Книга - Son of a Gun

Son of a Gun
Joanna Wayne


Amid a freak snowstorm, Texas rancher Damien Lambert made the unlikeliest find on his Bent Pine Ranch–a bloodied woman and her infant daughter in hiding. Though her story was transparent as ice, the heat he saw in her eyes made him offer her refuge.After a ruthless kidnapping and a harrowing escape, Emma Muran needed a hero…and the baby needed a home. She'd found both in Damien–the perfect man with a cowboy's swagger and a lover's touch–until he learned about the incredible danger they faced. After that, Emma knew it would take all the cowboy Damien had to keep her and the child alive.







Rescuing a woman in distress was the cowboy way

Amid a freak snowstorm, Texas rancher Damien Lambert made the unlikeliest find on his Bent Pine Ranch—a bloodied woman and her infant daughter in hiding. Though her story was transparent as ice, the heat he saw in her eyes made him offer her refuge.

After a ruthless kidnapping and a harrowing escape Emma Duran needed a hero…and the baby needed a home. She’d found both in Damien—the perfect man with a cowboy’s swagger and a lover’s touch—until he learned about the incredible danger they faced. After that, Emma knew it would take all the cowboy Damien had to keep her and the child alive.


She’d gone to Paradise and found hell...

Now she’d gone to Texas and found Damien. The first had ruined her life and left her an emotional wreck. The second was likely to break her heart.

She was not what the cowboy needed, and he’d realize that as soon as he was through saving her.

She pulled out her pajamas from the travel case. Then, unable to help herself, she reached for the silky chemise inside. She held it in front of her in the full-length mirror.

She hardly recognized the woman staring back at her—the Emma she used to be.

Damien knocked on the door she’d left ajar. “How about a nightcap to—”

She saw his face reflected in the mirror. The chemise pooled to the floor, leaving her feeling exposed, though she was still dressed.

A second later Damien wrapped his arms around her from behind.

She turned and with tears she could neither explain nor stop, she lifted her mouth to his and melted in his kiss.




Son of a Gun

Joanna Wayne







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


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joanna Wayne was born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana, and received her undergraduate and graduate degrees from LSU-Shreveport. She moved to New Orleans in 1984, and it was there that she attended her first writing class and joined her first professional writing organization. Her debut novel, Deep in the Bayou, was published in 1994.

Now, dozens of published books later, Joanna has made a name for herself as being on the cutting edge of romantic suspense in both series and single-title novels. She has been on the Waldenbooks bestseller list for romance and has won many industry awards. She is also a popular speaker at writing organizations and local community functions and has taught creative writing at the University of New Orleans Metropolitan College.

Joanna currently resides in a small community forty miles north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. Though she still has many family and emotional ties to Louisiana, she loves living in the Lone Star State. You may write Joanna at P.O. Box 852, Montgomery, Texas 77356.


CAST OF CHARACTERS

Emma Muran—aka Emma Smith. She is on the run from a kidnapper who cannot afford to let her go free.

Damien Lambert—He’s the oldest son of a powerful and influential Texas business and ranching family.

Tague and Durk Lambert—Damien’s brothers. Durk is involved in the family oil business. Tague manages and works the ranch with Damien.

Carolina Lambert—Damien’s mother, who is still grieving for her husband, Hugh, who died a few months ago.

Sheriff Walter Garcia—Local sheriff.

Julio—Operates a human trafficking operation.

Caudillo—Wealthy arms dealer who lures women to his private island in the Caribbean and holds them captive.

Grandma Pearl—Damien’s grandmother. She can be a bit mischievous at times.

Aunt Sybil—Damien’s aunt who lives on the Bent Pine Ranch with the rest of the Lambert family.

Blake Benson—A veterinarian who owns the ranch next to the Lamberts and helps out in an emergency.

Dorothy Paul—Emma’s friend who was supposed to go with her on vacation.

Carson Stile—A good friend of Damien’s, an expert tech guy who never reveals how he gets his information from the internet.

Chale—Caudillo’s head guard.


Thanks to Dr. Lindsey Whitehurst for her information on how a veterinarian might help out in an emergency. A special thanks to all my psychology professors who taught me so much about abnormal behavior, though of course I took liberties with their lectures. And thanks to my husband for putting up with me when deadlines make me a pain to live with.


Contents

Prologue (#u97cc6647-2f0f-5672-b87a-d63c9cdb49fb)

Chapter One (#uc3104b8e-2329-51db-8fa6-cc377cce3368)

Chapter Two (#uc9422a28-f4a4-5f49-a24a-f1a0131bec6e)

Chapter Three (#u72b33984-dfd7-57a4-a661-b763f43a456e)

Chapter Four (#u3d9729cc-cdae-591a-ad3c-34f6ae3798a8)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

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)


Prologue

Damien Lambert worked the curry comb in a circular motion, talking to King as he did. The black steed stood contentedly even though thunder growled continuously and zigzagging bolts of lightning split the sky, the glaring streaks of light visible through the open barn doors.

The other horses in the barn were also calmed by Damien’s soothing voice and company. Only Jolie, his mother’s pale gray quarter horse, pawed the hay-covered dirt as if she knew something about the approaching storm they didn’t.

Normally, Damien appreciated a good thunderstorm. It watered the pastures and refilled the creeks. The fierceness even had a way of clearing the air, a release of the occasional friction that erupted between him and his father. At times the two locked horns so tightly that Damien didn’t see how they could keep working together in the same state, much less on the same ranch.

Hugh Lambert. Bigger than life. A man who swore like a sailor, liked his bourbon a little too much at times and who’d go up against any politician with rhetoric, clout and his considerable wealth if he thought their policies interfered with him running his spread or his oil company as he saw fit.

But Hugh was also a man who’d fire his best wrangler or even a foreman in a second if he found they’d mistreated an animal. And even in the business world, he was a man whose word and handshake were as binding as a contract.

Damien had grown to appreciate that more and more as he’d matured. And when his father wasn’t reaming him out, Damien realized how lucky he was to have Hugh as a father. It had made him the man he was. Independent, tough and thick-skinned.

A clap of thunder fired like an explosion. Apprehension surfaced and weighed on Damien’s mind. His father and some of his ranching buddies had flown by private jet to the Cowboys/Cardinals game in Arizona. That would put their return flight straight in the path of the storm.

But they’d run into weather like this enough times that they knew the risk. When the weather warranted, the pilot landed the plane in any small airport in their path or else postponed the trip home until the next day.

Damien finished currying King and was brushing him down when he heard his brother Tague yelling for him. By the time Damien reached the barn door, Tague was standing there, out of breath, panic rolling off him like the dust the wind had kicked up.

“It’s Dad.” Tague’s words were shaky and barely audible.

Anxiety pitted in Damien’s stomach. “What happened?”

“The plane crashed.” Tague slumped against the door.

“Where?”

“Somewhere in West Texas.”

Damien felt something crack inside him, and he held on to a post for support. “How did you find out?”

“Sheriff Garcia is at the house. Dad’s dead, Damien.” Panic tore at Tague’s voice. “Mother’s just standing there. She’s not even crying, but her eyes…they look like she’s dying, too.”

Adrenaline bucked off the paralyzing shock. Damien took off running. He thought he heard Tague’s footsteps behind him, but he didn’t slow down or wait for his youngest brother. His dad couldn’t be dead. This was all some horrible mistake. They’d find that out later, but his mother needed Damien now.


