The Second Son

“It’s been many a day since I was a girl, Branson Randolph,” she teased. “But I’m still a lot better at serving than I am at sittin’.”

“You’re still my best girl. And the prettiest girl south of—”

“South of the table and north of the door to the living room.” She broke in and finished the sentence for him, keeping him honest. “And it’s high time you found yourself a real ‘best girl.”’

“Whoa.” He picked up a fork and handed it to her. “We need to feed this woman fast. She’s growing vicious.”

“A piece of cake won’t convince me you don’t need a woman,” she said, though her words were practically lost amid the laughter and clatter of dishes.

“Oh my Lord,” Langley said, chewing appreciatively on his first bite of cake. “Find me a woman who can bake a cake this good, and I’ll marry her tomorrow.” He smacked his lips and swallowed. “Nope. Make that tonight.”

“Don’t say that in front of Mom,” Ryder cautioned. “She’ll be out combing the county, searching for women who are willing to come out to the Burning Pear and take cooking lessons.”

“Now, that’s not a half-bad idea,” Ashley said. “It would sure give you a break in the kitchen, Mother Randolph. And any woman who’d put up with these guys would get my vote.”

“I have a couple of requirements besides cooking,” Ryder said, forking another bite of cake.

“Yeah, Ryder would have to make sure she could shine the silver on that World Championship belt buckle and feed his horse,” Langley added.

“Now you’re talking my language of love,” Ryder said.

The gang around the table exploded in laughter again. Mary joined in. Being sixty, she decided, was not too awful. Not as long as she had her family with her. All safe. All happy.

She was chewing her first bite of cake when a soft knock at the front door brought an abrupt lull to the conversation and gaiety. “Now, who in the world can that be?” she said, wiping a smear of chocolate from her hands to the flowered cotton napkin.

“Probably another well-wisher,” Ashley said. “Half the town’s already called or sent cards or flowers. “Of course, none of the bouquets were nearly as extravagant as the one from Joshua Kincaid.”

“Good,” Dillon countered. “Let him spend his money on lavish flower arrangements. It will give him less money to spend lobbying against every bill I sponsor.” He started walking to the door.

“I’ll get it,” Branson said, laying an arm on his brother’s shoulder. “Might be business anyway. Friends never bother walking around to the front door.”

Mary saw the muscles in his face tighten, as if instinctively, and felt a twinge of anxiety. She’d never grown comfortable with Branson taking on the job of county sheriff. “You’re not expecting trouble, are you?”

He stopped in the doorway that led from the kitchen into the hallway. He forced a smile to reassure her. “I’m always expecting trouble. And always hoping I’m wrong. But there’s no reason to think trouble’s going to come calling at my front door.”

Mary slid her fork into her cake, breaking off a bite-size chunk of the velvety chocolate, but she only moved it around on the dessert plate. The easy chatter had started up again, filling the space around her. She tried to shut it out, and strained to hear whose voice would greet Branson when he swung open the door.

“Can you help me?” The voice was low, labored, feminine. Unfamiliar. “I’m looking for the Randolph home.”

“You found it.”

“Then this belongs to one of you.”

“What the hell?”

Branson’s voice rose above the din of kitchen chatter, but not above the cry of a baby. Mary jumped to her feet and rushed to the living room, the rest of the family a step or two behind. Branson was standing in the open doorway.

A tall, thin woman stood in front of him, her face pasty and drawn. She pushed a blanket-wrapped bundle toward him.

“Take the baby.” The woman’s voice was more of a cry than a command.

She swayed and Branson reached to steady her. She pulled away from him and turned to Mary.

“If you’re Mrs. Randolph, this is your grandchild. Her name is Betsy.” The woman’s faint voice faded into nothingness.

Mary grabbed the baby from her just as the woman’s eyes closed and she collapsed at their feet. It was then that Mary noticed the crimson circles of blood that dampened the back of the woman’s blouse.

“Call an ambulance,” Branson ordered, leaning over the woman. The room erupted in a flurry of activity, but all Mary could understand was that the baby in her arms was crying and that her grandchild needed her.

Chapter Two

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.”