The Second Son. Joanna Wayne

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      “No.”

      He dropped one of her hands and tucked a thumb under her chin, nudging it up so that she couldn’t avoid making eye contact. Another rebellious tear escaped to make a liar out of her, and he grabbed a tissue and wiped the moisture from her cheek. “The church is packed with our friends and family. This is no time for second thoughts, Lacy.”

      “Your family, Charles. Not mine.”

      “So that’s what this is about. Kate, again.”

      She pulled from his grasp and walked back to the mirror, anxiously pinning wayward curls into the topknot.

      Charles stepped behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s time you accept Kate for what she is.”

      “She’s my sister. She’s all the family I have.”

      “Not anymore. You have me. You’ll have my family, my friends. Kate won’t fit in. I’d rather not see her around here.”

      She twirled to face him. “What are you suggesting, Charles? That I just drop my only sister from my life?”

      He leveled her with a determined stare. “It’s a decision most sane people would have made a long time ago.”

      “Then color me crazy.” Lacy knotted her fingers into painful fists. “Look, Charles, I don’t know what’s held Kate up, but she’ll be here. She wouldn’t miss my wedding. We have to wait for her.”

      “Let it go, Lacy.”

      “I can’t. A few minutes. That’s all I’m asking. I want Kate here when we exchange our vows. It’s the only way I can go through with this.”

      He shook his head, as if he was sorry he had to refuse the request of a spoiled child. “We made a bargain.”

      “And I’m trying to keep it. All I’m asking for is a little time.”

      He grabbed her right arm just below the elbow, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Listen carefully, Lacy. That’s the church organ playing. The guests are seated and waiting. You will walk down the aisle.”

      The phone rang. She broke from his grasp and dived for it. It had to be Kate.

      “Hello.”

      “Hello, Lacy.”

      The voice was male, but not one she recognized. It sounded strained, muffled.

      “Who is this?”

      “A friend. I called to wish you the best on your wedding day. And to tell you that you are going to die very soon.”

      The connection was broken before Lacy had a chance to reply, but she was shaking when she hung up the phone.

      “Who was that?” Charles barked.

      “No one. A crank call.”

      “To a church? Some people are really sick.” He took her hand and pulled her toward him. “Let’s just forget about Kate for now. Don’t let her spoil your wedding day.”

      “I won’t go through with this wedding, Charles, not unless Kate is here.”

      “Kate’s attendance at the ceremony was not a part of our bargain. And I know you are not foolish enough to back out of our agreement.” He smiled into the mirror and ran his hand down the front of his tuxedo shirt, smoothing the pleats. “Now, touch up your makeup where your tears mussed your mascara. And for heaven’s sake, wipe that look of gloom from your face.”

      He stepped toward the door. “The next time I see you, I’ll expect smiles. After all, this is your day.”

      She stared at the door for long seconds after the back of Charles’s head had disappeared from view. Stopping by the mirror one last time, she poked a dab of cold cream on the smeared streaks of black under her eyes. The tears were gone now. She repaired the makeup and smiled at her reflection.

      She’d do what she had to do. It was called survival, and both she and Kate had learned the ropes of it a long time ago. They’d just chosen different arenas in which to perfect their skills.

      SHERIFF BRANSON RANDOLPH swerved his pickup truck into one of the designated parking spaces for a brick town house in an upper-middle-class area of San Antonio. The house was at the end of a row of similar structures. They backed up to a parklike space with twin gazebos, picnic areas and a pond about half the size of the Alamodome.

      Even from the back entry, the building was impressive, two stories with a covered slate patio that looked more like an outdoor living room. Tables, chairs and potted palms as tall as the mesquites that grew in Burning Pear pastures. Not at all what he’d expected.

      He pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and double-checked the address. There was no mistake. This was the residence of the woman who’d paid a gift-bearing visit to the Burning Pear three nights ago and then collapsed at his feet. Kate Gilbraith, age thirty-three.

      At this point, she was still recovering in a hospital across town. The small hospital-clinic in Kelman was okay for minor emergencies and routine health care, but serious bullet wounds required a trip to one of the larger San Antonio hospitals. Kate’s injury had been complicated by a serious loss of blood.

      The doctors reported she was making a miraculous recovery. In spite of that, she hadn’t come to enough to answer Branson’s questions. Until she did, he still had no clue as to who had shot her in the right shoulder or why.

      To top it off, she’d had no identification on her. Nothing but a key ring with three keys and a few wadded dollar bills, all stuffed into the front pocket of her slacks.

      If she hadn’t had a record, he might still be trying to figure out who she was. But her fingerprints had told him what she couldn’t. Name. Previously arrested on charges of writing hot checks. A few years earlier, she’d done a short stint in the slammer for shoplifting.

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

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

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

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

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

      Branson locked his truck, a task he never bothered with in Kelman, and СКАЧАТЬ