Chapter One

Three Months Later

The truck rocked and bounced along what felt like a dry, stony creek bed. Emma Muran’s stomach rolled violently as she was jostled and pressed against the sweaty bodies that were crammed into the back of the type of small rental trailer used for moving furniture. Only this one was painted a dull gray.

Though the air outside was bitter cold, the air inside the crowded trailer was stagnant, the odors of urine and perspiration sickening. Babies cried. A kid in the back was begging to go home. An old woman wailed and murmured heart-wrenching prayers as she clung to her rosary beads.

The woman next to Emma slumped against her as her baby pushed away from the woman’s semi-bared breast and began to cry again.

“Would you like me to hold him for a few minutes?” Emma offered, avoiding looking directly at her. Making eye contact created a bond. Emma couldn’t afford a bond, no matter how tenuous.

“She’s a girl,” the young mother said, pulling away the lightweight cotton scarf she’d been using as a privacy shield so that Emma could see the baby’s delicate white dress and tiny yellow trimmed booties. “She’s eight weeks old. Her name is Belle.”

The woman’s voice was weak, her eyes wet and filmy as if covered with transparent gauze.

“She’s beautiful,” Emma said, “and the dress is exquisite.”

“I made it myself for when she sees her papa in Dallas for the first time. I saved as much as I could from every dollar he sent us to live on until I had enough to pay for this trip.”

“Why does she keep crying? Is she sick?”

“She’s hungry.”

“You just fed her.”

“I don’t have enough milk to satisfy her.”

“Didn’t you bring a bottle of formula to supplement?”

“Ningún dinero.”

No money. No doubt she’d spent every cent she could scrape up to get to her baby’s father. Emma had paid three thousand American dollars to be treated like cattle.

“Does your husband know you’re coming?” Emma asked.

She shook her head. “No married, but Juan Perez is a good man. He take care of us in Texas.” Emma assumed the woman wasn’t an American citizen. Why else would she pay to be smuggled into the country? Emma was likely the only citizen amidst this group of desperate elderly people and mothers with children.

Yet she was no less desperate. Her fate in Mexico was certain death. And in America, as well, if the monster found her.

The baby started to cry louder. Poor thing. Emma weighed her own terrifying fears against the baby’s needs. Staying unnoticed was no longer an option.

“This baby is hungry,” Emma called in Spanish over the clattering rattles of the truck. “If you can spare a few sips of milk. Please.”

Finally, a young mother whom Emma had noticed earlier nursing a boy of about six months reached for the baby without a word. A stranger’s hands took Belle and passed the crying infant to the woman. Exhausted from crying, Belle sucked for only a few minutes before falling asleep.

By this time, Belle’s frail mother had slumped against the shoulder of the young man next to her and seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep. Emma took the dozing infant and cuddled her to her own chest.

So precious. So innocent. She hadn’t asked for any of this.

The truck came to a jerking stop and bodies collided with each other like rotting melons. The back door opened and everyone gasped as if choking on the fresh air their lungs craved.

The man in charge, who they knew only as Julio, climbed aboard. “We crossed the border a few miles back. You’re in Texas.”

A cheer went up from the disheveled group.

Tears wet Emma’s eyes. She was back on American soil. A week ago, she’d all but given up hope of that ever happening. Unfortunately, even here she’d have to find a way to change her identity so completely that Emma Muran ceased to exist.

“If you want out now, you’re welcome to haul ass and take off on your own,” Julio continued. “But you’re pretty much in the middle of nowhere. I’ll take you all the way to Dallas if you stay on board, just as promised when you paid and signed on.”

About half of the trailer’s occupants pushed and shoved their way to the door. They knew that the longer they stayed on the truck the more chance they’d have of being stopped by border patrol or other law-enforcement officers and returned to Mexico.

For the most part, the ones who stayed seated had young children with them or were so frail they would have had difficulty making the trek across rough terrain on a freezing night. Even in January, bitter cold like this was extremely rare in South Texas.

Emma considered her options and decided to bolt, though she had no idea where she was. If she was arrested, the agents would immediately recognize that she was an American. She’d be forced to try to explain why a citizen was sneaking back into the country in a despicable human-trafficking operation.

She’d be fingerprinted and identified. And then there would be no avoiding the media blitz that would surround her return. Caudillo would instantly have a hundred men on her trail, and no amount of security could protect her.

The baby stirred in Emma’s arms. She turned to hand Belle back to the mother, but the woman had been shoved to the middle of the trailer, facedown, her arms and legs askew, as if she were a rag doll who’d been dropped and left to lie as she fell.

“What’s the matter with that one?” Julio asked.

Several who’d stayed behind shrugged and shook their heads. Julio climbed into the trailer and turned the young mother over so that she stared at the ceiling with blank, lifeless eyes. “Anybody here with her?”

Emma was about to answer that she was holding the woman’s baby, but a warning stare from the mother who’d nursed the baby silenced her.

“No use to transport the dead.” Julio picked up the body and tossed it off the back of the trailer. “Anyone else feeling sickly?” He smirked at his sick joke.

Belle started to fuss.

Julio turned and stared at Emma as if seeing her for the first time. He leered openly and then smiled as if they shared some private joke. Did he know that the baby in her arms was not hers?

Emma quieted Belle with a gentle rocking movement and avoided eye contact with Julio.

Julio took the gun from the holster at his waist and waved it around, asserting his authority. “The rest of you have five minutes to relieve yourself and stretch. You’ll get food as you climb back into your smelly nests.”

The woman who’d nursed Belle motioned for Emma to follow her into a dense thicket of shrubs, the best they could find in the way of privacy. They took turns holding the babies while the other relieved herself. Emma took her last packaged hand wipe from her pocket, tore it in half and shared it with the woman.

“What will you do with the baby?” the woman asked in Spanish.

“I don’t know.” The enormity of the problem she’d just taken on hit her full force.

“Julio will toss her out like rubbish if he finds out she belongs to the dead woman.”

“But what am I supposed to do with her?”

Suspicion darkened the woman’s eyes. “American?”

Emma shook her head and then shuddered and pulled her colorful rebozo low over her forehead so that only the bangs of her horrid wig showed as she approached the trailer.

Emma had counted on her clothing, the wig and her proficiency with the Spanish language to help her pass for a Mexican national. Otherwise, they would have thought she was an undercover cop or an investigative reporter. Either would have gotten her kicked out.

Julio passed out bottles of water and tortillas filled with bean paste as they reached the truck. Emma took only the water. She had a pocketful of wrapped churros and tortillas she’d bought in the small village where they’d begun their journey. Those would hold her over until she could get to Dallas.

Her other purchases had been made in the city where her escape boat docked. Her first purchase had been the wiry black wig she was wearing. In the same department store, she’d purchased the long colorful skirt, a Mexican-style white shirt, a bra, panties and basic hygiene items.

She’d quickly changed out of the long silk dress she’d been wearing when she escaped the monster. The better she blended in with the populations in the small villages she’d be traveling through, the better her chances of staying alive.

She’d bought the handmade rebozo at the last village for the explicit purpose of covering her head so that little of the wig could be seen beneath the bunched cotton shawl. It was the only protection she had now from the icy wind.

