Читать книгу The Second Son - Joanna Wayne - Страница 13

San Antonio, Texas

Two days later

Lacy Gilbraith tugged at the scrunch of white tulle. The headpiece tilted where it should have stood at strict attention, bunched up where it should have flared out. And the auburn curls piled on top of her head had already begun their escape, pulling from beneath the myriad pins the determined hairdresser had used to nail them into place.

So much for her attempts to look the part of the perfect bride. In an ideal world her groom wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately, Charles Castile always expected perfection, at least as far as appearance went.

Lacy turned away from the mirror and dropped to the edge of an upholstered chair. She glanced at her watch. In just a few minutes she’d be marching down the aisle on her way to becoming Mrs. Charles Castile. She’d thought long and hard about her decision to accept Charles’s proposal. It was the best solution for everyone. Maybe the only solution.

So why was her stomach churning, her eyes stinging?

Maybe it was because in an ideal world, she wouldn’t be sitting alone in the stuffy dressing room just off the church parlor. Her sister, Kate, would be here with her, teasing away her nervousness, joking about the wedding headdress from hell. Where was she?

Lacy dabbed impatiently at a tear that had no business making an appearance and glanced at her watch again. Ten minutes before seven. Something had to be seriously wrong. She and Kate had argued, but surely that wouldn’t keep her older sister from something as important as Lacy’s wedding ceremony.

They’d had occasional differences before, but they’d always managed to work things out. Occasional differences. Who was she kidding? Their whole lives were a series of differences. Monumental differences that had begun to develop that day so long ago when Kate had—

Lacy took a deep, steadying breath. That part of their past was far behind them. Today was a new beginning, for her and for Kate. And this time money and power would be on their side instead of stacked in opposition.

So why wasn’t Kate here?

She grabbed the phone and punched in Kate’s number again. She’d already tried it a dozen times and all she’d gotten was the answering machine and Ricky Carpenter’s recorded message that neither he nor Kate were in. She checked her beeper, but there were no calls.

A knock at the door broke into her thoughts, and Lacy’s heart rate quickened. She dropped the receiver into the plastic cradle. Kate had come after all. Pulling up her skirt and petticoats, she raced across the carpeted floor and yanked open the door. Unexpected aggravation nipped at her control.

“You’re not supposed to see the bride before the ceremony,” she said, shoving the door until all she could see through the narrow opening was Charles’s unsmiling face.

“I don’t believe in superstitions.” He wedged a foot inside the door and then pushed it open enough that he could step inside. “Besides, I wanted to be the first to see my beautiful bride in her wedding dress.” He took her hands in his, concern, or maybe chagrin, darkening his deep-set gray eyes. “Have you been crying?”

“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 slammed the door behind him. Stepping over a smashed beer can, he headed across the patio and toward the back door. He noticed another beer can on the edge of one of the padded lounge chairs. Looked like the residents’ taste, or that of one of their friends, ran to Coors. And no one around here was a neatness freak.

The back door was closed. He knocked. No one answered, but the door squeaked open. Just a few inches, but enough that he could hear someone rummaging around inside. Maybe looters, since he knew the woman of the house was not home. Maybe the person who’d shot Miss Gilbraith. Maybe not. “Police. Come out and identify yourself.” No one responded.

Taking the safe approach, he eased his pistol from its holster. Soundlessly, he slipped through the open door and into a shiny kitchen, black chrome appliances, dirty dishes piled in the sink. The noises continued, coming from upstairs. He tiptoed up the stairs and across a carpeted runway that seemed more a loft than a hallway. He peered over the railing and into the lower-level living area.

There was a big-screen TV, a sectional sofa in dirt-brown leather and a bearskin rug thrown down in front of the fireplace. And more empty beer cans scattered about among stacks of magazines and newspapers.

He made his step light, making his way down the hall and past a series of closed doors. A crash of wood on wood, probably the forceful closing of a drawer, alerted him that he was getting warm.

