful.

The dog inched closer.

She remained rigid, poised for flight. Sweat poured from her hairline down her face, but she dared not wipe it away. The dog returned her stare. Sporadic fits of a loud throaty bark punctuated its growl.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty seconds.

Her arm quivered from the strain of holding it out.

Forty seconds.

Her watch unexpectedly chimed the hour—six o’clock—with a soft beep beep that seemed ten times louder than normal. She jerked. The dog lunged. Moving faster than she ever had in her life, Kate cleared the porch and ran, the angry mass of fur nipping at her heels.

At the edge of the yard, shrubs of some kind formed a low hedge. Beyond it she’d parked the white Ford she’d rented at the airport in Birmingham. Her vivid imagination created a picture of what would happen if the dog overtook her before she made it to the car. Blood. Gallons of blood. Great chunks of flesh ripped from her legs. She’d die in a tiny redneck town in Alabama and never see her father or brothers again.

The thought made her move faster. She plowed through the hedge rather than trying to jump over it, remembering the name of the plant when the prickly leaves hit her skin. Holly.

“Aaaawww!”

Now she was decorated and about to be mauled. Leaves hung from her skirt and stockings, the needle-like points stabbing her with every movement.

The dog almost had her. In desperation, she made a flying leap for the limb of a nearby pine tree, losing her shoes on the way up. She wrapped her legs around the branch and dangled precariously from its underside while the dog jumped and snapped, twice catching her clothing and nearly jerking her back to the ground.

Using all her strength, she hauled herself upright. After a few calming breaths, she took inventory: only minor scrapes on her arms and legs from the tree’s scaly bark, but her clothes were ruined. Her skirt and blouse, a lovely bone color that morning, were streaked with the red dust that always seemed to hang in the air. The torn lining of her jacket drooped below the hem, resembling paper after it’s been put through a shredder. She felt her hair. Even the clip that kept the unruly tendrils out of her face was gone.

But she wasn’t seriously hurt. And as long as she didn’t fall off the limb, the beast below couldn’t do further damage.

“Bad dog!” she yelled down, then groaned as it went for her new shoes.

EVEN BEFORE HE SAW the animal, Bret knew Sallie had treed something dangerous in the yard. The dog had a unique voice for each type of prey. A series of short yips meant she was chasing a rat or a chipmunk. A yodel was for something larger, like a rabbit or one of the bobcats that lived in the swampy area at the far end of the pasture, near the creek.

Sallie only barked in answer to the late-night calls of dogs on neighboring farms. Growls she reserved for Willie and Aubrey, the men who helped him with his horse-breeding business.

This wasn’t a rat or even a bobcat. The way Sallie was carrying on, it had to be bigger. And meaner.

With only a rope halter to control the stallion, Bret raced from the barn to the house. The powerful bay moved under him like an extension of his body, reacting instinctively to the pressure of his legs and his booted heels against its sides.

His concern for Sallie turned to annoyance when he saw the unfamiliar car. Not a bear in the yard, as he’d thought. A human. A trespasser.

He slowed the horse to a gentle lope. Sallie had stopped her wailing and stood at the base of the big pine tree near the drive. She had something in her mouth, angrily shaking it from side to side. At first Bret didn’t see the driver of the car. Then he spotted two shapely legs hanging from the tree.

“Stop that!” a feminine voice yelled as a stick came sailing down, clearly intended for Sallie, but missing her by at least three feet. “Leave those alone!” Another stick and a barrage of pinecones showered the ground.

Bret nudged the horse closer to get a better view of Sallie’s catch. It was female all right; she straddled the lowest branch. Her skirt was hiked to the middle of her thighs, showing holes and runs in her stockings.

She’d twisted off another small branch and was getting ready to pitch it at Sallie when she noticed him.

“Oh, thank God, you’ve come! That ugly thing almost got me.”

He gave her the hardest most unfriendly look he could muster, but it wasn’t easy. She was the prettiest thing Sallie had ever treed. She definitely had the best set of legs.

“Ma’am, you’re trespassing. The Keep Out sign on the gate is plain enough for any idiot to read.”

The woman raised her eyebrows in a gesture that made him feel as if he was the one who’d done something wrong, then amusement lit her green eyes. “An idiot? Really?”

Bret took off his baseball cap. Sweat beaded his brow and he wiped it away with the back of a gloved hand. He slapped the cap against his leg, not so much to dislodge the dust that covered the brim, but to give himself time to ease his irritation. It didn’t work.

The gate and the fences leading to the house were plastered with warnings. No way could she have missed them.

“This is private property. You’ll have to leave,” he said, putting the cap back on.

“Just like that? You’re not going to ask me why I’m here?”

He already had a good idea. She wasn’t local; her clothes and jewelry were too fancy. She wasn’t a client, because he only worked with a select number, all personally known to him. That meant she was probably a reporter. A couple of the more determined ones had tracked him down over the years. He’d thrown them out, just as he was about to throw this one out.

“Ma’am, I’m not interested in why you’re here, only in seeing you leave. Now please climb down and get in your car.”

“Okay, but you’ll have to help me. I’m stuck.”

The muscles in his face tightened even more. “What do you mean you’re stuck?”

“Stuck as in…can’t move. The lining of my skirt is caught on something back here and I can’t pull it loose.”

She twisted and tugged at her skirt, trying to free it, but the movement only made it ride higher on her thighs.

Bret shifted with uneasiness as a long expanse of leg became visible and he caught a glimpse of ivory lace. “Lean forward,” he snapped. He nudged the horse up to the branch where he could investigate the problem. Damn fool woman. She had no business climbing trees if she couldn’t get down.

He took off his gloves and hurriedly tried to work the fabric loose, but her sweet scent filled his head and made it hard to concentrate. He had the disturbing sensation that he knew her from somewhere. Those big green eyes. That slightly crooked mouth….

Glancing up, he found her watching him. She tucked a strand of long hair behind her ear, hair that was chestnut-colored and looked as soft as the coat of a newborn foal.

“Are you really throwing me off your property?” she asked.

He yanked harder at the tangle of threads. The sooner she was on her way, the better. Strangers, even pretty ones, could be trouble.

“I guess so,” she answered for him. “And here I thought Southerners were famous for their hospitality.”

He reached in the pocket of his jeans for his knife. When he had cut away that part of the trapped material, she eased forward on the limb and pulled her skirt free.

“Climb down,” he told her.

“I will, but—” she pointed at Sallie “—can you get rid of that first, please?”

“Sallie, go to the house.” The dog ran to the porch and curled up in front of the screen door.

Bret slid from his horse, scooped up the woman’s shoes and remounted. “Here.” He thrust them at her. They were covered in dog slobber and puckered with holes.

She held them up and sighed. “Great. The next time I need to strain vegetables, I’ll know what to use.” She steadied herself on the branch with one hand and used her other to slip on a shoe, making a sound of disgust. “They’re wet.”

“Climb down,” Bret ordered again.

“You know,” she said, easing into the other shoe, a pained expression on her face, “you didn’t even ask if your dog bit me. I felt her mouth on my ankle, and I think I should go in the house and put antiseptic on it.”

“She didn’t bite you.”

“I believe she did.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“How can you say that when you haven’t looked?”

“Lady, the dog didn’t bite you. Stop stalling and get down.”

“I’m not stalling.”

“If Sallie had bitten you, we wouldn’t be arguing about it. She’d still be hanging on.”

The woman shuddered. “You’re kidding. Does she often hang on to people?”

“Always.”

“You mean she clamps down and won’t turn you loose?” When he nodded, she asked, “Did you train her to do that?”

“Of course not. She just does it. Now, I’m tired of telling you. Get in your car.”

She stared off into space, apparently deep in thought, then glanced at his horse. “I guess things like that are bred into dogs, like racing and working are bred into horses. That’s what they call a quarter horse, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen an animal so beautiful. Is he your only stallion?”

“No, I have three.”

“Three? Gosh. And I bet they’re all that healthy-looking. And how many mares do you have?”

“Sixteen.”

“So how many of those would you normally breed in a year’s time, and how many babies would you get?”

“Usually I’d breed all of them if they’re—”

He swore, realizing she had somehow dragged him into conversation. Did she know he bred horses for a living or had she made an educated guess?

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Doing what?”

“Chattering. Trying to make me forget you’re not supposed to be here. Confusing me.”

“No, I wasn’t. Are you easily confused? You know that can be one of the first signs of a serious illness. A brain tumor. Alzheimer’s. Dementia. Although I would think you’re too young to have Alzheimer’s. This confusion you have, is it like short-term memory loss or more cognitive?”

He groaned loudly. “You’re the most exasperating woman I ever tried to talk to.”

“Do you have trouble talking to women?” She clucked as if she felt sorry for him. “No need to feel embarrassed. An estimated two million men in the United States have the same problem. There’s even a name for it. It’s called Fe—”

“Stop!” he yelled, holding up a hand.

She casually plucked a pine needle from her skirt. “Are you confused again?”

He eyed her with suspicion. “Are you purposely trying to drive me crazy?”

“Why, heavens, no. Are you paranoid, as well as confused?”

He raised his arms and grabbed her before she understood his intent, lifting her from the branch and setting her sideways on the horse in front of him.

“You’re leaving,” he said gruffly, kicking the horse into a trot. His arm came around her waist to hold her. She clung to it in panic.