Julio grabbed her arm as she scrambled back into the trailer, forcing her to face him for a few seconds before he released his grip. His leering, lustful stare made her skin crawl.

“Guess we’re ready to roll,” Julio said. He jumped off the back of the trailer and slammed the doors shut.

Minutes later, the engine sputtered back to life and the jerky, bumpy ride began again. Only now Emma held the baby of a dead woman in her arms. How in the world did she ever expect to take care of a helpless infant when she was on the run?

Belle squirmed and balled her tiny hands into fists, swinging them into the air and twisting her lips into a pitiful pout. Emma trailed a finger down the baby’s smooth cheek. Belle seemed soothed by the touch.

A quivery sensation stirred deep inside Emma, as if Belle had latched herself to Emma’s heart.

* * *

WOOD SMOKE CURLED FROM the chimney and filled Damien’s nostrils as he stamped the mud from his feet and climbed onto the back porch of the sprawling ranch house. His brother Durk appeared before he reached the door, carrying an armload of firewood from the nearby shed. Damien held the door for him.

“I wondered when you’d give it up and get out of that sleet,” Durk said.

“Had to move cattle into one of the closer pastures in case that snow they’re promising actually develops.”

“Don’t you have wranglers for that?”

“I had them all working most of the day, too. This is a ranch, not that plush suite of offices you work in, bro.”

“Don’t think I don’t know it. Cows are much easier to deal with than corporate policy and endless regulations.”

Durk was the CEO of Lambert Inc, and spent only his weekends at the ranch. But Damien didn’t let up on him. “Don’t worry, if it snows tonight, you’ll be recruited for ranch-hand duty in the morning,” he said. “When did you get here?”

“About an hour ago. I would have been here sooner, but there was a major traffic jam coming out of Dallas. Bridges and overpasses are already icing over. Not a fit night out for man nor beast, with the exception of polar bears—and there’s not a lot of them wondering around North Texas.”

“It’s awful quiet around here. Where is everybody?”

“Grandma’s back in her suite. Aunt Sybil is in her room watching TV and sipping her afternoon sherry. And Tague is chauffeuring Mother. I told him to be careful driving in this.”

“Where did they go?”

“Just over to the Double R.”

“In this weather? Whatever for?”

“To take Mildred and Hank Ross some of the beef-and-vegetable soup she made this afternoon. Apparently Mildred’s been sick, and you know Mother. She thinks she has to look out for the whole county.”

“When did they leave?”

“Just after I arrived, but they were going to stop off and try to persuade Karen Legasse to come stay with us until the weather improves.”

“That would make for an interesting weekend,” Damien said. “You and your ex-girlfriend snowed in together.”

“Ex is the operative word there,” Durk said. “She’s married now, with a baby. No way am I going near that, even if the sparks hadn’t cooled to ice.”

“It may be over between you two,” Damien said, “but she and Mother are closer than ever. Karen shows up at the Bent Pine almost as often as the mailman.”

Damien went to the coffeepot and filled a mug with the hot brew. “Where is Mark the Magnificent?”

“Apparently dear hubby is in L.A. for a meeting.”

“And missing all the poopy diapers. Those rich investment types know how to suffer.”

Damien lifted the lid off the big pot on the back burner of the range. The heady aroma of onions, stewed tomatoes and spices filled the room. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of his mother’s famous homemade soup.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” Damien said, “unless you need help bringing in logs.” With three fireplaces in the rambling old house—they could burn a lot of wood on a cold weekend.

“I’ve got it covered,” Durk said. “And then I’ll get to those boxes in the attic Mother asked me to bring down.”

“The attic is full of boxes. Did she say which ones she wants?”

“Yeah. The ones she scooted next to the opening.”

“I’ll get started on the boxes,” Damien said. “The shower can wait a few more minutes.”

Not that he liked the idea of his mother spending another long weekend buried in grief and memories. Since his father’s death, she’d spent far too much time going through old chests, boxes and trunks. It was as if she were trying to hold on to him by reliving every moment of their past.

Damien had no need for pictures or mementos. His father was so much a part of the ranch that he felt his presence every minute of the day. That didn’t lessen his pain or the regret that he’d never had a chance to tell his dad how much he loved and appreciated him. The two of them had tended to leave too many good things unsaid.

He finished his coffee, deposited the cup on the counter and took the stairs to the second floor. Once in the hallway, he reached for the overhead grip and pulled down the ladder. He climbed quickly to the dusty attic. Dusk was closing in fast, and he switched on the light to dispel the shadows.

His mother had four cardboard boxes and one sturdy metal file box that resembled an old-fashioned safe piled near the rectangular opening. He’d never noticed the metal safe in the attic before.

He scanned the area and realized that the large black trunk in the back corner was standing open. That trunk had been padlocked for as long as he could remember.

In fact, once when he and Durk were kids and had been playing hide-and-seek in the attic, they’d made up a horror tale about a body being buried in that banged-up old trunk.

His curiosity piqued again, Damien walked over to the trunk. One side of it was empty, a space easily large enough to have accommodated the metal safe.

The rest of the trunk held a half dozen or so old photo albums. He picked one up and opened the tattered cover. He didn’t recognize anyone in the picture, but one of the men was definitely a Lambert, an older version of Hugh.

One of the photos had fallen loose from the old-fashioned black tabs that had held it in place. Damien turned it over and read the names of the people in the picture. The man in work coveralls was Damien’s great-great-grandfather, Oliver Lambert, the original owner of the Bent Pine Ranch.

Hugh had made sure Damien and his brothers knew all about the blood, sweat, tears and glory that had gone into building this ranch. The man standing beside Oliver was Damien’s great-grandfather as a young man.

Damien picked up a new photo album, this one not quite as old. He slipped one of the pictures from its tabs. Again the names were written on the back of the photo.

Damien’s great-grandfather was standing beside a magnificent black stallion. The boy in the saddle was Damien’s grandfather. The house in the background was the same as the one Damien was in right now, although several wings had been added over the years.

Alive and dead, the Lambert roots extended deep into the earth of Bent Pine Ranch. His ancestors were buried in a cemetery near the chapel that Damien’s great-great-grandfather had built for his own wedding. All the succeeding Lambert weddings, including Damien’s parents’, had been solemnized in that same small, weathered chapel.

If Damien ever married, he’d hopefully continue the tradition. The “if” loomed larger every day. Not that Damien hadn’t dated. He’d just never clicked with a woman the way he figured a guy should click with someone he intended to spend the rest of his life with.

Damien closed the trunk but didn’t bother to latch the padlock. He made quick work of delivering the boxes to his mother’s bedroom.

That done, he made a last trip up the ladder, picked up the portable safe and muttered a curse as the lid fell open. Files and loose papers scattered about the floor, a few floating through the attic opening to the hallway below. He stared for a few seconds, tempted to leave the mess until tomorrow. It wasn’t like his mother would get to all the boxes tonight.

But his father had taught him too well. If a job needed doing, do it right and do it now.

Damien stooped to his haunches and began to gather the scattered papers. There were baptismal records, old report cards, outdated contracts and files containing yellowed documents. He checked the date on a receipt for fifty head of cattle. He’d paid more than that for the last bull he’d purchased at auction.

The receipt was dated thirty-one years ago, thirteen months before he was born. He figured the old records would make interesting reading over a cold weekend.

