The Second Son

“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.”