Bret pulled her closer, his anger fizzling the moment he felt her fear. He stiffened as he got a stronger whiff of her perfume. The fragrance was exotic, like some delicate flower. He’d forgotten how good a woman could smell, how soft she could feel.

They reached her car, but he didn’t immediately dismount or set her on the ground. She gave him a questioning look. His gaze settled on her mouth, an unusual mouth that curved upward only on the right side when she smiled. When she wasn’t smiling, like now, it dipped only on that side and made her seem younger, even vulnerable.

He knew that mouth from somewhere, and having it inches from his own was making him want to do something crazy.

“Who are you?” he asked, curiosity overpowering his impatience.

“Ah, there is a normal human being beneath that grumpy exterior. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Are you a reporter?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, Mr. Hayes, I’m not a reporter. At least not now. But I have come a long way to talk to you, so I would appreciate a few minutes of your time. I promise I’ll be brief.”

Her use of his name made his eyebrows knit together under the brim of his cap. “Do I know you?”

“No, we’ve, um, never really met in person.” She looked away and fanned her face with her hand. “Could we go into your house where it’s cooler and maybe have a glass of iced tea? Whew, it’s so humid out here. Is it always this hot in August? How many days has it been since you had rain?”

“You’re doing it again.”

She turned to face him. “Doing what?”

“Chattering.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s not intentional. I promise.” She shot him a big lopsided smile in apology. Desire came out of nowhere and slammed him in the gut.

The reaction was understandable, he told himself. He hadn’t had a woman in…hell, too long, and this one was particularly pleasing to look at with her long flowing hair and small well-curved body. She couldn’t be more than five feet tall, but every inch of it appeared soft and feminine.

If he could tape her mouth shut, she’d be perfect!

“Who are you?”

“I think, considering the way things are going, we might get along better if I didn’t tell you that yet.”

“Are you under the impression we’re getting along at all?”

“Well, no, but it’s my nature to be optimistic.”

“That’s too bad. You’ve got five seconds to tell me who you are or I’m putting you on the ground and calling Sallie.”

“Wait, please, that’s not—”

“Two seconds.”

“Oh, no, don’t!”

He loosened his hold on her waist, pushed her forward and acted as though he was going to drop her to the ground.

“All right, all right,” she said quickly. “I’m—” she cringed when she said the name “—Kathryn Morgan.”

“Damn!” She hit the ground, landing on her rear an instant after his expletive rent the air. “Sallie!”

The woman scrambled into her car. She slammed the door before Sallie could grab her.

“You didn’t have to sic that vicious animal on me,” she said through the open window. “All I want to do is talk to you.”

He dismounted. “My attorney has made it clear several times that I’m not interested in talking to you, Ms. Morgan. I don’t want to be interviewed for your book, and I don’t appreciate your sneaking onto my property and interrupting my work.”

“I’m only asking for a few minutes of your time to outline my project.”

“You can’t have it.”

“But by cooperating on the story of your late brother, you’ll have the opportunity to influence what material on James is used. This shouldn’t be an unauthorized biography, Mr. Hayes. Help me. Don’t force me to print his story without your involvement, please.”

“Leave. Now!”

“Won’t you reconsider? The previous books about James and his band, Mystic Waters, have only skimmed the surface of his life. They’ve concentrated on the drinking, the suspected drug use, the women. None have fully explored his music or his gift for composing.”

“He’s been dead six years. Let him rest in peace.”

“But the timing of this biography is critical. The twentieth anniversary of his first album is next year. People will want to know more about him.”

“You’re as bad as those tabloid people, always wanting dirt about people’s personal lives.”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t print innuendo or gossip. I spent years as a journalist. I respect the truth and I always present it fairly.”

He braced his hands on the window frame and leaned down. His anger made his voice shake. “Ma’am, I’m familiar with your reputation, but it doesn’t change the fact that anything you write, no matter how fair or accurate, no matter how well-intentioned, will make my family have to live through the pain of my brother’s death all over again. They’ve suffered enough, and I won’t help you hurt them just so you can make a few bucks or win another damn Pulitzer.”

“I’m not writing this book for the money or for any award,” she said shortly, her composure slipping.

“Why, then?”

“Because it’s a compelling and interesting story. James wasn’t simply a music idol. He represented the emotions and conscience of an entire generation. I want to write his story. I have to write it.”

He straightened and put his hands on his hips in what he hoped was an imposing stance that conveyed his irritation with her answer.

“Everything comes down to what you want, doesn’t it? Well, let me tell you what I want. No contact from you again. Ever. Leave this property and go home where you belong. Don’t harass my mother or my sister with any more phone calls. Don’t write my attorney.” He narrowed his eyes, his expression as menacing as he could make it. “And if you’re crazy enough to come out here again, I’ll feed you to Sallie. I think she’d enjoy that almost as much as I would.”

She reddened. For a moment he thought she might lose the self-control she was obviously struggling to maintain, but she only shrugged.

“I imagine I’d be a pretty tough chew, Mr. Hayes, even for Sallie.” Starting the engine, she put the car in gear. “But I’d really rather not find out.”




CHAPTER TWO


LOCHEFUSCHA, ALABAMA. The name of the town was on a sign along the main road. Population: 13,402.

“What’s the origin of that word?” Kate asked the desk clerk at her motel. “Is it Indian?”

“Yeah, the Creek tribe,” the woman answered. “Means eternal sleep.”

“Death?”

“Uh-huh.”

That figured.

Her room was a green-and-blue nightmare of floral prints and cheap furniture, but the air conditioner sent out a stream of air colder than she’d ever felt. She turned it up as high as it would go and hung over the vent until her overheated body returned to normal.

She peeled off her clothes and tossed her shoes and stockings in the trash. After that, she took a long bath to soak her aching muscles. Thirty-three was too old to be climbing trees. Her legs and back were killing her, and her tailbone felt bruised where Bret Hayes had dumped her on the ground.

She was loath to admit it, but her pride was bruised, as well. Her credentials were among the best in the business, her last two books international bestsellers. She’d been so sure that if she located Hayes and spoke to him in person, she could convince him to cooperate. Being turned down, particularly in such a humiliating way, hadn’t occurred to her for an instant.

She rubbed her sore backside. Well, whining about today’s fiasco wouldn’t help. She’d simply have to come up with a better approach. He had to leave that farm sometime.

At eight o’clock she stuck her notebook in her purse and set out on foot in search of food and information. The sun was a ball of fire against the descending curtain of twilight, and a solitary star announced the coming darkness.

She walked from her motel through the center of town, an uneventful trip of no more than ten minutes that did nothing to improve her first impression of the place. Grim. Small. The narrow buildings were mostly two stories and leaned against each other like weary soldiers after a battle.

As far as she could tell, the only choices for dinner were the Burger Barn down from the motel and the Old Hickory Grill on the courthouse square. She found an empty booth at the grill and ordered the All-You-Can-Eat Pork-Rib Special. Her plate came with a quart jar of iced tea and a roll of paper towels for cleaning her hands.

The waitress was a weathered blonde named Marleen whose plump body was threatening the seams of her uniform. “Hon, need anything else?” Marleen asked when Kate had finished her second plate of ribs.

She wiped her mouth. “I’d like information about someone, but I don’t want him to know I’m asking.” She gave the waitress a wink. “You know how men are when they think a woman’s interested in them.”

“Oh, I gotcha,” Marleen said, winking back, a willing conspirator. She slipped into the seat across the table. “Hey, Tammy,” she called to the other waitress, “I’m takin’ a break.” Then to Kate, “Okay, who’s the guy?”

“His name’s Bret Hayes. He’s a horse-breeder. Owns a place out on Highway 54 west of here. Do you know him?”

“Big good-lookin’ fella, but unfriendly as all get-out?”

Kate chuckled. “That sounds like him. His late brother was a famous singer and musician.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that. The guy I’m thinkin’ of has these killer blue eyes.”

“That’s Hayes. What do you know about him?”

Marleen didn’t know much. He kept to himself, she said. He came to town every Saturday morning at eight, sat in the same booth and ate a breakfast of bacon, eggs, grits and biscuits. He always ordered a second meal to go.

“And he has this major thing for peach cobbler,” Marleen added. “Comes in a couple times a month and buys a whole one to take home.”

“What about close friends or girlfriends?” Kate asked. “Ever see Hayes with anyone?”

“No, no one except that Logan woman from Pine Acres.”

“Pine Acres? What’s that?”

“A place they send kids who don’t have anyplace to go.”

“You mean a children’s shelter?”

“Well, sort of, but it’s a ranch. The kids live there until they find homes for ’em or they’re old enough to get their own place and stuff. Kind of like an orphanage, only real nice, and they’ve got adults who live with them and watch over everything.”

“Is he dating this woman from the orphanage?”

“Don’t think so.”

“But you said you saw him with some woman named Logan who works there.”

“Jane Logan. She runs the place, but I don’t know if he’s dating her. I saw them at the movies once, but they had a bunch of the kids from the ranch, so I figured he was helping.”

“A chaperon?”

“Yeah, I reckon he does that, since he built the place.”

Kate felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that came when she had a good lead. “Bret Hayes built this children’s ranch?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you? He bought the land and donated the money to get it goin’.”

PINE ACRES. Back in her motel room Kate set up her laptop computer and inserted the name into her files. She wouldn’t have difficulty getting information. Most of what she needed would likely be at the county probate office or the library. She flipped open the telephone book and copied the addresses.