Working quickly, he gathered the loose papers by the handful and slid them into the box without putting them in any kind of order or attempting to return them to the correct files. He paused when an old birth certificate caught his eye.

The name of the baby boy was Damien Briggs, almost identical to his name, except that he was Damien Briggs Lambert. Briggs was his mother’s maiden name.

The date of birth was exactly the same as his. He found that uncannily weird. He kept reading.

The mother was listed as Melissa Briggs. The father was unnamed. The Melissa in question must have been his mother’s sister. His mother seldom talked about her family, but she had mentioned a sister named Melissa who’d died years ago.

Somehow Damien had gotten the impression that Melissa had died when she was only a child, but apparently not so if she’d given birth to a boy on the same day he’d been born.

So where was this first cousin that Damien had never heard mentioned? Had he died in the accident that had also killed his mother?

Damien read the names and dates again. Disturbing possibilities surfaced. Was it possible that he and Damien Briggs were one and the same? Could it be that his real mother was Melissa Briggs?

No. Carolina was his mother. Hugh was his father. He’d seen his own birth certificate.

Still, the troubling suspicions refused to dislodge themselves from his mind. Acquiring a fake birth certificate listing himself as the father would have been no sweat at all for a man with the political clout of Hugh Lambert.

But then again, Hugh would never give his name to a son who wasn’t his. Case closed.

His mother’s voice drifted from the kitchen. She was home. Damien should just confront her with the birth certificate. She’d clear up the confusion. It would be over and done with.

But if his suspicions were on target, it would explain why Hugh had frequently treated him like a wild horse that he’d captured but didn’t really want in his fold.

More disturbed than he was willing to admit, Damien carried the safe downstairs and left it sitting on the coffee table. He marched out the front door, pulling it shut tight behind him.

Flakes of snow fell on his shirt and in his hair. A frigid cold settled in his bones, but he didn’t go back for his jacket. Instead, he walked toward the horse barn.

He needed to be alone to think. He needed to escape the confines of the house and to ride the open spaces of a ranch that might not really be his legacy at all.


Chapter Two

The truck jerked to a stop. Bodies squirmed and stretched. Belle balled her tiny hands into fists and swung them in the air as if she sensed the excitement growing around her.

The back doors squeaked open and a welcoming burst of fresh but frigid air filled Emma’s lungs. The darkness of night had set in completely since their last stop. She cuddled Belle closer inside the folds of her rebozo.

“El fin de la línea,” Julio called.

The end of the line. They’d made it safely.

An elderly man near the door stuck his head out and then frowned. “No Dallas.”

“Esto es Dallas, anciano,” Julio insisted.

But they were clearly not in the city. Others began to voice their fears.

“Estamos en Dallas?”

“Espero que no sea probemas.”

“Tonto,” Julio quipped. “If I let you out in the middle of town, you’d be arrested in minutes. You can see the highway from here,” he shouted over their complaints. “Catch a ride into town or walk. You’ll be in the outskirts of Dallas in less than a mile.”

Emma didn’t complain. If he was telling the truth, she could make that even carrying Belle. As soon as she came to a convenience store, she’d call for a cab and have it take her to the nearest cheap motel.

The grumbling and curses continued, making it clear that the occupants didn’t trust Julio. Not that they could do anything about it.

Emma placed Belle on her lap while she gathered her rebozo and wound it around her as she’d seen other mothers do, knotting it into a sling so that it would keep Belle cuddled against her chest and leave both hands free as she climbed from the trailer.

The woman who’d befriended her and fed Belle pushed a plastic bag holding a pacifier into Emma’s hand. “This one is sterile. To comfort the infant until you find milk.”

“Gracias.” Emma slipped the wrapped pacifier into the deep layered folds of her wrap and reached for the paper bag that held her new purchases.

Julio grabbed Emma’s arm when she reached the door and yanked her back into the trailer. “You stay.”

Her stomach rolled. Not this. Not again. “The baby,” she whispered, as if that would make a difference to this beast.

He shoved her against the wall. “Do as I say or you won’t be getting out of here alive.”

One of the men looked back, shame in his eyes that he didn’t have the strength or the courage to stand up for her. She avoided meeting his gaze, not wanting him to get shot on her account.

Dread ebbed through her veins. Would she never be free?

Once the trailer was empty except for her and Belle, Julio shoved her against the wall and slammed the double doors shut. A few minutes later, they were bouncing along again, litter left by the former occupants rolling and scratching along the floor.

Emma’s body was jerked around like a marionette, and she struggled to make certain it was just her shoulders and elbows that banged into the side of the trailer and not Belle’s head.

Belle began to cry and Emma offered her the pacifier. The baby continued to wail, fighting the nipple. Eventually she locked her lips around it and stopped fretting.

Emma fought the growing panic as the truck rumbled along. The thought of rape made her violently ill. But how could she fight him off? Julio was twice her size and carrying a weapon.

Had she escaped ten months of captivity only to be raped and killed by some half-drunk thug on a deserted road? And if she was, what would happen to Belle?

The answer to that was too heartbreaking to consider. Emma would have to find a way to save them.

Unfortunately, no miraculous ideas came to mind.

Belle was sleeping when the truck bolted and then jerked to a stop. Emma’s heart jumped to her throat when the doors clanked and rattled open. She jumped up as Julio climbed inside, the illumination from his flashlight in the confines of the trailer casting a demonlike glow about his face.

An owl hooted in the distance. The wind whistled through the tops of trees. But there were no highway sounds. No lights behind him. No sign of anyone to hear if she screamed for help.

Julio moved toward her, the smell of whiskey strong on his fetid breath. “Put the baby on the floor,” he demanded, “and then lie down on your back.”

“You don’t want to do this,” she said.

“Sure I do, mujerzuela.”

She shook her head at the cruel taunt. “I’m not a slut. Please, I’m a mother. Let me be. I paid my money.”

“I’ll let you be when I’m done with you. Do as I say and I won’t hurt you or the baby. Cause trouble and you both die here. Now, put the baby down and spread your legs.”

It was foolish to try to fight him. It would get her hurt or killed. Then the monster Caudillo would have won without even being here.

She was still standing when Julio put his hand beneath her skirt and trailed his hand along her thigh, inching closer to her intimate areas. Emma’s insides rebelled and her instincts took over. Her knee flew up and caught him in the crotch. He yelped and staggered backward. She swung at him and her fingernails dug into the flesh below his left eye, leaving two bloody trails.

He muttered curses and recovered his balance, slapping her so hard her brain seemed to rattle in her skull. Belle began to wail. If Emma didn’t stop now, the baby would surely get hurt.

She was about to give in when she spotted the sharp blade of a knife he grasped with his right hand.

“Please, no. The baby needs me.”

He spit in her direction, the spittle falling short and landing near her feet. “Should I cut your pretty throat or just shred your face so that you never tempt another man again?”

“Please. Mercy. Please.”

He dabbed at the blood on his face with the dirty cuff of his sleeve and then swung at her. The knife slashed her left arm a few inches above the elbow, barely missing Belle.

Julio swung again, but this time he missed completely and lost his balance when the blade connected with nothing but air.

Bracing herself with her left arm against the side of the trailer, she got in a quick kick that struck him in the back of the knee. He fell facedown onto the hard, filthy floor.