Stopping, he peered through the open crack of a bedroom door. The woman making the noise was facing the other direction, but there was no mistaking the gender. She was in a wedding dress, with rows of minute pearl buttons that went far lower than the tiniest waist he’d ever seen on a full-grown woman. Or maybe it just looked that way above the yards and yards of billowing satin that cascaded over her hips and fell to shapely ankles.

She was bent over, ransacking her way through a dresser drawer. She pulled out a pair of short shorts and held them up for a second before stuffing them back in the drawer. If she was a looter, she had a strange way of dressing for the job, and she was apparently very picky.

The room had French doors that opened onto a balcony and a terrific view of hilly land that sloped to the banks of a sparkling pond. A nice setup. Evidently Kate Gilbraith had changed her ways, or else found that crime did pay.

He watched her for a few more seconds before deciding to let the woman in white know she had company. “Police. Keep your hands in plain view, and turn around nice and slow.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and then twirled around lightning fast, the one hand that was in view dangling a lacy scrap of underwear.

“You don’t follow orders too well,” he said.

“You scared me half to death.”

“Not following police orders can get you the other half of the way. Why didn’t you respond when I knocked and called?”

“I didn’t hear you.” She eyed his gun, her eyes flashing suspiciously. “Did Charles send you after me?”

“Afraid not.”

“Good.” She tossed the underwear she was holding to the bed. “Is this about Kate? Is she in trouble?”

“Right now, it’s about you. Do you live here?”

“No way.”

“Then why don’t we start with you telling me what you’re looking for in those drawers?”

“And if I don’t, you’ll shoot me? You San Antonio police are such a friendly sort. If you really are a cop. That doesn’t look like a police uniform you’re wearing to me. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to put that gun away and flash a little ID?”

She twitched her head and an avalanche of auburn curls broke loose to fall around her face. She was prettier than he’d first noticed, a cute nose, full sensuous lips and a long, regal neck. Some guy was missing out on a hell of a honeymoon.

Or maybe they’d already started, judging by a jagged rip in her skirt. So, there had to be a good reason for the bride to be ransacking someone else’s home.

He holstered the gun, took out his wallet and shook it open. She stepped closer and peered at the small print on his ID.

“I’d hate to have to shoot a bride,” he said when she averted her gaze from the wallet to his face. “Hate to even book one. You’d make too much of a scene at the jail. So why don’t you start talking?”

She rubbed the back of her neck, stalling, probably coming up with a story she thought he’d buy.

“I’m looking for my sister,” she said, turning back to the drawer and pulling out a pair of jeans.

“I doubt she’d be in one of those drawers.”

“A sheriff with a sense of humor. How novel.” She threw the jeans across the bed and kicked off a white shoe with a heel high enough to give her a nosebleed. Bending over, she rubbed the ball of her now-bare foot before kicking off the other pump.

“I’m still waiting on an explanation as to what you’re doing in Kate Gilbraith’s apartment.”

“Look!” She accented her call to attention by wildly gesturing with hands that showcased her long, painted nails. “I’ve already had a day you wouldn’t believe. Including a ride across town on the back of the police escort’s motorbike.”

Lifting the hem of her skirt, she revealed a pair of shapely legs, one with a fresh burn on the calf where an exhaust pipe had apparently caught her.

“What’s the matter? Was the traditional bridal ride in a limo too tame for you?”

“Right. But I’ve had my quota of excitement for the day, so why don’t you just be a nice cop and tell me what’s going on with my sister?”

Branson studied the woman in white. He didn’t notice a family resemblance. His instincts told him she was up to no good and that Kate Gilbraith probably wasn’t her sister. But his instincts had been known to be tainted.

“When was the last time you talked to your sister?”

“A week ago. We chatted on the phone. Actually, we argued on the phone. I thought that was why she quit taking my calls. Now I’m not so sure.”

If she’d said sometime within the past two days, he’d have known she was lying. Now he had to consider that she might be telling the truth. “What makes you think I’d know what happened to your sister?”