Her next step was to call Marcus at home. The phone rang three times before the answering machine came on. Kate waited through the brief message. “Marcus, if you’re there, pick up.”

Instantly he was on the line. “Kate, where are you? I’ve been worried to death.”

She smiled, amused at his overprotectiveness. Marcus was two years younger, but of all her brothers he watched out for her the most. He was also the best researcher around and had worked with her for the past four years.

“I’m in Lochefuscha, Alabama.” She spelled it for him from the name on the complimentary notepad by the telephone. “I’m at an exquisite little place called the Highway Hideaway, decorated in Early American Garage Sale. A trucker’s paradise, according to the sign out front.”

“What’s going on?”

“I got a lead on Bret Hayes, so I thought I’d fly down and see if it panned out. I struck pay dirt, Marcus. He’s living here.”

“No wonder he was so hard to find. What’s he doing in Alabama?”

“Breeding horses, apparently.”

“You’re kidding. Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?”

“Positive. And he didn’t deny it.”

“You saw him already? How’d it go?”

She sighed. “Horrible. He wouldn’t even think about helping.”

“Sorry, sis.”

“Me, too, but I’m not giving up. I’ve still got four months until deadline, and I’ll spend every minute of it, if I have to, trying to get Hayes’s cooperation.”

“But what about the book on Marshall? You said you wanted to get started on that right away.”

The late Thurgood Marshall was the subject of her next biography, but she was having difficulty calling the James Hayes book complete. The research on James was solid. The writing was the best she’d ever done. But the story had gaps, unanswered questions about his life that only someone very close to him could answer.

And that was the problem. James, the band, their manager, Malcolm Elliot, the equipment handlers—all had been on the plane the night it left Rome, Georgia, on its way to Chattanooga, Tennessee. It had crashed in a thunderstorm in the north Georgia mountains, killing everyone on board.

Only Lenny Dean, the bass guitarist, was alive. If you could call it living. A drug addict, he had tripped out one too many times on PCP, and his mind was gone. He hadn’t been on the plane the night it went down. He’d been wasting away in a mental hospital for the past nine years.

James’s mother, Marianne Hayes Conner, had refused to cooperate on the book. So had his stepfather, George Conner, and his sister, Ellen Hayes. Bret, his younger brother, represented not only Kate’s best chance to get what she needed on James, but her only chance. She had to get his cooperation, and get it quickly. Otherwise, this biography would never be what she’d envisioned.

“Pull off the Marshall research for a couple of days,” she told Marcus. “I’d like you to follow up on what I found out here. Maybe we can come up with something that’ll help me when I approach Bret Hayes again.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Find out what you can about a place called Pine Acres. It’s an orphanage or foster-care facility. And do some more digging into Hayes’s finances. I want to know why someone who inherited millions of dollars is living like a country bumpkin.”

“Bad investments? Gambling? Drugs?”

“Maybe, but his criminal record is pretty clean. A few misdemeanor convictions for brawling but nothing major. He’s supposed to have put money into this orphanage, but I don’t think that would account for all of it. And this sudden streak of generosity bothers me, anyway. From what I’ve pieced together about him, he doesn’t strike me as the type to give money away once he gets his hands on it. Lose it doing something stupid, maybe, but not give it away. Oh, that reminds me. Find out what you can about the cost of breeding quarter horses. And check with the Secretary of State’s office for public records on his business. Let’s try to estimate how much he’s invested in it and what he’s worth.”

“Why the interest in his financial situation? What difference does it make how well-off the brother is?”

“Probably none, but I sure would like to know what I’m dealing with here. If he squandered the fortune his brother left him, it would be some story for the book, don’t you think?”

“Is that what you believe happened?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to make any assumptions before I get the facts, but my gut tells me something isn’t right about this guy. Most of his life he walked in the shadow of an older brother who had everything—looks, money, talent, fame, some say even the woman he loved—but when he inherits money and gets his chance to live the good life he’s always wanted, what does he do? He buys a horse farm in an out-of-the-way place and spends part of the money building an orphanage. No way does that add up.”

“I see your point. I’ll get right on it. But hey, you watch yourself. He won’t like it when he finds out we’re digging around in his finances and his business records. You be careful.”

“I will.”

When Kate hung up, she went back to her computer. Tomorrow she’d spend the day asking questions, but tonight she needed to look through what she had on Bret and refresh her memory. She’d downloaded the files with his name on them into her laptop before she left, the information gleaned from interviews with childhood friends of the brothers and their high-school classmates.

She skimmed it. The stuff was pretty routine, although she’d found it useful while writing the early chapters about James’s life. Bret was five years younger than James. He’d spent less than a year at the University of Tennessee, then gone through one dead-end job after another. More than once his brother had bailed him out of trouble and supported him financially.

She got her pad and made a note to ask Marcus to call some of Hayes’s former employers. Why was he living in Alabama? Why not live in Tennessee where he could be close to his mother and sister? Because of creditors? To get away from the media? The man carried his desire for privacy to extremes, that was for sure. All those signs… That horrible little dog…

Whatever the reason, she was too tired to chase after it tonight. Tomorrow was soon enough. When she had more information from Marcus, she could start to piece things together.

She closed the file and went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. For a long time she lay staring into the dark. She tried to close down her mind, as well, but it ran too fast, presenting her with too many questions and not enough answers.

Hayes would be attractive to the ladies, no question there. That handsome face and dark hair probably sent female hearts fluttering with little effort; that big muscular body no doubt made hormones race out of control.

Restless, she rolled over and punched up her pillow.

He had the same chin as James, slightly dimpled in the center as though someone had stuck a finger there and left a soft impression. And like James, Bret had also inherited his mother’s deep-blue eyes.

But that was where the similarity between the brothers ended. James had been tall, handsome, but thin as straw. Bret was tall and most definitely handsome, but his muscular arms and chest strained against the fabric of his shirt. When he’d dragged her down onto his horse today, his body had felt rock-hard.

An image of his quaint house and vegetable garden off to the side popped into her mind. The garden had a scarecrow dressed in sun-whitened overalls and a plastic Halloween pumpkin for a head. Flowers filled the yard. A nice little farm, but nothing elaborate. His truck was old, and his house was in need of painting and repair. The dirt driveway had potholes.

She’d expected a different lifestyle. Where were the expensive cars? The big house? He’d inherited thirty-six million dollars when his brother died. What had he done with all that money?

HE COULD SHOE a horse, dig fifty fence-post holes by hand in a single afternoon and grow a pretty fair tomato, but he was the worst cook east of the Mississippi. He knew it. Sallie knew it. Even she wouldn’t eat anything he fixed.

So once a week, when his stomach rebelled at the thought of eating another bite of his own cooking, Bret drove to town and ordered breakfast. His mouth started watering when he pulled out of the driveway, and by the time he parked the truck in front of the Old Hickory, he’d worked up a powerful hunger.

Man, oh, man, real coffee, instead of that instant stuff! And gravy that tasted like gravy, instead of lighter fluid! He could already taste it.

He sat down in his favorite booth in the back corner, the one people rarely used because one of the seats was ripped and had been mended with silver tape. He liked the corner because it was far from the jukebox and out of the stream of traffic from the kitchen. He could eat in peace. He didn’t have to nod or say, “Hey, how ya doin’?” to people who passed by his table.

He even liked the smell of this place in the morning, with bacon browning on the grill and coffee perking in aluminum coffeepots, instead of those drip machines.

He ordered his usual, opened his newspaper to the sports section and folded it so he could read and eat at the same time. When his order came and he bit into those perfectly prepared eggs, a bulldozer couldn’t have moved him out of that seat.

He hadn’t counted on a 110-pound bulldozer with a smart mouth.

She sneaked in while he was reading about the Braves, and he didn’t notice her until some guy let out a long low whistle. He looked up to see her threading her way through the tables toward him. She moved with the confidence of a woman who knows she’s beautiful and doesn’t try to pretend otherwise.

The moss-green dress was the same color as her eyes. The skirt stopped at midthigh and swished enticingly around her slender legs when she walked.

She slid into his booth with a cheery “Good morning,” as if they were old friends meeting for a pleasant breakfast. He could feel the envy of every man in the place.

He threw down his fork and it clattered on the plate. He gave her a look that said she was about as welcome as tight boots on a blood blister, but she just grinned at him and stole a piece of his bacon with her fingers.

“What are you doing?” he asked, annoyed at having the best hour of his week ruined by Kathryn Morgan.

“Eating breakfast.” She turned around and signaled to the waitress.

“Not with me.” When she reached over to get more bacon, he covered it with his hand. “And stop eating my bacon.”

She laughed at him then. Laughed at him! As if she found him amusing!

“Okay, stingy, I’ll get some of my own.” She turned to the waitress who had appeared with a menu and coffee. “Hi, Marleen. I’ll have the same thing he’s having, and bring us an extra order of bacon.”

“No,” Bret said.

“No, you don’t want extra bacon?”

“No, I don’t want to have breakfast with you.”

“Oh, don’t be such a grump. Eating with me won’t kill you.”

“Ms. Morgan, why are you bothering me again? I told you I wasn’t going to talk to you. Now leave, or I will.”

“If you want to leave, go ahead, but I’m planning to enjoy my breakfast. I’m absolutely starved.”

