The Cowboy's Secret Son. Gayle Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ again. She just hadn’t been prepared, she’d told herself. It had been the shock combined with her worry over Andy that had thrown her. Drew, she corrected herself, remembering the sound of that single syllable spoken in Mark’s deep voice.

      Andrew had been her maternal grandfather’s name, and Jillian had loved the strong Scots sound of it. It had seemed too grown-up, though, too serious for the minute scrap of an infant—a preemie with so many problems, including that tiny twisted and misshapen foot—that they had placed in her arms. Although she had written Andrew on the birth certificate, from the beginning she had called her son Andy.

      Then last year, he had declared that Andy was a baby’s name and that the kids at school made fun of him because of it. And he had been right, she admitted. The diminutive did make him sound like a baby, and he was growing up. Despite the maternal urge to keep him small so she could hold him close and make him safe, she knew this was the way things were supposed to happen.

      She sighed, the sound an outward expression of all the frustrations she had felt since her encounter with Mark this afternoon. She turned over again, trying to find a cool spot on the pillowcase to rest her cheek. There wasn’t one. The pillow had been turned and poked and restlessly prodded into shape until it was as worn-out with the long hours of this night as she was.

      And it was nowhere near dawn, she thought, judging by the lack of light seeping in through the east-facing window. She sighed again, wondering if she should just give up and go unpack another box, when she heard a noise that sounded like something falling.

      Or someone, she thought, that same mother instinct she had just acknowledged kicking into overdrive. Had Drew gotten up to go to the bathroom and stumbled over something in the unfamiliar darkness?

      She threw the covers off and slid her feet into her slippers. As she hurried across the room, she pulled on the robe that she had tossed on the foot of the bed. Normally she wouldn’t have taken time for that, but the house seemed strangely cold, a damp, pervasive chill left from the afternoon storm.

      She hurried down the hall to Drew’s room, the same one that had been hers when she was growing up. She had given him his choice, and that’s the one he’d chosen, which for some reason had pleased her. Of course, the window seat her father had built to her specifications, and which doubled as a toy chest, had undeniable appeal.

      The door to his bedroom was open to allow the old-fashioned heating system to circulate the air better. She stopped in the doorway, looking inside. The small mound of her son, sleeping in a near fetal position as he had since he was an infant, was clearly visible. Nothing in the room seemed disturbed. Nothing had fallen. Obviously, whatever she’d heard hadn’t originated here.

      Turning, she looked back down the dark hallway, and was again conscious of the cold. Maybe she should check to see if the pilot light on the furnace had gone out. After all, she was up, and it didn’t seem likely that she would go back to sleep now. Especially since she hadn’t been sleeping before.

      She walked past the door of her own bedroom, which had been her mother and father’s room. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around her body, rubbing her hands up and down the sleeves of her robe. Maybe it was just jumping out of a warm bed so quickly—

      As she stepped out of the hall and into the main room of the house, which her mom had always called the den, she realized that the front door was standing wide-open. Her first inclination was to rush across and close it, but the trickle of ice that was now in her veins had nothing to do with the cold air rushing in from outside.

      She had locked that door before going to bed. She was sure of it.

      During the last ten years, Jillian had become accustomed to living in apartments. To having neighbors. To law enforcement that responded in much less than half an hour. The kind of isolation inherent in living on a ranch was no longer familiar. It had made her nervous enough to be cautious and to double-check that lock and all the others. The fact that the door was now standing open…

      Her gaze examined the shadows, moving slowly along the perimeter of the room. Although she couldn’t see behind each piece of furniture, nothing seemed out of place.

      She glanced back at the door. Had the wind been strong enough during the night to blow it open? Except she’d been lying awake for at least an hour, and she hadn’t heard any wind. She hadn’t heard anything at all, but that one noise.

      The door hitting the wall? Or someone hitting the door?

      Again she was conscious of the cold. She ought to at least close the door, she thought, turning toward the kitchen now. Given the angle of the wall, she couldn’t see into that room, and she directed her gaze back to the front door.

      For the first time in her life she wished that she had a gun. Although she had grown up around them, she had never thought she was the kind of person who would ever want or need a firearm. Faced with the realities of where she was living now…

      She forced herself to move across the den, tiptoeing so that her slippers made only a slight shuffling noise on the hardwood floor. When she was near enough, she could stand behind the protection of the open door and look through it into the yard. Maybe there would be enough moonlight to allow her to take a look around without leaving the house.

      Taking a deep breath, she took the final step to the door and grasped the knob in her right hand. The metal was cold under her palm, and for some reason, now that she was here, she couldn’t seem to make herself move any closer to the opening. If there was someone waiting outside—

      Idiot, she chided herself. Why kick in the door to a house and then wait around outside? If someone was that eager to get inside, they’d already be here. A thought that was hardly more comforting.

      So why hadn’t she turned on the lights? Why didn’t she now? The switch that controlled them was just on the other side of the doorway. All she had to do was step across, closing the door in the process, and flick it on. All she had to do, and yet she seemed paralyzed, unable to act.

      She drew in another deep breath, gathering her courage, and in the silence she heard movement out on the porch. As if released from a spell, she pushed the door hard, and as it swung closed, she reached across the narrowing opening, intending to flip up the switch.

      A dark shape loomed before her, seeming to spring up from the floor of the porch. The terrifying image lasted only a split second—too short a time for identification—before the door slammed closed. Quickly she turned the lock, putting a barrier, however fragile, between her and whatever—whoever—was out there.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      “PE-EW,” Ronnie Cameron said, wrinkling his nose in disgust and drawing the sound out. He hurriedly closed the black garbage bag, pulling the plastic strings tight.

      A little late for that, Jillian thought.

      “What in the world is in there?” the sheriff asked, carefully laying the bag back on the floor of the front porch.

      “It seems to be roadkill,” Jillian said. “Aged roadkill from the smell. Armadillos and a few less recognizable victims.”

      Her voice was very quiet. Anyone who knew her well could have told the sheriff that she was exerting enormous self-control. Which she was. Now that it was daylight, her fear had been replaced by anger, and much of it was self-directed because she had let herself be so terrified.

      “You’re saying somebody dumped СКАЧАТЬ