“I take it you’re not here doing routine security checks. And the gun you had out a few minutes ago didn’t indicate you’re here as a friend.” She threw her hands up, clearly exasperated. “Look, I know something’s up. You can tell me what it is. I just want to know that Kate’s all right.”

“My turn to see ID,” he said. “Do you have any on you?”

Her lips twisted into a defeated scowl. “Afraid not. The only thing I have with me is my beeper.” She ran her hands along her hips, smoothing the shiny fabric so that it hugged her curves. “No pockets on these dresses. Of course, you could call Mr. Charles Castile and ask him to identify his missing bride. I’m sure he’d accommodate you.”

“I don’t believe I know the man, so I don’t know why I’d believe him any quicker than I do you.” Actually, he had heard of Castile. Nothing good. He was a rich attorney tied to the coattails of Joshua Kincaid. Sleep with a snake, and you probably were a snake. At least that’s how Branson saw it. “So, about that ID…”

The woman propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a very unfriendly cop?”

“All the time. But I thank you for the compliment just the same. Now, let’s start again. Where would you have to go to get some identification that shows you’re Kate Gilbraith’s sister?”

“Look, mister. Being Kate’s sister is not something you’d want to lie about. At least not unless you were denying it. But it’s easy enough to prove I’m who I say I am.” She walked to a bookshelf on the far side of the room and stretched to her tiptoes. She was a couple of inches short of reaching the top shelf.

“Let me help you.” He stepped behind her and retrieved the photo album she was reaching for. He blew a layer of dust off of it before handing it to her.

She tore into it, turning a few pages and then tapping her finger on a picture of two girls mounted on a painted carousel pony. The younger of the two was skinny with an abundance of reddish-brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. The image in the snapshot wasn’t nearly as fetching as the woman standing in front of him, but it was obvious they were one and the same.

The older girl in the picture was somewhere in her mid-teens. There was no mistaking her either. It was the same woman who had come calling at the Burning Pear a few nights ago.

She tapped her finger on the picture. “That’s us. Me and Kate. See. It says so right under the picture. Kate and Lacy at the county fair.”

She turned a couple more pages. “And this was us last year, taken at my apartment.” She ran her finger along the edges of the snapshot. “Me and Kate. See. We’re sisters. Satisfied?”

But the picture was of a threesome. “Who’s the guy?”

“Adam Pascal, my boyfriend at the time. I have extremely poor taste in men.” Lacy let the cover slip from her fingers, and the photo album slammed shut.

She looked up at him, concern etched into the fine lines around her eyes and pulled at the corners of her full lips. “I’m Lacy Gilbraith, just like I told you. Now, please, tell me what’s happened to Kate.”

Branson swallowed hard. He’d bet his best pair of boots the woman wasn’t telling the whole truth. But judging from the snapshots in the photo album, she was Kate’s sister. Now he wished he had better news to deliver.

“What makes you think anything happened to your sister?”

“She didn’t show for my wedding. She would have unless something was terribly wrong.”

“Why don’t you sit down,” he said, motioning to the only chair in the room not draped in articles of clothing.

“No. I’m fine. Just tell me about Kate.”

The tremor in her voice and her suddenly drooping shoulders assured him that his words and changed attitude had sucked the fight right out of her, that she sensed something was seriously wrong. In her new state, she looked incredibly fragile. For the first time in a long time, he felt the urge to open his arms to a woman.

Instead, he plunged ahead, explaining how Kate Gilbraith had crashed his mother’s birthday party at the Burning Pear with a most unexpected guest. Explaining that she’d been shot, and that she’d dropped to the floor and into a semicoma state that the doctors couldn’t penetrate even though her physical condition had improved significantly.

“I’d like to see my sister.”

“I can drive you to the hospital.”

She nodded, accepting his offer. “But not in this.” She held up the skirt of the bridal dress, looping one finger through the unsightly rip. “I can find something of Kate’s to wear, but you’ll have to help me get out of this dress. It is not a one-person operation.” She turned her back to him, her fingers already fiddling with the top button.