She poured cream in her coffee and casually stirred it with her spoon. She had the look of someone who was settling in.

Marleen waited for him to make up his mind. She glared at him, which made him feel like a first-class jerk.

“Bring her the stupid food,” he said with a growl, snatching up his folded newspaper. “And go ahead and start cooking my extra order.”

He’d ignore the pushy ratchet-jawed woman. That was what he’d do. Just pretend she wasn’t there, finish his breakfast and do his errands in town. Maybe she’d get the message and leave if he acted like she didn’t exist.

But that wasn’t easy to do. She had started watching him—no, studying him. She’d propped her elbows on the table and her chin rested on top of her clasped hands. He could almost feel her gaze touch his hair, his chin, his chest, and he didn’t like what it was doing to him.

That he found her physically attractive only increased his irritation with her. That he wondered if she found him attractive made him angry at himself.

He was glad he’d just shaved, had on a pair of his newer jeans and one of his good shirts. And yet he hated being glad. He hated that he could see, even without looking at her, the soft curve of her lips and how her eyes sparkled when she was amused—like now.

The harder he tried not to look at her, the harder it became. When he took a sip of coffee, he stole a glance over the top of the newspaper, and she smiled at him.

“You clean up real nice,” she said as if she’d read his thoughts. “But you need to learn not to grind your teeth when you’re irritated. You’ll give yourself a headache.”

He slammed down the newspaper and gave up all pretense of ignoring her. “You know, for somebody trying to get my help, you sure are going about it the wrong way.”

“Am I?” She cocked her head. “So what would work? I’ve tried asking and pleading.”

“And now you’re up to badgering and aggravating.”

“I’m sorry if you feel badgered. I honestly didn’t come here to be a pest. If I could get the information I need any other way, I’d pack up, leave and never bother you again.”

“So do it.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. I have to finish this book. The good things James did in his life are in danger of being lost. Instead of honoring him as the genius he was, most people remember him only as a drugged-out rock star killed in a plane crash.”

“And you think you can single-handedly change how people remember him?”

“I’m sure going to try. No man’s life should be defined solely by his death, particularly a man like James. Don’t you want to help me preserve his legacy?”

He didn’t answer. He picked up his newspaper and tossed a five-dollar tip on the table. He paid his bill, grabbed his second order from the cashier and went out the door, letting it slam noisily behind him.

He’d parked his truck across the street. He walked to it and opened the passenger door. As he did every Saturday morning, he unwrapped the extra bacon and eggs and spread them on the paper sack for Sallie. He didn’t have to look back to know the annoying woman was watching him out the front window of the grill.

Help her preserve the legacy of James Hayes? Now, that was a laugh. He didn’t want to preserve that legacy. He’d spent the past six years trying to destroy it.




CHAPTER THREE


Chattanooga, Tennessee

“THAT NOSY WOMAN’S going to ruin everything.”

George Conner stopped his frantic pacing to look for the cigarettes he’d carried for fifty of his seventy-three years, desperate for something to calm his nerves. The phone call from his stepson had rattled him. Kathryn Morgan. In Alabama. Asking questions. Heaven help them!

He patted his shirt pocket. Belatedly he realized he didn’t have any cigarettes. Marianne had forced him to give them up last year, along with everything else that made life worthwhile. Cigarettes. Booze. Red meat. She even regulated their lovemaking, if you could call what they did lovemaking.

He’d probably live longer, but what for? When a man gave up his pleasures, he might as well be dead. And if that Morgan woman uncovered his lies and he was headed for prison, he preferred to go with a cigarette in his mouth, his pants down and a shot of Jack Daniel’s in his glass.

He flipped open the wooden box on the bar, taking out one of the hand-rolled cigars he kept for friends whose wives weren’t as dictatorial as his own. He held the cigar under his nose and savored the smell. Marianne watched him without comment until he put it in his mouth, then said in that maddening voice she used when she wanted to scold but didn’t want to sound like she was scolding, “I know you’re not seriously considering lighting that.”

He hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t smoke cigars yet barely able to resist now that he’d gotten a taste for them. But then Marianne raised one eyebrow and that small gesture decided the issue. Mumbling a curse under his breath, George tossed the cigar on the bar, not as fearful of having another heart attack as being on the receiving end of Marianne’s wrath for the rest of the day.

He walked to the table where she sat, where she always sat, by the wall of windows that offered a spectacular view of the city far below. This room was her sanctuary in a dark monstrosity of stone, parapets and turrets that jutted obscenely above the trees at the top of Lookout Mountain and had earned the ire of the good citizens of Chattanooga. The Castle, most people called the house, although there’d been other less-flattering names over the years. The Dungeon. Hayes’s Folly.

Marianne hated it as much as everyone else. She had hated it every day of the nearly twenty years they had lived here, but no one other than George would ever know that. James had built the house for her as an expression of love. So she’d never move. That was an issue they had argued and settled a long time ago.

“Darling, sit down and I’ll have Agnes bring you some freshly squeezed juice,” she told him, taking a sip from her own glass. But he was too nervous to sit. He stood gazing out the window with his hands deep in the pockets of his polyester slacks, absentmindedly rattling his keys—and apparently Marianne’s patience—until she’d finally had enough.

“George, please,” she said shortly, drawing his attention. “He said he could handle her and he will. Now come sit down and relax.”

Relax? Not likely. She, on the other hand, looked as if she didn’t have a care. The undisputed favorite in her menagerie of animals had jumped into her lap, and she sat rubbing the old cat with unhurried strokes, pausing to scratch under its neck and feed it a treat from the bowl on the table. They were a matched pair, with their silver-white hair and startling blue eyes. They even had the same expression of cool disinterest.

“That woman is probably worming her way into your son’s house right now, and you’re entertaining the cat,” he told her.

Marianne put the animal on the floor and casually brushed the hairs from her lap. “What do you propose I do?”

“Go down there.”

“That’s unnecessary, I think. She’s probably already gone.”

“And if she’s not? If, in her snooping, she somehow uncovers what I did…”

“She won’t.”

“But he might tell her. Have you considered that?”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’d never do anything to hurt his family.”

“Not consciously but—”

“Not ever! He’d never betray us, so stop this nonsense and get hold of yourself.”

George blew out a breath in exasperation. Arguing with her wouldn’t do any good. Marianne had always been blind when it came to the children. Bret’s jealousy of his brother was nothing more than sibling rivalry in her eyes. And James had been unhappy for months before Marianne could admit he’d become disenchanted with the success he had worked so hard to achieve.

Even Ellen, the child they shared, was perfect. Marianne refused to see that their daughter’s repeated relationships with men who abused her were a form of self-imposed punishment.

“Fine, M. You sit here with your head in the sand and wait for everything to fall apart,” he said, walking to the door and jerking it open, “but don’t ask me to.”

“Where are you going?”

“The country club.”

“But Agnes will have lunch ready in a few minutes.”

“I plan to drink my lunch.”

“George Conner, don’t you dare,” she called after him, but George had already decided he damn well did dare and kept walking, not bothering to respond.

WHEN THE ELECTRIC GATE at the end of the yard clanged shut and she could no longer hear her husband’s car winding down the narrow mountain road, Marianne allowed herself to give in to the fear she’d hidden from him.

She’d fought numerous threats from unscrupulous writers over the years, writers whose half-truths and lies about James has caused more pain than any family should have to endure. But this biographer, Kathryn Morgan, had a reputation for honesty and integrity, for uncovering the truth. And that made her more dangerous than all the others combined.

If this woman looked deeply into their finances, saw how they’d used the money from James’s estate and the several million in royalties his music continued to produce each year, she could become suspicious. But was she smart enough to figure out what they’d done? And why?

Unsure, Marianne went to her desk in the study, unlocked the bottom drawer and removed the thick file she’d commissioned more than a year ago on Kathryn Morgan. The folder’s front cover had a photograph attached, but she only glanced at it. What interested Marianne were the newspaper clippings, the stories the woman had written as an investigative reporter for the Chicago Sun-Times.

Reading everything took nearly an hour. Finishing the last article, she closed the file with a trembling hand and sat back in her chair to consider what she must do. She’d gotten them into this mess. The responsibility fell on her shoulders to get them out of it. But how?

She had hoped strongly worded letters from her attorney and the refusal of requests for interviews would discourage the biographer from writing this book, or at least from digging deep enough into their past to reveal their complicity.

But no, this woman was not so easily dissuaded. She had been a gifted child, and gifted children became gifted adults. By forgetting that, Marianne had committed a grievous error and put everyone in jeopardy.

A memory from long ago came to her: the old house on Tennessee Avenue and the secondhand piano with its yellowing keys that had occupied a corner of the den. In the memory, Jamie was only three or four and sat on the stool at the piano, his legs still too short to reach the pedals.

He couldn’t yet read, but he was already composing. He played for hours every day, determined that the music coming from the keys would match the music he heard in his head. That intensity, that obsessive need to perform perfectly, had been difficult for her and David to watch in their young son.

As Jamie grew older, his obsession for music and his need to perfect it hadn’t lessened. He’d quickly mastered several instruments and by the time he turned fifteen was composing music that would make him famous.

This writer was equally talented, and although it was with words and not music, she possessed a similar intensity and obsessive need to finish what she started. She wouldn’t quit like the others.