Emma scurried to jump out the back door. Expecting to hear Julio’s footsteps behind her or the sound of a gunshot, she didn’t look back until she reached the cover of trees and brush at the side of the narrow dirt road where they were parked. To her amazement, there was no sign of Julio.

She shuddered at the icy sting of the wind in her face and the feel of warm blood running down her arm. Working quickly, she tightened the rebozo around the wound, hoping the pressure would slow the bleeding.

Belle started to cry. Emma fought back her own tears of fear and frustration. She had had no idea which way she should go, but she stumbled ahead, vaguely aware of the snowflakes sifting through the canopy of pine needles and melting against her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around Belle and held her close in a futile effort to keep her warm.

Finally, she stepped into a clearing and spied a stretch of barbed-wire fencing. Relief pumped a reviving surge of adrenaline though her veins. If there was a fence, civilization couldn’t be that far away. Her pace quickened with her pulse.

Careful not to let the barbs touch Belle’s tender skin, Emma stretched the top wire so that she could maneuver through the fence and step into the tree-dotted pasture.

Something rustled in the grass behind her, and Emma took off running, terrified that Julio might be mere steps behind her. She didn’t stop running until she was panting for breath and her legs felt like they were about to give way and send her slamming to the ground.

Her heart still pounding, she fell against the trunk of a towering pine tree. Belle began to fret, and her fussing quickly escalated to a wail.

With her back against the scratchy bark of the tree trunk, Emma slowly sank to the ground. Her fingers searched and found the pacifier nestled in the deep folds of her rebozo. She poked the nipple into Belle’s mouth. This time Belled quickly locked her lips around it. But in in a few short minutes, she spit it out.

Belle began to wail again. Emma closed her eyes and pictured herself in a comfortable rocker, cuddling Belle while the hungry infant fed on nourishing formula. Heat from logs blazing in a stone fireplace warmed them both, so real she could smell the odor of burning wood.

The sound of galloping hooves penetrated her consciousness. She opened her eyes and jerked to attention, but there was no horse in sight.

Like the fire and the rocker, it was only her imagination. No one would be out riding after dark on a night like this. No hero was going to come to her rescue.

She forced herself back to her feet. If she fell asleep with only illusions of comfort, the helpless infant in her arms might die before morning from the cold if not from hunger.

* * *

THE WIND WAS PUNISHING even though the old leather work jacket Damien had taken from the tack room protected him from the worst of the cold.

He’d ridden hard, letting King go full speed across the familiar trails just the way the steed loved it. Fortunately, the ride had given Damien a chance to lower his aggravation level and ease his suspicions.

This wasn’t like the disagreements he used to have with his dad. Riding hard wouldn’t negate the questions. The answers would have to come from his mother. No doubt she’d be able to explain everything. And most likely he’d overreacted and none of it would have anything to do with him.

Sisters might easily decide to give their sons identical names if they’d given birth on the exact same day. One thing he knew for certain: his mother would never have willingly shut her sister’s son out of her life. Either that son was dead or his father had kept Carolina away from her nephew.

Unless Damien’s mother harbored family secrets so terrifying and depraved that she’d kept them hidden all these years. …

The thought of his mother with deep, dark secrets was so inconceivable it was almost laughable. Honesty was practically synonymous with the name Carolina Lambert in their part of their country. So was charity and friendship.

The snow fell harder, huge flakes that were beginning to cover the winter feed grass. In some parts of the country, the first snowfall of the season was a rite of passage into winter. In Dallas, they sometimes went years without a decent snowfall. This one just might be it, though it wouldn’t stay on the ground long. Warmer weather was forecasted to arrive in a couple of days.

He turned King back toward the ranch, letting him choose his own pace, until Damien spotted a young buck drinking from Beaver Creek. He reined in King and admired the stately deer. It looked totally at ease with the weather, though the wind wailed through the pine needles like a tomcat. Or like a baby.

Too much like a baby.

Damien’s senses sharpened. He stretched in the saddle and spotted a woman, her shoulders stooped, trudging along in the opposite direction. He quickly caught up with her. When she turned around, he noticed that all she had for warmth was a shawl wrapped around her and the wailing infant she cuddled close to her chest.

What the devil was she doing out here with a baby on a night like this? Damien scanned the area for trouble as he climbed from the saddle.

“Are you alone?” he asked as he shed his jacket.

She nodded. “Yes, but please don’t hurt me.”

Fear bled into her pleading voice. The accent was clearly American and Southern. “I have no intention of hurting you. How did you get here?”

“I…I ran my car into a ditch. I saw the fence and hoped there was a house nearby where I could find shelter. The baby is cold.”

“There’s no highway out here.”

“There is a road,” she protested. “I just left it.”

“An old logging road, but no one drives on that in a car. It’s full of ruts and dangerous potholes.”

“I know that now. But it was dark when I turned onto it and I mistook it for a driveway.”

He slipped his jacket over her shoulders.

It practically swallowed her. He was six feet tall and broad shouldered. She was a good six or seven inches shorter and petite. The jacket would keep her and the baby both warm until he could get her out of the weather.

She winced as he tugged the jacket tighter. He looked down and spotted the crimson stain on her wrap.

“You’re injured.”

“It’s nothing, just a scratch.”

But it had bled too much to be a mere scratch. Her story of the ditched car sounded more suspect by the minute. “Are you sure someone didn’t dump you out here?”

“I told you, I lost control of my car and now it’s stuck in a muddy ditch. I must have caught my arm on the fence when I climbed through the strings of barbed wire.”

She turned away, clearly not wanting to say more. He wouldn’t push the issue yet.

“Here, let me help you onto the horse. You and the baby can ride. I’ll keep the reins and walk beside you. We don’t have far to go.”

“Where are you taking us?”

“To a roaring fire where you and the baby can get warm. What is it anyway, a boy or a girl?”

“A girl. Her name is Belle.” She looked around. “Where am I?”

“On Bent Pine Ranch.”

“In Dallas?”

“Actually, you’re in a tiny community known as Oak Grove, but Dallas is the closest city.”

“How far are we from the city limits?”

“About twenty miles as the crow flies. Thirty miles if you’re not flapping your wings. Where were you going anyway?”

“To visit my aunt, but I must have made a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Maybe several. Where does she live?”

“On the outskirts of Dallas.”

“That covers a lot of territory.”

He helped the woman into the saddle and then zipped the jacket with both her and the baby inside the cocoon of warmth. “My name’s Damien,” he said, once they started toward the ranch house.

“I’m Emma.”

“Do you have a last name?”

She hesitated a tad too long to be believable.

“Smith… Emma Smith.”

That beat Jane Doe, but not by much. The swaying rhythm of King’s walk seemed to calm the baby. In minutes, she stopped crying altogether.

Questions about his own past withdrew to the back corners of Damien’s mind as the focus of his attention shifted to the more immediate concern of aiding the mystery woman and child.

He didn’t fully buy the ditched-car story, though he couldn’t come up with any more logical reason for her to be out in his pasture on a night like this.

It didn’t matter at this point. The woman and the baby needed help. Even if she was lying, he had no choice but to take them home with him.

* * *

EMMA STUDIED THE COWBOY walking beside her. He was ruggedly handsome, with a chiseled jawline, a classic nose and hair that jutted out over his forehead from beneath a worn Western hat. Masculine. Virile.

