Stroke of Fortune

Michael made a low sound in his throat. “Well, guess what? She could be mine, too—though I’m probably the least likely prospect of the four of us. Not a lot of people knew I would be here looking for a pickup game today.”

Spence said, “Okay.”

“Okay what?” prodded Tyler.

“Okay, you got me. I’m no celibate. Count me in as potential father number four.”

“And what about Luke?” Tyler reminded them. “He’s here at the ninth tee, too, every Sunday around eight—unless something important comes up. And today, he never called me to tell me he was taking a pass on the game.”

“Didn’t call me, either,” said Spence.

“All right,” Flynt admitted. “So he didn’t show up and he didn’t call.”

“Which means the word is not out that he wouldn’t be here,” Tyler said. “And whoever left the baby could very well have assumed that Luke would be here. That means he’s in the running, too—at this point, anyway. The note could have been meant for him. It could have been intended for any one of us.”

“Fine.” Flynt cradled Lena with the utmost care. “Great. Gotcha. It might be one of us. It might be Luke. It might be any number of guys. But the fact remains this baby goes home with me.”

Spence looked at him for a very long time. Then he blew out a weary breath. “You’re not going to budge on this one, are you?”

“You got it.”

“Hell…”

“Talk to me.”

“All right. Would you agree to a compromise?”

“That depends.”

Spence laid it out. “I could pull a few strings. Maybe you could take that baby home with you. But there’s no way you’ll get out of an interview—make that interviews. Technically the club’s within the city limits, but the county’s been helping out lately, since the trouble in the Men’s Grill.”

Trouble was putting it mildly. A few months back, a corrupt group of Mission Creek’s finest had blown the club’s Men’s Grill to smithereens in a failed attempt to kill off the man determined to expose them. That whole area of the club was now being rebuilt. And with so many of its former officers in jail, the Mission Creek P.D. was in something of a state of disarray. Lately the sheriff often ended up stepping in to take up the slack.

“What are you saying, Spence? That I’ll have to talk to the sheriff?”

“It’s pretty likely. And somebody from the MCPD, too. And Child Protective Services. T’s have got to be crossed, I’s will need dotting.”

“The sheriff,” Flynt repeated. The Lone Star County sheriff was a Wainwright—Justin Wainwright, to be specific. Wainwrights were never welcome at Carson Ranch.

“Sorry,” said Spence. “The sheriff’s office is going to want to know about this.”

“You think I give a damn what the sheriff’s office wants to know?”

“You’d better give a damn. You want them all on your side if you hope to keep that baby at the ranch without getting arrested for kidnapping, or something equally unpleasant.”

Right then, Lena stirred in Flynt’s arms. She let out the sweetest, softest little sigh—and suddenly, the prospect of a Wainwright at the ranch didn’t seem all that impossible. If it had to be, it had to be. “You’ll arrange it?”

Spence shrugged. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I’m not hanging around to have the MCPD and the sheriff’s office and God knows who else crawling all over the club. They’ll come to the ranch and talk to me there—all of them, whoever needs to know about this.”

“I can probably work that out.”

“And we’ll keep it under wraps, as much as possible.”

“We’ll try.”

“Do more than try. I want this kept quiet.” Flynt couldn’t stop thinking of Josie, of keeping the gossip mill from going to work on her. If the story got out…Well, folks didn’t look kindly on a woman who dumped her baby and ran. Josie had suffered through some tough times in her young life, but up till now, at least, the citizens of Mission Creek had been on her side. She didn’t need the town’s scorn dumped on her on top of all the rest of it.

Spence said, “Look, I’m not saying a word except on a need-to-know basis.”

“Fine by me,” said Tyler. “I can keep my mouth shut.”

“No problem,” Michael added. “This is strictly between the four of us, as far as I’m concerned.”

Flynt looked at each of the other men in turn. “Good. And Lena stays with me until we find out who her mother is.”

Spence’s mouth twisted ruefully. “There’s someone else you’ll have to convince on that score.”

Flynt understood. “The social worker.”

“You got it.”

“Okay,” Flynt said quietly. The baby in his arms was starting to cry again. He patted her back, trying to soothe her. “Tell me what I have to do.”

Two

The Lone Star Country Club came into being in 1923, founded by Flynt’s great-grandfather, Big Bill Carson and Big Bill’s ranching buddy, J. P. Wainwright. At that time, both the Carson and Wainwright holdings had grown to the point that their property lines met. It was there, where the two huge ranches came together, that Big Bill and J.P. kicked in a thousand acres each to form a social club.

Four years later, J.P’s beloved daughter, Lou Lou, drowned herself when Big Bill’s oldest son broke her heart. J.P. came after the boy with his shotgun, but it was Big Bill he ended up shooting, shattering not only both of the man’s legs, but also the bond of friendship that had held strong for three decades.

Since then, no Carson had called a Wainwright his friend. The feud between the two families was bitter, rife with dirty tricks on both sides, and as deeply rooted now as the proud oaks that lined the curving driveway up to the soaring facade of the Lone Star Country Club’s pink granite clubhouse.

Both ranches remained large—and prosperous. And both families held considerable influence in South Texas, in the nearby town of Mission Creek, and at the country club their forefathers had created. Down the years, both Carsons and Wainwrights had sat on the club’s board of directors, the families tacitly keeping an uneasy peace with each other on the neutral ground of the club.

Flynt himself was currently serving a term as club president. And that Sunday in May, he was glad he’d taken the job. It meant that club employees followed his orders without asking any questions.

As soon as he and Spence had ironed out their compromise, Flynt put Lena in the car seat and managed to hook the thing into the golf cart. Then Michael drove them to the clubhouse.

Flynt had thought at first that he’d head straight for the ranch. But the baby wouldn’t stop crying. Maybe she needed food, or a diaper change. Whatever. He decided he’d better find out what was wrong with her before he did anything else. He had the surgeon let him off at a service entrance in back.

Halfway up the back stairs, on his way to the club’s business offices on the second floor, he met up with one of the maids. He told her to find Harvey Small, the new club manager he’d hired himself not long before, and to say that Flynt Carson wanted to see him in Harvey’s office right away.

“Si, Mr. Carson. Right away.”

As the maid hurried off to do his bidding, Lena let out a really loud wail. He took a minute to murmur a few soothing words, then he headed up the stairs again.

In Harvey’s office, he took Lena out of the seat and raised her to his shoulder. When he rubbed her back a little, she seemed to settle down—for a minute or two. Then the crying started up again. By the time the club manager bustled in, Flynt had spent five minutes pacing the floor, laying on the gentle pats and the soothing words, trying to calm Lena and never really quite succeeding.