Marianne returned the file to the drawer and took out the small black-and-white snapshot she also kept there. The photograph was creased, slightly out of focus and more than twenty-five years old, but she treasured it for the bittersweet feeling it always gave her when she looked at it.

“Say, ‘Weasels want weenies on Wednesday,”’ David had told the boys just before she’d snapped their picture, sending them into a fit of giggles. At the time, she hadn’t known it would be the last photograph of the three of them together.

Less than two weeks later a car had struck and killed David as he crossed the street in front of the foundry where he worked. Jamie had been ten and Bret five. She’d struggled financially and emotionally to raise them alone until George Conner had given her a job as a receptionist in his dental office and married her a few months later.

Loud knocking on the door of the study and their housekeeper’s voice jolted Marianne out of the past and into the present. “Mrs. Conner, lunch is ready, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Agnes. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She put the photograph back and started to close the drawer, but David’s face drew her gaze again. Dear sweet David who had thought her flawless and had vowed to love her always. He’d never have believed her capable of such deceit.

“What would you think of me now,” she whispered to his image, “if you knew I sacrificed one of our sons to save the other?”




CHAPTER FOUR


THE SMELL WAS the first thing Kate noticed—manure and urine, mixed with other odors of the animals penned in the large metal building. She’d never been to a horse sale before, had never touched a horse until yesterday, when Hayes had jerked her rudely down from the limb of that tree and onto the back of one.

This place was full of horses, and they could be looked at, stroked, even ridden if she cared to do so. She didn’t. She wasn’t that brave. Or crazy. But before she left tonight, she intended to at least rub one to see what it felt like. That she was brave enough to do.

Glancing around, she suspected right away that she’d chosen the wrong thing to wear. The pristine white slacks and top were cool but impractical for the dirty barn. They made her stand out like a beacon in a sea of denim, boots and western shirts.

She had taken extra care with her makeup and pulled her hair into a practical yet flattering French braid, but here, cowboy hats seemed mandatory, even for the women, and the most popular hairstyle was no style at all. She hadn’t felt this out of place in years.

She shrugged off her self-consciousness, having learned a long time ago that worrying about being different was even worse than being different. People can’t hurt you unless you give them the power to hurt you. Wise words from a wise man. She had listened and remembered.

She sidestepped a pile of manure covered with thousands of tiny flies and wished she hadn’t worn open-toed shoes. Wood shavings inadequately covered the dirt floor, which was littered with empty popcorn boxes, cigarette butts and peanut hulls. More than once she’d watched someone spit tobacco juice.

The place was awful. Why would anyone willingly come here? But they did. Hundreds of them. The crowd was so large near the main entrance Kate could barely move. And then she saw what had attracted everyone: along one wall were tables where vendors sold hand-tooled belts, buckles, hats and clothing.

Twenty minutes remained until the horse sale began, so she eased through the crowd and walked up and down the aisles admiring the horses, separated from them by the flimsiest of metal fencing. Their bodies glistened with sweat from the heat, which large exhaust fans at each end of the building couldn’t remove. The air hung hot and heavy with moisture, and the rumble of thunder could be heard over the country songs playing over the public-address system.

She spotted her quarry the same moment he spotted her. Bret Hayes stood at one of the pens talking with two men. His expression instantly turned hard. He said something to the men and stalked toward her.

“Come with me,” he said, roughly grabbing her elbow.

“I don’t think I want to.”

“Too bad.”

She struggled, but it didn’t do any good. He out-weighed her by at least seventy-five pounds and had arms of steel. As he dragged her from the building into the dark night, her brother’s warning to be careful echoed in her head. For once she wished she’d listened to him.

“WERE YOU PUT on this earth to drive me insane?”

In the quiet of the parking lot Bret’s voice came out at a deafening level. He couldn’t believe this annoying woman had tracked him down again. The Saturday night horse sale was one of the few pleasures he had in his life, and he wasn’t about to allow Kathryn Morgan to ruin it like she’d ruined his breakfast.

She stood at the side of his truck and horse trailer. Bret paced the dirt in front of her, afraid that if he stopped moving he might be tempted to put his hands around that pretty throat and squeeze.

How had this one tiny woman been able to plunge him into a living hell in less than forty-eight hours? She’d shot holes in what he’d come to think of as a comfortable, if not perfect, life. Like grit, her abrasive personality rubbed him raw.

He’d bitten back what he wanted to say until he got her away from the crowded barn. But now, at the far end of the dirt lot where the curious couldn’t hear them, Bret released his pent-up anger. He stopped abruptly in front of her and leaned down until their faces were inches apart.

“What did you think you were doing, following me here? Don’t you have any respect for a person’s privacy? I’ve told you over and over again to leave me alone and you don’t listen.”

“I wanted to see what a horse sale was like.”

“The hell you did.”

“I did!”

“You expect me to believe you had no idea I was going to be here?”

“Well…”

“I thought so.”

A zigzag of lightning pierced the dark sky, and thunder lumbered across the hills. A few large drops of rain peppered the vehicles and the ground. When the rising wind threatened to whisk away his cowboy hat, Bret reached up with one hand and held it in place.

“What gives you the right to mess with my life? Do you know what you remind me of? That character in the cartoon that whirls around like a tornado and chews up everything in its path. You eat people alive before they even know what hit them.”

“That’s not fair! I’m not like that.”

“Yeah, you are. Ever since you whirled into town, you’ve done everything in your power to make me miserable. Do you think I don’t know you’ve been running around all day asking questions about me, bothering my friends and trying to trick them into telling you something juicy you could use in your book?”

“Your friends? I’ve got news for you, Hayes. You’re grossly lacking in the friends department. I couldn’t find ten people in this town who could even recall talking to you, much less counting you as a friend.” She poked him in the chest. “And it’s pretty obvious why. You’ve got a personality problem only electric shock could fix.”

Bret gave her an incredulous look. “You think I’ve got a personality problem? Well, lady, let me tell you something. You’re the most irritating unlikable person I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. You’re annoying. You’re devious. Your mouth stays open so much I’m surprised something hasn’t nested in it by now. You’ve trespassed on my property, ruined my breakfast, followed me around with no purpose but to harass me. You’ve turned my life into a nightmare. And I’ve had enough!”

Thunder cracked loudly overhead and the rain that had threatened for days finally began to fall in earnest; it came down in torrents to soak the thirsty ground and sent steam rising with a hiss from the hot metal of the trucks and trailers. The dirt parking lot became a swamp in a matter of seconds.

The woman lifted her hands in a gesture of frustration. “Why am I standing here listening to this?”

She stomped off muttering loudly to herself, but she hadn’t gone more than a few yards before she slipped and went down in a puddle. The sight of her sprawled on the ground in those white clothes did a great deal to improve Bret’s bad mood. He laughed.

She crawled back up, flinging mud from both hands, cursing because she’d also broken the heel of her shoe. His amusement deepened her anger, and she turned and threw the shoe at him, missing. She took off the other shoe and threw that, but it missed, as well, making him laugh harder.

“You have lousy aim, Morgan.”

She whirled and squished off in the mud. He watched with a satisfied smile as she climbed into her car, cranked it and tried to move, burying her wheels in the slush. The lot was for pickups and trailers with heavy tires, not fancy rental cars.

Bret grabbed his slicker from the truck and exchanged his hat for a baseball cap that the rain couldn’t ruin. He leaned against the door, folded his arms over his chest and waited for her to ask for help. He was going to enjoy telling her no. She could get a ride from someone else. He wasn’t giving her one.

When she didn’t get out, he went over and tapped on the window. She opened it slightly and he leaned down and looked in. For once he had the upper hand with this woman, and he intended to take full advantage of it.

“Ah, Morgan…” She glared at him, and that made him chuckle. “Morgan, you should’ve known better than to park this car down here. I guess common sense isn’t one of your strengths.”

“Go away.”

“Better plan on sleeping here, because there’s no way you’re getting out of here tonight, even with a tow truck. Yep, it’s gonna be at least morning before this car’s going anywhere.”

“Leave me alone!”

He grinned. “You might find a ride, but that’s pretty dangerous, asking some stranger to take you home. And irritating as you are, you’re likely to get yourself murdered between here and the motel. Now that would be a real shame.”

His words had the desired effect. She rolled up the window, flung open the door and pushed him out of the way. She stomped to his truck, searched until she found her shoes and put them on. He thought she’d head for the barn, but she limped toward the highway.

Apparently the woman wasn’t only stupid, she was crazy. Did she plan to walk? The town’s one half-decent motel was three or four miles down the road, but she’d never make it in the dark, in the rain, without good shoes.

He watched as she passed beneath the last light and the darkness swallowed her. Well, it wasn’t his problem. Maybe after this experience she’d go back home.

KATE HADN’T GONE far when a dark-colored truck rolled up beside her. No. Not him. Please, not him. She kept walking.

The passenger window slid down. “Get in, Morgan, and I’ll take you back to the motel.”

“I’d rather walk.”

“Don’t be stupid. Get in before you fall and break your neck or get hit.”

“And deprive you of the pleasure of knowing something bad happened to me?”

A car came up behind them, swerving to the other lane at the last second. A horn blast conveyed the driver’s anger. Hayes cursed. “Will you get in the truck before we’re both killed?”

Deciding it was ridiculous to let her anger overrule her good sense, Kate relented and got in the truck. He produced an old flannel shirt with ripped seams.