Protective. She’d never appreciated that quality in a man more than she did right now.

Hopefully he wasn’t the overly inquisitive kind. If he did ask questions, she’d have no choice but to elaborate on her original lie. If she told the truth, he’d call the cops.

Not that she wouldn’t like to sic the law on Julio, but publicity of any kind would make it that much easier for Caudillo to find her.

“You picked a bad night for traveling,” Damien said. “The bridges and overpasses are all slick and icy.”

“I didn’t expect it to turn this bad when I left home.” That was the understatement of a lifetime. She’d left last March, expecting a week in paradise. She’d gotten ten months in hell.

“Where are you from?” Damien asked.

“Originally or now?”

“Now.”

“Victoria, Texas.” Another lie, but she’d heard someone in the trailer mention it and she knew it was south of Houston.

“Where are you from originally?”

“Nashville,” she said, this time answering truthfully. She hadn’t lived there since…since the last major upheaval in her life.

The smell of burning wood grew stronger. She hadn’t imagined it earlier. A few minutes later, she caught her first glimpse of smoke rising from three chimneys that accentuated the steep lines of a multi-gabled roof.

The house was two-storied and sprawled out in several directions, as if it had stretched over the open land like creeping phlox.

“Who owns the ranch?” she asked as they drew nearer.

“The Lamberts.”

He surely wasn’t a Lambert, not wearing the tattered leather jacket he’d lent her. More likely he was just a working cowboy. “Where do you live?”

“You’re looking at it.”

That surprised her. “Do you and your wife have children?”

“Nope. No children. No wife, either.”

“So, how many people live in the house?”

“Six when we’re all present and accounted for.”

“That sounds like a houseful.”

“Always room for one more.”

“I won’t be staying,” she said quickly. “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can get a ride to the nearest motel. Any will do.”

“You’re nowhere near a motel, and you’d be hard-pressed to find transportation into town tonight. Even if you could, I wouldn’t recommend it. You might end up worse than merely in a ditch. Besides, there’s plenty of room here.”

As they approached the house, she was even more awed by its sheer size. But that wasn’t all it had going for it.

A large glass-enclosed porch extended across part of the back of the house. The lamps were turned on and their soft glow fell across sofas, rockers, hooked rugs, potted plants and baskets in all shapes and sizes. A round table in the middle of the room held a huge winter arrangement of greenery, berries and cones.

To the left of that was a covered entryway that led into the house, and to the left of that were wide, uncovered windows that opened into a massive kitchen filled with people. Evidently, they were enjoying a late dinner.

Damien stopped at the base of a winter-bare oak near the back of the house. He took the reins and looped them over a low branch, securing the horse before reaching to help Emma dismount.

Anxiety swelled inside her. There would surely be questions. They’d know she was lying. They might just call the sheriff and have him come pick her up. All it would take was a fingerprint check and then there would be no hiding from the glare of the media.

Woman Kidnapped While Vacationing in the Caribbean Islands Escapes, the headline would read.

No one escaped Caudillo and lived to tell about it.

Damien’s touch was firm but gentle. “Relax,” he said, obviously sensing her nervousness. “The Lamberts can be a cantankerous bunch, but they don’t bite. You’re safe.”

Safe. Even the sound of the word made her breath catch. But the safety Damien or the Lamberts could provide was only temporary, little more than an illusion.

* * *

SURPRISINGLY, THE ANXIETY eased the second Emma stepped into the kitchen. The warmth, the odors, the easy chatter and laughter among the people gathered around the scarred oak farmhouse table was the total opposite of what she’d lived with for much of the past year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lucky for me and Belle that he did.”

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belle began to wail.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Similac.”

“Now, that’s luck,” Sybil said.

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

“Indeed he does,” Carolina agreed.

“I’ll go stoke the fire,” Tague said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grandma Pearl left the table and joined them at the counter. “Don’t you think you should call your aunt?”

“I will once I’ve fed Belle. She’s not actually expecting me until tomorrow, but when the weather forecast said snow in Dallas tonight, I decided to come up a day early. I’d planned to make it before dark, but the Friday afternoon traffic was much worse than I’d expected.”

“Is that blood on your arm?” Sybil asked.

Emma had tried to position the rebozo so that no one would notice the blood, but there was no hiding the fact now.

“I scratched my arm while climbing through the fence,” she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“It looks like you lost a lot of blood to me,” Sybil said. “You better let someone take a look at it.”

“It’s okay, really.”

“It needs to be checked,” Damien said, the authority in his voice leaving little room for argument.

“Okay,” she agreed. “As soon as I finish feeding Belle.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t wait that long,” Carolina said. “You may still be losing blood. Sybil and I can handle feeding Belle or at least get started at it while Damien checks your injury. There’s a fully stocked first-aid kit in the hall bathroom.”

“Tague, how about taking care of King for me?” Damien asked. “I left her just outside the back door.”

“No problem. I’ll tuck her in for the night.”

Reluctantly, Emma unwound Belle from the folds of cloth so that she could hand the baby to Carolina. Placing Belle in Carolina’s hands made her uneasy, though Carolina surely knew more about tending to a baby’s needs than Emma did.

What she knew about babies could be composed in a tweet.

A tweet. It had been months since she’d even thought about that social form of communication. Caudillo had made sure she hadn’t had access to the internet, a phone or anything else that could have connected her to the outside world.

He, on the other hand, came and went freely on his yacht and small plane as if he were your ordinary multibillionaire CEO.

When Emma looked up, her nerves tightened to coiled steel. The look in Damien’s eyes said he had more on his mind than first aid.

He hadn’t given her away, but he was not fooled by her performance. She’d be lucky if he didn’t call the sheriff and have her picked up before he bandaged her arm.


Chapter Three

Emma followed Damien down the hallway to the sounds of Carolina crooning to Belle behind them.

She glanced around the room. Heavy wooden bookshelves lined two walls, and bulbs of blooming paper-white narcissus rested on a wide window ledge. The drapes were open, revealing a glimpse of falling snow.

Emma suspected it was Carolina’s taste that spilled so gracefully over the decor—soft, earthy colors, intricate moldings, paintings of hunting dogs on the walls. Silver-framed family pictures were scattered like valuable trinkets among the books.

Damien motioned her to an overstuffed armchair in a muted plaid that sat near the window next to a beautifully crafted antique end table. She rearranged the throw pillows and settled into the chair, certain her web of lies was going to spin out of control at any minute.

“There’s no use for you to bother with this,” she said. “If you’ll point me to the bathroom and give me a Band-Aid and a tube of antiseptic, I can take care of it myself.”

“Remove the shawl.”

Damien’s tone suggested he was used to being in control, or perhaps he was just tired of playing rescuer. She yanked impatiently at the wrap, tightening instead of loosening the knot that had secured Belle.

“Let me help you with that,” Damien said, his tone not quite as brusque as before. Before she could protest, he leaned in close and his hands brushed hers as he took hold of the looped fabric.

His touch ripped along her nerves, partly the automatic cringe she’d developed to the nearness of Caudillo. But there was also a heady factor involved that she couldn’t explain, perhaps an instinctive reaction of a desperate woman to her rescuer.

“You’re as tangled as a calf in a downed mesquite tree,” Damien quipped.