Branson’s throat grew scratchy dry. Undressing women was not in his job description. Not that he had anything against the task. He was a man, after all. But he doubted seriously his fingers would fit around anything as delicate and small as that row of pearl buttons that stared back at him.

Lacy’s fingers made quick work of the top few buttons. “I can’t reach much lower, so you’re going to have to help or we’ll be here all night.”

Branson nudged his Stetson back an inch or two to keep it from crashing into Lacy’s head. Bending, he forced his fingers to the task, fiddling endlessly with the first reluctant button. He leaned close, and the mind-numbing fragrance of Lacy’s perfume worked havoc on his senses, making the task at hand even more difficult.

Long minutes later, he was only three buttons down and dozens more to go. He struggled to steady his breath as his rough knuckles collided with the silky flesh of Lacy’s back. Damn. Here he was undressing another man’s bride, and his own libido was acting as though it had a honeymoon coming.

Button by button, inch by inch. The opening grew wider, revealing more flesh, finally dipping below her waist to the top lacy band of her panties. His fingers, and other parts of his body, grew stiff and his chest constricted painfully.

She wiggled and stretched her neck as far as she could, trying to see what was taking him so long. “I hope you’re better at apprehending criminals than you are at undoing buttons.”

“Just hold still. And suck in your breath so I have room to work.” His words came out a little gruffer than he’d intended, in an effort not to reveal the effect this undressing act was having on him.

“Yes sir, Sheriff.” She held her breath for a few seconds then let it out in a resounding whoosh. “So whose baby was this that Kate delivered to your house?”

“It wasn’t mine. I can guarantee you that.”

“Oooou. Touche´.” She wiggled a little more, tugging on the skirt and pulling it lower over her shapely hips. “But I wasn’t accusing. Actually, I meant, who was the mother of the baby?”

He stopped struggling with the contrary pearl dots. “Are you saying this baby wasn’t your sister’s?”

“Absolutely not. I see her at least once a month, whether she wants to see me or not. She’s as thin as a rail. I’d have noticed if she were pregnant.”

“Then where did she get the baby?”

“I’d think you’d know the answer to that if the baby’s a Randolph.”

“I said your sister claimed the baby was a Randolph. There’s a big difference.”

Lacy twisted from the waist, and the skirt slipped lower still. Branson’s breath grew so hot it burned his lungs. He’d seen nearly naked women before, but never one like this. Actually, he hadn’t seen all that many, when you got right down to it, and none in many a Texas moon. Still, he would have doubted this type of perfection existed in real life.

“Sorry, cowboy. The show’s over.” Lacy took him by the shoulders and spun him around to face the door. “You can wait in the hall while I change into something of Kate’s.”

Branson walked away, thinking Charles Castile had to be one of the luckiest men alive, but wondering why in the world the man wasn’t here to undress his own wife on her wedding day. He paced the hall while he waited, forcing his thoughts from Lacy to the newest fact in the case at hand.

If the baby wasn’t Kate Gilbraith’s, whose child was she? Had Kate kidnapped the infant, left some new mother fearing for her baby’s life? Only, if that were the case, why hadn’t Kate demanded money? Why had she just placed little Betsy in their hands and fallen at their feet, a bullet firmly embedded in her shoulder?

The best clues as to what happened probably resided with Kate or with the person who’d tried to kill her. And in spite of Lacy’s protestations of ignorance, Branson had an idea she knew a lot more about what had happened than she was admitting.

After all, she was here in Kate’s apartment when she should be cavorting in some luxurious honeymoon suite.

Branson jerked as the sound of breaking glass ordered him to full attention. He peered over the railing as a tightly wound contraption of glass and metal crashed through the living-room window. It careened across the carpeted floor and slid under the sofa.

Adrenaline rushed through him. “Under the bed,” he ordered, racing back into the bedroom. He grabbed Lacy and shoved her resistant body in that direction. A second later, the room rocked with the explosion of a homemade bomb.