“Here, this is headed for the garbage, anyway. You can use it to get some of the mud off you.”

Kate used the shirt to dry herself as best she could. She undid her braid, bent her head and rubbed the shirt vigorously over her hair. When she lifted her head, she found him watching her. He quickly shifted his gaze back to the road.

“What did you hope to accomplish by following me tonight?” he asked.

“To talk to you, for once, without us arguing.”

“You make it impossible for me to keep my temper.”

“I seem to have that effect on you.”

“Because you enjoy creating chaos everywhere you go!”

“Are you going to start yelling at me again? Because if you are, you can stop this truck right now and let me out. I’m wet. I’m covered with mud. I’m cold. I’m not going to sit here in misery while you tell me again how horrible I am when I’m simply trying to do my job. And for your information, nothing has ever tried to nest in my mouth.”

He reached down and turned on the heater. Warmth poured into the cab, pushing back the slight chill she felt from being in wet clothes.

“Thank you,” she said begrudgingly.

“You’re welcome,” he answered curtly.

They continued in silence until Kate couldn’t stand it anymore. “Look, I’m really not trying to turn your life into a nightmare. I’m only trying to get information that’s very important to my book. The people at the feed store and the hardware store agreed the best places to catch you were here or at Pine Acres, so I tried here first. I thought it would be less intrusive than my showing up unannounced at the children’s ranch, and I really did want to see what a horse sale was like.”

“You’ve been even busier than I thought. Did you interview everyone in town?”

“No, just the ones I could trick into telling me something juicy about you,” she quipped, repeating the accusation he had made against her earlier.

A fleeting grin crossed his face but was quickly replaced with his usual sour expression. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Do you want to know what I found out about you?”

“That I’m a candidate for electric shock?”

Kate forced herself not to smile. Well, well, the man had a sense of humor. “Besides that.”

“Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“That you’re either a saint or a pretty good actor.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

She turned in the seat so she could better talk to him. “Your old high-school classmates remember you as a guy only interested in making a fast buck. Yet the few friends you’ve made here, like Emma Lang at the library and Mr. Harper at the feed store, talk about you with great affection. Miss Emma said you donated a hundred thousand dollars to renovate the children’s area, and I went by and took a look at the new playgrounds you had built at the elementary and middle schools. Apparently you’ve also set up some kind of free dental program for low-income children.” She shook her head. “I don’t get it. Did James’s death really change you that much? What happened to that guy who used to think only of himself?”

“Why is this any of your business?”

“Agh!” she said, frustrated. “Where did you learn to be so stubborn?”

She thought he actually smiled then. “The same place you learned to be so relentless.”

“Hayes, even relentless and stubborn people know when to compromise. Can’t I talk you into letting me interview you?”

“No. I don’t even like you.”

“You don’t have to like me. The book is for James’s benefit, not mine.”

“Go home, Morgan. You’re wasting your time here.”

They reached the motel and he parked his pickup with its long trailer at the side of the building. He started to get out, but she leaned over and grabbed his arm.

“Don’t you even care what I write about you in this book, what people think about Bret Hayes?”

He hesitated, but then said, “No. I don’t care.”

“People believe you resented James’s success and coveted what he had.”

“Do they really think that?”

“Yes, they do. Is it true?”

“No, Morgan, I never resented him or his success.”

“You didn’t want to be him?”

Pain flashed across his face. “Yes,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “In the six years since he died, I’ve wished a thousand times I could change places with him.”

THE RAIN STOPPED and the dark clouds that obscured the moon thinned until only a few raced across its silver surface. The neon sign above the motel office buzzed like a giant insect, its bright colors reflecting on the wet pavement, creating a surreal atmosphere.

The parking lot was empty but for a single car. Raucous laughter and music coming from the tavern across the road explained why the rooms were all dark and the motel seemed deserted.

Hayes had been silent since his revelation, afraid perhaps of having said too much. And his words had been revealing, telling Kate two things she hadn’t known before: He’d loved his brother. And he still suffered from his death.

She took out her room key and opened the door. When she turned to look up at him, she felt uncharacteristically tongue-tied and strangely sad. She wished she could think of something profound to say, but the only thing that came out was, “Well…thanks for the ride.”

He nodded.

She started to offer him her hand, decided it was a foolish gesture and withdrew it. “See you around, Hayes.”

“Not if I can help it, Morgan,” he countered, making her chuckle.

He crossed the parking lot, hands pushed deep in the front pockets of his jeans. Kate watched him go with an unexplainable sense of loss. When he had almost reached the corner of the building, she called out, “I met Jamie once, you know.”

He stopped and turned. “What?”

She walked from under the shadow of the overhanging metal canopy out into the moonlight where he could see her and she wouldn’t have to shout.

“I said, I met your brother once. It was years ago, and although I only got to spend a few hours with him, I’ve never forgotten it. I was a scared kid trying to survive in a tough college program with people who were a lot older than me and resented my being there. Jamie was kind to me. He made me feel good about myself.”

Hayes didn’t say anything.

“I wanted you to know that,” she added, “so you’d understand why it’s important to me to write a truthful account of his life. This book finally gives me the chance to pay him back for his kindness that day.”

Hayes stood quietly, motionless for a long time, then nodded slowly and raised his hand in farewell. She raised hers. He turned and walked away.

Kate went into her room and closed the door. A hot bath would feel good. So would going home. Until that moment she hadn’t known she was going home. But without hope of an interview, she really had no reason to stick around. Hayes wasn’t willing to cooperate. He’d made that perfectly clear.

Taking off her dirty clothes, she wrapped herself in a red silk robe. She was about to check her messages when a hard knock sounded at the door. She looked through the peephole and her stomach turned a somersault. Despite her disheveled appearance, she unlocked the door and jerked it open.

“Can you ride a horse?” Hayes asked.

“Of course.”

“Be ready at one o’clock tomorrow and wear something practical.” He wheeled abruptly, walked out to his idling truck and drove away.

Kate closed the door and leaned against it. “Well, I’ll be…” She squealed with glee. Then a thought suddenly struck her and her glee changed to horror. Oh, no! Where, between now and one o’clock tomorrow, was she going to learn to ride a horse?




CHAPTER FIVE


“YOU LIED to me, Morgan,” Bret said, hands on his hips. The blasted woman couldn’t even sit on the horse without looking like she was about to fall off. “You don’t know the front end of a horse from the back.”

“I most certainly do. The front end is the one that bites, and the back end is the one that…doesn’t.”

The children sitting atop the fence at Pine Acres giggled. They watched as the woman attempted to ride around the large corral without mishap. Every time the horse trotted, she shrieked, Bret lost his temper and the children got more amused. Twice she’d almost taken a tumble.

“Hang in there, Miss Kate. You’re gettin’ it,” shouted twelve-year-old Kevin.

Bret shook his head, not believing what he’d just heard. The boy hadn’t said that many words in the six months since he’d arrived at the ranch.

Surprisingly, all the kids were animated today. Morgan’s antics were the cause, and that made Bret feel a little better about his insane decision to bring her. None here could claim a happy childhood, but this bunch from Dorm K, they’d had it rougher than most. Tom, seventeen, had lost his family in a freak accident. Melissa, thirteen, and LaKeisha, nine, had been abandoned by teenage mothers. Shondra, seven, had been abused from the time she was born, as had Kevin. The twins, Adam and Keith, also seven, had seen their father kill their mother, and little Henry, who’d recently turned two, had almost been a murder victim himself.

Bret constantly reminded himself not too get too attached to any of these children, but he’d fallen hard for all eight of them.

“Hey, Mr. Bret,” Melissa called out. She pointed at Morgan, hanging precariously off the saddle, even though the horse wasn’t moving. “Maybe you should tie her on. Or at least put her on old Slowpoke.”

“Or Patch,” volunteered LaKeisha, setting off a round of giggling among the other children.

Bret looked over at Patch, the Shetland pony he’d bought for the smallest children at the ranch. The tiny animal barely came to his waist. If he sat on it, he could probably touch the ground flat-footed.

“What about it, Morgan? Am I gonna have to stick you on Patch?”

“I refuse to ride anything shorter than I am,” she said, her voice indignant.

“Ride? You’re not riding. You’ve been on that horse forty-five minutes and you haven’t gone three feet without dropping the reins and grabbing the saddle horn. You have to be in control of an animal to ride.”

“If you could shorten the stirrups a bit more, I think I could do it.”

He sighed loudly and shook his head, then walked over and began shortening the stirrups for the fifth time. He helped her right herself in the saddle. “Your dang legs are too short,” he grumbled.

“They are not. I have great legs.” She stuck one out. It was bare between her white shorts and tennis shoes. Tan and sleek, it was also very nicely curved.

He looked away swiftly, unintentionally making a noise deep in his throat he prayed she couldn’t interpret. Turning his attention back to the stirrup, he took out his knife and began twisting another hole in the leather strap with the point of the blade.

“You shouldn’t have lied to me,” he muttered.

“Hayes, if you’d asked me at that moment if I knew how to wrestle an alligator, I would have said yes.”

He snorted. “Pity the poor alligator.”

She took off the cap he’d given her to keep the sun off her face and used it to slap him playfully on the head. “Be nice,” she warned, putting the cap back on, “or I might have to wrestle you.”

Bret went deathly still at the thought of that, her on top of him, pinning him to the ground, doing more than wrestling. Hell!