“I’m sorry. Just cut it. It’s going straight to the trash anyway.”

“Good idea.” He walked to a mahogany desk on the other side of the room and took a pair of scissors from the top drawer. “You might have bled a lot more if you hadn’t had the shawl putting pressure against the cut.”

“I’m surprised it bled as much as it did,” she said. “I’m sure the cut isn’t bad or I’d be in a lot more pain.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll just clean the injury, apply some antiseptic, bandage the tear and you’ll be back in business. But I’m guessing it’s going to need stitches.”

Stitches were not an option. She couldn’t deal with all the questions the E.R. personnel would ask. Besides, she no longer had health insurance, and even if she had, she couldn’t give them her real name.

The money she’d stolen from Caudillo wouldn’t last long if she started paying for visits to the E.R.

“Stitches at this time of night would require a trip to an emergency room,” she argued. “You said yourself it’s not safe to drive the roads.”

“I’m not planning to drive to an E.R. Doc Benson lives on an adjoining spread. We can get there by a four-wheeler if we have to.”

“I’m sure the doctor doesn’t work from his living room.”

“He usually works from my barn, but he’ll likely make an exception in your case.”

“From your barn?”

“Yep. He’s an equine vet, best one in the county. Sewing a few stitches in you would be easy work. I’m guessing you don’t have the kick of a pissed-off quarter horse.”

The vet would no doubt provide better medical care than she’d have gotten with Caudillo. She’d contracted some type of viral infection in September that had sent her fever soaring so high she’d become delusional. Even then he hadn’t taken her to a doctor.

Fortunately, the sickness ran its course and she recovered with no lasting effects except a stronger determination than ever to escape the monster.

Damien cut through the fabric and the shawl finally fell loose—all except the last layers of cotton that were soaked with blood. Finally, even that was removed and she got her first look at the injury.

The wound gaped open, revealing exposed tissue. She swallowed hard, fighting off a wave of nausea.

“You definitely need stitches,” Damien said. “But I’ve never seen a tear from barbed wire that was this clean-cut. It looks more like it was done with a surgeon’s scalpel or at least a very sharp knife.” Suspicion edged his voice.

“My one small glimmer of luck,” Emma said. “A clean cut will make it easier to stitch and heal.”

She tried to sound confident, although she was shaking inside. Julio could have easily killed her and Belle in that truck or in the woods if he’d caught up with her. Now that she was thinking more clearly, she found it almost impossible to believe she’d escaped him or Caudillo.

She was a living miracle, and she planned to do whatever it took to keep on living. If that meant lying to Damien, so be it. If it meant spitting in the face of the devil himself, she’d do that, too.

Damien leaned in closer. “How did you really wind up in my pasture tonight?”

“I explained all of that. I was searching for help.”

“Look at me, Emma.”

She forced herself to meet his steely gaze.

“Tell me the truth. Did someone do this to you?”

“No one attacked me,” she said.

“You don’t have to be afraid to tell the truth.”

Maybe not in Damien’s world. “I’ve told you the truth.”

“Okay,” he acknowledged, although it was clear he wasn’t buying it. “I’ll give Doc Benson a call. It may be a while before he can see you, so we should go ahead and clean and bandage the wound. Have you had a tetanus booster lately?”

“Last March.”

“Was that because of an injury?”

“No. I was traveling out of the country. …” Another slip. There was nothing to do but finish the statement. “I was just going on vacation, but my doctor checked my records and recommended the booster.”

“Where did you go?”

“Italy,” she lied. Too bad she hadn’t gone there like she’d originally planned instead of letting her friend Dorothy talk her into island-hopping in the Caribbean.

“Okay, let’s go to the bathroom and get this cleaned up.”

Once in the bathroom, Damien excused himself for a minute to make a quick call to his vet friend. She stared out the window, thinking how changed the world looked when coated with snow. That’s what she needed—a way to white out the ugliness she’d endured these past months, a chance to go on with her life.

Damien returned quickly and slipped his hands into a pair of latex gloves.

“Good news. You don’t have to get out in the cold again. Benson’s coming here. In the meantime, he said to flush the wound with a saline solution and wash it with Betadine.”

“Do you have that on hand?”

“Yep. And he said to be careful with the arm and eat some of Mother’s soup. You need the nourishment.

“Oh, and Mother said to tell you that she’d bring you a sweat suit if you want to wash up and change into something dry and comfortable before you eat. The clothes are hers, so they’ll be a little large.”

“That would be great.”

She sat perfectly still as he washed the blood and the grime of the day from the area around the cut. She contemplated the strange turn of events. An hour ago, she’d been freezing cold and cloaked in fear and dread. Now she was being catered to and tended as if she were a princess who’d been dropped into a cowboy castle—even if the prince didn’t totally believe her.

A few days of this and her belief in the goodness of man might make a comeback. But she didn’t have a few days. She’d have to leave first thing in the morning, before Damien discovered that there was no car in a ditch anywhere near where he’d found her.

In the meantime, she might as well enjoy her freedom and the comfort the Lamberts provided. Even if all she had to offer in return was lies.

* * *

DAMIEN HAD KNOWN BLAKE Benson since they were in fifth grade and Blake’s father had bought the small spread that backed up to theirs. They’d been best friends all through school, even shared a condo the first two years they were at Texas A&M University.

They’d hunted together, fished together, drunk together and had a few major disagreements—mostly over politics or love. In college, they had tended to fall for the same females.

That was no longer a concern, since Blake was happily married and the father of three. Damien had practically given up hope of finding a woman he wanted to roll in the hay with until they were too old for rolling or pitching hay.

Other than his brothers, there wasn’t a man on earth Damien trusted more than Blake. Now that Emma was stitched and back in the kitchen with Carolina, Damien was eager to hear what Blake had to say about her and her injury. But first, the necessary small talk.

“How’s the family?” Damien asked as he walked Blake to his black pickup truck.

“Sylvia’s great. She’s deliriously excited about the prospect of helping the twins build their first snowman.”

“And the baby?”

“Jenna’s a handful. She’s teething, and little miss prima donna is making sure we all know that she doesn’t like discomfort.”

“Isn’t she a little young to get teeth?”

“She’s six months. Scooting around at the speed of light and with an attitude.”

“And has her dad wrapped around her finger.”

“You know it. So tell me about Emma Smith.”

“You know as much as I do,” Damien admitted.

“A sexy phantom who appeared in your pasture on a snowy night? That’s the stuff of fantasies.”

“If you leave out the part about having a baby and the suspicious tale of a ditched car and tearing her arm on the barbed wire.”

“I have to admit that I’ve never seen that exact kind of injury from getting caught on a barb.”

“I thought the same thing,” Damien said. “I questioned her about it, but she didn’t budge.”

“What do you think happened?” Blake asked.

“My guess is that she had a fight with a violent husband or boyfriend who kicked her out of the car.”

“That would have to be a mean son of a bitch to toss a woman and a baby out on a night like this,” Blake said.

“Or someone so high on booze or drugs that he didn’t realize the seriousness of his actions.”

“Emma seems too classy to hang out with trash like that,” Blake said. “Good manners, better grammar than me, a lady all the way. Mysterious and damn good-looking.”

“You noticed.”

“I’m married, not dead.”