Shaking off the image before his body embarrassed him in front of the kids, he hurriedly completed the hole and adjusted both stirrups.

“Okay, this time if she trots and you don’t want her to, pull back on the reins—but gently. Make her obey you. And don’t yell like that again. You nearly busted my eardrum.”

The onlookers tittered.

“Sorry,” she said, exchanging a funny, Well, excuse me face with the children.

He walked out to the center of the corral. “All right, this is your last chance. Ride her this far so I’ll know you won’t kill yourself when we go out to the pasture.”

Whispering loudly, the children took bets on whether she’d make it.

“I say she drops the reins,” Tom predicted.

“Nah, she’ll fall off,” Adam said.

“Betcha she drops the reins and falls off,” Keith said.

The toddler, Henry, who thought she was purposely putting on a show, clapped his hands excitedly in anticipation of the next trick. “Faw,” he begged.

Morgan rolled her eyes. “Don’t you little maggots have homework or something?”

“It’s summer vacation,” Melissa said. “School won’t start till next week.”

“Chores?” Morgan asked.

“We did them when we got out of church,” LaKeisha told her.

“If I give you money, will you go away?”

They giggled. “No, ma’am,” answered Shondra. “We wanna stay here and watch you fall off.”

“Faw,” Henry squealed, clapping his hands more rapidly.

Bret interrupted by calling out, “Come on, Morgan, we don’t have all day to watch you make a fool of yourself.”

“Don’t rush me!”

“I should’ve known you couldn’t do it,” he said with a smirk. “You’re all bluff and no guts.”

“I might have to make you eat those words, Hayes.”

“Yeah? Well, you have to ride over here first,” he pointed out.

“Come on, Miss Kate,” Shondra yelled. “You can do it.” She started clapping and chanting, “Go…go…go…” The others quickly joined in.

She touched her heels to the horse’s sides and loosened the tension on the reins. The horse began to move. When it tried to break into a trot, she pulled back gently and it slowed to a walk. When she reached Bret, still mounted and still holding the reins, the children whooped their delight. Even those who’d bet against her clapped.

“Well, it’s about time,” he said. “At least you didn’t fall on your—” he remembered the kids were listening “—backside.”

“Gee, Hayes, watch out. All that lavish praise might go to my head.”

“You did okay.”

“Okay? Is that the best compliment you can come up with?” She looked to the children for help. “Was it just okay?” she asked them.

“You were super-endous,” one child yelled.

“Outta sight,” said another.

“See,” Morgan told him smugly. “I was superendous.”

Bret smiled. He couldn’t help himself. She was so damn outrageous at times.

She gasped. “Well, I’ll be… You actually have teeth!”

His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Wh-what?”

“You hardly ever smile. You always look like you’ve gotten a whiff of something foul. I was beginning to think your teeth were bad, or maybe you’d irritated the wrong person and he—or she—knocked them out.”

“I’ve occasionally had people threaten to knock them out, but I assure you they’re intact.” He gave her his best fake smile.

“Oh, very nice. Perfect, as a matter of fact.”

“Thanks. My stepfather would be overjoyed to hear you say that, considering how much work he did on them.”

“Oh, that’s right, he’s a dentist, isn’t he?”

“Uh, yeah. Retired now.” He cleared his throat with nervousness. That was a stupid mistake. “You have a nice smile, too.”

She cocked her head and grinned. “Why, thank you.”

The children giggled and made smooching sounds.

“All right, cut it out,” he warned them good-naturedly. He steered the conversation toward a more comfortable topic, patting the horse and telling Kate they’d ride out so he could show her the rest of the ranch.

“Am I ready for that?” she asked.

“Yeah, but listen to what I tell you and do exactly as I say. Exactly. No goofing off for the kids.”

“Okay. You’re the boss.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow at the comment.

“A mere slip of the tongue,” she said quickly.

TOM OPENED the gate and the “wagon train,” as one of the kids called it, began its journey. Hayes went out first, with Henry sitting on the horse in front of him. Kate moved to his left side, wanting him close in case her horse decided to act up.

“Don’t go too fast,” he warned as the other children passed them and took off at breakneck speed.

The road wound through pastures where round bales of freshly cut hay dotted the ground, and more hay, waiting to be cut, rippled in the wind. Henry, Kate quickly discovered, could be counted on to fill the brief moments of silence. His fascination with the scenery exceeded his vocabulary. He entertained them by periodically calling out the names of things he saw.

“Burrrd,” he said when a colorful bird flew past and landed on the barbed-wire fence.

“Eastern bluebird,” Hayes said. “And what sound does a bird make?”

“Tweee,” Henry answered.

Farther down the road Hayes motioned to the right. “We lease the hay fields to a cattle farm nearby, and, over that rise, is a pecan orchard that produces a good crop and income for the ranch each year.”

“I’m impressed,” she told him, a major understatement. From everything she’d seen, the ranch ran efficiently and utilized its natural resources. The administrator, Jane Logan, had given Kate a tour, and she appeared competent and genuinely enthusiastic about her job. The children seemed well cared for. “Do you spend much time out here? The children all seem to know you.”

“I’m out a couple of times a week, sometimes more.”

“Why kids?”

“Why kids what?”

“Why did you choose to support a charity for kids? A guy like you. Seems out of character.”

“Maybe you don’t know my character as well as you think.”

“I admit I find it hard to believe that you’re the same surly guy who yelled at me last night.”

“I apologize for that. I was out of line for losing my temper.”

“And I apologize for following you. I was wrong to take it to such lengths. Do you think we might call a truce? I really don’t want to fight with you, and despite the crack I made about your character, you don’t seem like a bad guy.”

“If we call a truce, does that mean you’ll leave me alone?”

“Yes, if I can solicit two promises from you.”

“Which are?”

“First, that you’ll reconsider my request for help with my book.”

“Don’t—”

“Wait a minute, now. Let me finish. If you’ll seriously think about my request for…oh…three days, I’ll stay at the motel and won’t bother you. But you have to put aside your dislike for me and not make a decision based on that.”

“And if I still say no at the end of three days?”

“I’ll go away.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

He thought about it for all of two seconds. “That’s too good to pass up. What’s the second promise?”

“That sometime today you give me ten minutes to at least try to convince you to cooperate on the book, without your getting all surly and wanting to strangle me.”

He flashed a quick grin, gone as quickly as it came. “How did you know I wanted to strangle you?”

“Believe me, I’ve seen that look before on the faces of at least a hundred different men, my father and brothers included.”

“Morgan, sometimes you’re too much.” This time he didn’t bother to hide his smile. “Okay, you’ve got a deal. Ten minutes, and I’ll try my best to stay calm.”

“How about now?”

“Not while we’re with the kids.”

“Okay, I can wait. Where are we headed, by the way?”

“The pond first and then the orchard. I want to show you the different ways we’re making money and moving toward being self-sufficient. We keep bees and sell the honey. We grow muscadines and scuppernongs and we sell them to a small outfit locally that makes jelly. The pond is stocked with catfish and we open it for public fishing every Saturday during the warm months.”

“For a fee?”

“No, not for fishing, but we charge per pound for the fish caught.”

“Pish,” Henry said.

“Catfish,” Hayes corrected. “And what sound does a catfish make?”

“Gur-ak,” Henry said proudly.

Kate decided, after hearing Henry imitate various animals at Hayes’s prompting, that this had to be a game they’d played many times before.

As they continued to the pond, the child ran through the rest of his imitations—sheep, cows, horses, bees and something called a ruby-throated brew guzzler that Hayes swore was a real bird native to the South, but whose call sounded suspiciously like a belch to Kate.

“Oh, let me guess,” she said, laughing despite her efforts not to. “It guzzles beer and is identified by its red neck.”

Hayes grinned impishly.

She groaned. “You should be ashamed of yourself for trying to corrupt this child.”

“Wasn’t me,” he said innocently.

“I believe that about as much as I believe…ruby-throated brew guzzlers really fly.”

He had anticipated her answer. With a mischievous gleam in his eye he bent his head and said, “Henry, let a brew guzzler fly.”

Henry swallowed air. “Bu-rp,” he said, belching loudly.

BRET LIKED her laugh. He found it soothing. He knew in the last several years he hadn’t been the kind of man who inspired women to laughter. He was too somber. Depressing, was the word one woman had used. But today he seemed to amuse this woman a great deal, even when he wasn’t trying.

She laughed often. Loudly. Wonderfully. She made him laugh, something he hadn’t felt like doing in a long time.

He was having trouble remembering she was the enemy. And even more disturbing, he was having no trouble remembering she was a woman.

They sat on the pond’s wooden pier, Bret with his back against a piling, Morgan uncomfortably close, so close he could smell the light flowery fragrance that seemed to be a natural part of her. Unable to resist the lure of the water, she had slipped off her shoes and now dangled her feet in it.

It was one of the few times they’d been alone that afternoon. The children had reached the pond ahead of them and were busy skipping rocks at the far end. Tom had sensed the adults’ need for privacy and had assumed supervision of little Henry.

Bret looked not at the woman, but out over the glassy sun-lit surface of the pond, trying to keep from being distracted by that stretchy red top she had on and the way it showed off her curves.

Funny. Smart. Interesting. Attractive. And the kids had taken to her immediately. If she were anyone but Kathryn Morgan…

“So,” he said casually, “you mentioned last night that you knew my brother. How well?”

“Not well. I spent a few hours with him one weekend at Columbia in 1987.”

“Were you lovers?”

Her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t liked the question. “No, we weren’t lovers. What made you think we had a sexual relationship?”

“Because that was the only kind of relationship James had with women.”

“Well, he didn’t with me. Besides, I wasn’t a woman. I was a kid, a teenager with zero experience.”

“How did you meet?”

“A reporter from The New York Post was writing an article covering one of his concerts, and apparently James’s manager convinced her to include some of the fellowship students from the university in the photographs. I was among the five or so they brought in to meet him. James and I talked, swapped family stories, and then we went our separate ways. He was extremely nice to me when he didn’t have to be, and I’ve never forgotten it. Period. End of story. No sex involved.”

“And you said this was at Columbia?”

“I was in graduate school and he was playing a concert in Manhattan that weekend.”

“Graduate school? I thought you said you were still a kid.”

“I was.”

“You must have been a really smart kid.”

She simply shrugged.

“And you never saw James again after that day?”

“Nope.” She turned to him and folded her legs underneath her. “You know, you could have asked me this last night and saved yourself the trouble of bringing me here today.”

“I didn’t bring you here to ask about that.”

“Then why? Last night you were ready to boil me in oil, and then suddenly you’re at my door asking me to go riding. What gives?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m not sure. I told you I knew about Pine Acres, and maybe you were afraid I’d show up here. Or you wanted to find out what I might write about you in the book. Is that it? Those are the only two things that make sense to me. Did you think by bringing me out here I’d present you and the ranch in a more favorable light?”

“You read people pretty well.”

She looked directly at him. “A lot of the time. But you’re harder to read than most.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“I haven’t quite figured that out yet. But I will. You’re a contradiction, Hayes. You send out so many conflicting signals I’m not sure what to think of you.”

“Conflicting how?”

“Well, for example, you claim not to care what people think of you, yet everywhere you’ve donated money around town, you have plaques acknowledging the contributions. I’m not criticizing your generosity, but that seems a little self-serving to me, and the plaques…well, tacky. You’ve also had your name put on the front wall of this place as the major contributor. For a man who doesn’t encourage visitors and doesn’t seem to want friends, you’re going out of your way to ensure your name will be remembered in this town. Very contradictory.”

“You really think the plaques are tacky?”

“A little.”

“I suppose they are.”

“Am I right about your reasons for asking me here today?”

He nodded. “When you mentioned Pine Acres, it made me uneasy. I decided you might be less likely to hurt my kids if you came out here and got to know them. And, too, by showing you the ranch I hoped to change your opinion of me. I was suddenly reminded of that old saying, ‘Never argue with a man who buys his ink by the barrel.”’

That made her smile. “I’d never burn you in print for being nasty to me. That’s not my style. But I am glad you invited me here. I can’t remember when I’ve had a more enjoyable afternoon. The ranch is incredible, and so are the kids. I’d like to know more about them, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“Is your interest personal or professional?”

“Both, I guess. I’m interested in the ranch because I think you used some of the money you inherited from James to build it.” She paused, apparently offering him the opportunity to deny or confirm her statement. He did neither. “If it’s true,” she continued, “that does make Pine Acres a part of my story.”

“See, that’s what I was afraid of. You’re jumping to conclusions about things you know nothing about. I don’t want you writing something that might make the ranch look bad.”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “There’s no reason to be concerned. I can’t imagine anyone finding fault with what you’ve done here, including me, and the only reason I asked about the kids is because I’m interested as a person, not as a writer. Will you tell me about them?”

He hesitated.

“I swear I’m only asking because I like them.”

“All right, but you can’t use anything I say about any individual child. I can’t stop you from mentioning the ranch in your book, but I don’t want the kids hurt by the public knowing the intimate details of their lives.”

“You have my word. I won’t include them.”

He took off his cap and played with it as he talked, telling her first about some of the children she’d met but who hadn’t come to the pond with them.

“Now tell me about Tom,” she prodded.

“Tom’s had it hard. His parents and two sisters died a few years ago from carbon-monoxide poisoning caused by a faulty heater. He was spending the night at a friend’s house and came home to find the bodies. He lived in six foster homes before he came to the ranch last spring.”

“Why has he lived in so many places? He’s so polite and sweet. I can’t understand why a family wouldn’t want him.”

“Because he’s a teenager. They’re more trouble, and they cost more money to care for. Some people don’t want to deal with that extra expense.”

“Are they all orphans like him?”

“No, the majority have at least one living parent, but due to neglect, abuse or some other reason, the kids have been removed from the home. Some have emotional problems brought on by what’s happened to them, and finding adoptive families is next to impossible.”

“Those scars on Shondra’s arm. How did she get them?”

“Her mother’s an addict. When she got high she used Shondra as an ashtray.”

“Dear God.”

“Keith and Adam, the twins with all the freckles, their father’s in prison.”

“What for?”

“Blowing their mother’s head off in front of them.”

He winced when he saw what his words did to her. He’d deliberately been crude to shock her and gauge her reaction. But seeing her distressed look, he felt ashamed of himself.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” he asked quietly.

She was silent for a long time. She looked at the water, the pier, everywhere but at him. Finally she spoke. “Yes, I want to know. I want to understand how these children came to be here.”

He debated whether he should go on. He knew the horror stories, the kids used as punching bags or pawns in dirty divorces, the ones treated worse than animals or as property. But for someone who wasn’t familiar with the realities of child abuse and neglect, hearing what little value some parents place on the lives of their children could be unsettling.

“Please,” she urged.

“Melissa’s mother was only fourteen when she gave her up. LaKeisha’s mother was also a teenager. She already had two other illegitimate children by two different men, so she wasn’t able to take care of her.”

“And the shy boy with the drawings of sports heroes in his room?”

“That’s Kevin. He was abandoned in a bus station. We still don’t know the extent of the trauma he’s been through because he won’t talk about it. He was sexually abused and was probably forced by his father to act as a prostitute.”

“But he’s a baby! How could a parent do that to a child?”

“We’ve seen them as young as nine and ten selling themselves to finance their parents’ drug habits.”

“How is that possible?”

“I know it’s hard to believe. I had trouble believing it myself, but it happens, and more often than you’d imagine.”

“And Henry? What’s his story?”

He shifted on the pier, making the old boards creak. This story he wasn’t sure he could share without breaking down.

“Henry’s mother…” He stopped and swallowed as the bile rose in his throat. “Henry’s mother had a new boyfriend, and having the kids cramped her style. She was also heavily in debt. So she talked the boyfriend into helping her set fire to the house, a little two-for-one special. Her idea was to collect the insurance money and get rid of the kids at the same time. They tried to make the fire look like an accident, set by the kids playing with matches. As best we can figure, she told four-year-old Sarah that some bad men wanted to hurt them and she should take Henry and hide in the closet and not come out until she came for them. Because she trusted her mother, Sarah did it. Then they set fire to the adjoining bedroom.”

“What happened to Sarah?”

“She died a few hours after the fire of smoke inhalation and burns. Henry spent nearly two months in the hospital recovering from pneumonia and the damage the smoke did to his lungs, but thankfully, he wasn’t badly burned. Sarah had shielded him from the fire with her own body.”

“What happened to his mother and her boyfriend?”

“He made a deal with the district attorney to testify against her and got fifteen years. She pleaded not guilty, and her trial comes up in a couple of months. It’s a capital-murder case, so she’s still in jail, but that hasn’t stopped her from using Henry to get sympathy from the court. She won’t sign over custody of him because it would hurt her case, and the state won’t sever her parental rights because, until she’s convicted, she’s considered innocent.”

“So Henry’s in legal limbo because the state can’t place him until there’s a disposition of the case?”

“Yes,” Bret said, slipping his cap back on. “It stinks because her rights are being placed above Henry’s.”

“And Henry’s father? Where is he?”

“He was a one-night stand she picked up in a bar. I doubt she even knows the guy’s name.”

The laughter of the children drifted toward them on the gentle breeze. He smiled as he watched Henry toddling after the older kids in their game of tag.

“Will you adopt him when he becomes available?” she asked.

“I can’t.”

“But single men can adopt. These days it’s done all the time.”

“I know, but it’s not an option for me.” He stood abruptly, wishing he’d never allowed her to pursue this. He walked toward the tree where they’d tied the horses. She ran to catch up with him.

“Hey, wait! I don’t understand. Why isn’t it an option for you? Anyone with eyes can see you love that little boy and he loves you. He hangs on every word you say.”

“I can’t adopt him. Drop the subject.” They had reached the horses and he snatched down the reins, which had been looped over a branch. He put his foot in the stirrup and started to mount, but she touched his arm.

“But if you love—”

He whirled and grabbed her by the shoulders. “I said I can’t,” he yelled, making both her and the horse jump. “Why won’t you listen to me, Morgan? I can’t adopt him. I can never adopt him. I’m no better than his mother.”

“Why do you say that?”

His face contorted with the pain he felt in his heart. “Because,” he said in anguish, “I killed my own brother.”




CHAPTER SIX


HE’D NEVER MEANT to tell her. For six years he’d lived with the guilt of having sent his brother to a fiery death, and not once had he shared his pain with anyone outside the family. But she’d pushed until the pain had boiled over. She’d dug until the wound that had festered for years broke open.




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