“I’m not dead, either, but I’m not buying her story.” He was intrigued by Emma, though, and not sure why. In his book, lying was one of the biggest turnoffs around—unless she had a very good reason. Like fear of the man who had sliced his brand into her arm.

“One thing for sure, Carolina is taken with that baby,” Blake said. “She even called Sylvia and asked her to send over some of Jenna’s outgrown baby clothes. Sylvia had me bring a boxful with me.”

“You know Mother. She can’t resist a good charity case—or a baby.”

Blake opened the truck door and tossed his black satchel to the passenger seat. “I don’t look for Emma to have any trouble with the arm, but she should probably get it checked out tomorrow just in case. She might even appreciate a people doc.”

“I’ll take her into urgent care out on the highway once the roads clear up.”

“And keep me posted on the continuing saga of Cowboy Rescues Mysterious Woman and Child.”

“You mean, like whether or not there really is a car in a ditch on a road Emma should have never been on?”

“That, and what it’s like sleeping with a beautiful stranger.”

“You are into fantasies tonight.”

“Snow makes me a romantic, which is why I’m heading straight home to my own gorgeous wife.”

Damien stood in the falling snow as Blake drove away, his mind cluttered with the strange turn the evening had taken. The birth certificate that created troubling doubts. A rescue in the snow.

The first could hopefully be cleared up with a conversation when things settled down and he had some time alone with his mother. As for the mystery surrounding Emma Smith, that wasn’t really his concern.

He’d brought her and her baby to the house. They were warm and safe. That should be the end of his involvement.

So why couldn’t he shake her and her problems from his mind?

* * *

CAROLINA OPENED THE DOOR and ushered Emma into the first-floor guest suite. It was in the west wing of the sprawling house, away from the living area and the noise that entailed, and with a terrific view of the swimming pool and its surrounding gardens.

The suite had been two small rooms when she’d married Hugh, and the pool had been an ugly concrete hole in the ground with no redeeming features. Still, the house and everything about the Bent Pine Ranch had seemed incredibly luxurious to Carolina.

Emma paused in the doorway, a sleeping Belle cradled in her arms. “This is where you want me to spend the night?”

“Is something wrong, dear?”

“No. I’m awed. This is like something from a home-decorating magazine—only far more inviting.”

“I like to make my guests comfortable,” Carolina said, pleased that Emma appreciated the efforts she’d put into creating the hideaway.

“I’m afraid I’m more an intruder than a guest,” Emma said.

“Nonsense. You were unexpected, but you and Belle brightened a cold, snowy night. I shudder to think what might have happened if Damien hadn’t gone out one last time and run into you. It was meant to be.”

Carolina crossed the room and touched the back of the antique cradle that had been handed down through three generations of Lamberts. “I hope Belle likes her accommodations.”

Emma stared at the cradle, obviously noticing it for the first time. She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, and Carolina could see the moisture glistening in her soft violet eyes.

“I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s fit for a princess.”

“My husband’s grandfather made it for his children, and every Lambert offspring since has slept in it. It’s had to be repaired and refinished a time or two over the years, but it’s held up amazingly well. I thought it would be perfect for Belle.”

“You surely didn’t get it out of storage just for one night?”

“No. I have a room upstairs where I keep some of the family heirlooms on display. Hugh’s grandfather was a master craftsman, and some of the toys he made his children are not only inventive but amazing. There’s a giant rocking horse that almost looks like a real pony. Damien spent hours on it long before he was able to ride a real horse on his own.”

“I’d love to see it.”

“I’ll give you the full tour tomorrow morning. Now you probably need some rest. Your private bath is through this door,” Carolina said, opening the door to reveal the curtained claw-foot tub and the dressing table.

“The cabinet is stocked with staples, but if you need anything else, just let me know. And I hung your freshly laundered clothes in the closet and put Belle’s dress in the chest along with the extra outfits Sylvia sent over and a supply of diapers.”

“You think of everything.”

“I’m a stickler for details. It’s the curse that causes me to sit on far too many committees. Oh, and feel free to use the phone. I know you’ll want to connect with your aunt in the morning. There’s a phone book in the bedside table if you need it.”

“Thanks. In case I do get in touch with my aunt and she wants to pick me up, how would I tell her to get to the ranch?”

“She can ask anyone in the area where Bent Pine Ranch is. They’ll be able to give her directions. Or…” Carolina opened the top drawer of an antique chest and took out a box of stationery engraved with the Bent Pine brand and a small-scale map showing directions to the ranch from I-35 and I-45. The ranch fell about halfway between the two interstate highways. “The address is on this stationery, along with easy-to-follow directions.”

Emma lay Belle in the cradle atop the clean, specially made sheet. Belle barely stirred. She looked like an angel in the pink footed onesie that Sylvia had sent over.

Carolina touched the tiny hand and memories flooded her mind. The night she’d placed Damien in this same crib for the very first time—the night she and Hugh had married. She’d had tears that night. Her heart had been so full.

Hugh had laughed at her, but he’d quickly become as attached to their miracle son as she was.

Hugh. The only man she’d ever loved. She missed him so, but she treasured every second they’d had together. He’d been a hardheaded man, never comfortable showing his emotions—except with her. She’d been his one weak spot. He’d been her strength.

“I should go and let you get some sleep,” Carolina said.

“I am tired,” Emma admitted. “And that bed looks so tempting I can’t wait to crawl between the sheets. I know I’ve said it a half-dozen times tonight, but I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your hospitality.”

Carolina’s hand closed around the doorknob, but she hesitated. “You know, Emma, I have this feeling that God sent you to us tonight—as much for us as for you. Sleep tight.”

* * *

EMMA DROPPED TO THE BED as the door closed behind Carolina. She’d never met a family like the Lamberts. That would make it doubly hard to leave in the morning. But with luck she’d be out of here before Damien decided to go look for her ditched car. The plan was already worked out in her mind.

There was just one last detail to take care of. She picked up the phone and made a call that would put her plan in motion.

Once she’d showered, she snuggled under the covers and closed her eyes. She expected to see Caudillo’s image waiting for her in the dark with angry threats of what he’d do to her for escaping his paradise prison.

But it was Damien’s face that appeared as she drifted into a sound, safe sleep.


Chapter Four

Caudillo paced the tiled floor of his office. “I leave for a few days, and you let marauders take everything, even my beloved Emma.”

“What could we do? They came onto the island with hundreds of armed men.”

“You could have fought to the death instead of hiding.”

“We fought, but there were so many of them.”

“You are the leader of a hundred men, Chale, armed with the best weapons money can buy. You should have been able to shoot them like ducks in a row as they stepped off their ship. You let down your guard while I was away. Admit it, Chale.”

“I can only speak for myself. I was not on guard duty that night.”

“But you are responsible for your men, and you were responsible for keeping my island safe.”

Chale straightened the bandoleer that crossed over his shoulder, as if his supply of cartridges mattered now.

“I assumed my orders were being obeyed.”

“You assumed? I could train a monkey to assume and do nothing. And now not only are crates of weapons missing, but Emma is gone, as well.”

“I will see that she is found, unless she is in the stomach of a shark.”

“No, Chale. You will not. You have lost my trust. You are relieved of duty.”

Sweat pooled on Chale’s forehead and circled the armpits of his white shirt. Another time, Caudillo would have enjoyed his sniveling fear. Today, there was too much at stake to enjoy anything.





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