The Maverick. Carrie Alexander

never been…bad. Not at the core. Not like Demon Bradshaw, who the sheriff’s department currently suspected of selling illegal firearms, among other nefarious dealings. So far they hadn’t been able to put together enough evidence for an arrest.

      “That’s not Luke.” Sophie let out a deep breath and released her hair. She pulled the drain and wiped down the counter, her eyebrows drawn together in a scowl that was an unconscious copy of her father’s.

      “Hey, girl,” Archie called from the front porch. “Come on out here.”

      Figuring she’d put it off long enough, Sophie went to the door, wiping her wet hands on the back pockets of her denim pedal pushers. “Ice cream, Dad?”

      “Uh, no.” Guiltily Archie slipped a can of beer to his left side, holding it there with the stump of the arm he’d lost in a logging accident on Lucas land approximately thirty years ago. Sophie made no comment. Aside from the occasional sniping argument when her temper wore thin, she’d given up expecting her father to change his ways. Only middle age and bouts of ill health had mellowed his bad habits.

      She sat beside him on the purple porch swing and gazed out over Granite Street, waiting for the well-named Buzzsaw to start in on the grief the Lucases had caused him. Birds twittered and hopped in the old plum tree that made a canopy over the small front lawn, pecking at the last of the rotting fruit. The saw-toothed leaves shimmered against the deepening sky.

      For once Archie was subdued. “I hear that good-for-nothing Lucas boy’s back in town.”

      “He’s a Salinger, Dad. His mother was a Lucas.”

      Archie snorted. “Same thing. They’re all rotten, don’t matter what name they go by. It’s in the blood.”

      Sophie tensed. The front windows were open. Joe might overhear their conversation from the living room. The bleeps, small explosions and mechanical screams of his computer video game reassured her that his attention was focused elsewhere—on virtual mayhem instead of the real kind. “I wouldn’t condemn them all,” she said. “But, yes, I did arrest Luke Salinger.”

      Archie drank deeply and emitted a satisfied ahhh. “For speeding?”

      “I gave him a citation for that. I arrested him on old charges—breaking and entering and arson. Remember the fire that damaged the law office? Fourteen years ago, next month.”

      “Humph. That boy always was trouble, with his fancy motorcycle and his law-breakin’ ways. I hope you got the sense not to have any more to do with him.” Sophie’s past relationship with Luke—an alliance Archie had done his best to prevent—hung between them with all the levity of a lead balloon.

      She fingered the frayed edge of her pedal pushers. “Well, Dad, I expect I’ll be seeing him in court.”

      “Court.” Archie guffawed. “You think them muckety-mucks are gonna let that case get to court? Old lady Lucas will be in the judge’s chambers calling in favors—”

      “Hush, Dad. I don’t want Joey to hear.”

      That shut Archie up. He and Sophie had never talked about the identity of Joe’s father, partly because Archie had thrown her out of the trailer in a drunken rage when he’d found out she was pregnant. He’d been deep into a bad streak then, drinking non-stop. Only seventeen and not yet graduated, Sophie had been almost relieved to go through the pregnancy on her own, in a rented room at Lettice Bellew’s boardinghouse. Archie hadn’t seen his grandson until Joe was three years old. And it wasn’t until he and Sophie had made their uneasy peace many years later that he’d become a regular fixture in their lives.

      Archie’s brows met in a deep frown. “Girl, what are you gonna tell the boy about, uh…”

      Sophie held her breath, but her father didn’t finish the question. In which case she wasn’t about to volunteer an answer.

      “Them Lucases,” he growled, lapsing into familiar territory. He thrust out his stump, the sleeve of his shirt knotted where the elbow should have been. “You know what they done to me, girl. By rights I should be settin’ pretty with a big pension, but nosiree, old lady Lucas is as mean as a junkyard dog, holding tight to every penny unless she’s gonna see some return…”

      Sophie tuned out her father’s voice until it was no more than an annoying whine at the back of her brain. The truth of the matter was that Archie had snuck a few beers the day he’d had the accident with a chain saw that had resulted in the loss of his arm. Mary Lucas, a new widow at the time, had taken over running the Lucas cattle ranch and logging operations. She’d paid the hospital bills and given Archie a generous settlement—considering the circumstances—a goodly portion of which he’d promptly drunk up on a months-long spree. Even so, he persisted in blaming his troubles and sketchy work history on Mary Lucas and her extended family.

      Sophie had heard it a thousand times before. Gently she pressed a hand on her father’s good arm. “Shut up, Dad, and take a look at the sunset. Isn’t that pretty?”

      Archie barely glanced at the apricot glow that lit up the mountainous horizon before continuing churlishly, “Listen to me, girl. Call ’em Lucases or call ’em Salingers, that family will stomp you under their boot heels for so much as smiling at them the wrong way. You steer clear—”

      “I’ve got a badge, Dad. Even Mary Lucas has to respect the law.”

      “Sure, sure, go ask Sheriff Warren about that. He’s been doing their bidding ever since they helped him get elected top dog, just like every sheriff before him. How’dja think my accident report got cleaned up so no one named Lucas was to blame?”

      Sophie simply shrugged. Argument was useless when her father got this worked up.

      “That’s right,” Archie said, nodding so vigorously the swing started to sway. “I tell you—”

      “Joey!” Sophie said in relief when her son made the mistake of poking his head out the door. “Join us. Please.”

      Joe rolled his eyes, but he came outside and sat on the porch railing. The golden-pink light of the setting sun washed across his narrow face and baggy white T-shirt. To Sophie he was beautiful—not that she dared say so out loud when he’d become so touchy about expressions of affection. Silently she ached with her immense love for her son. Too much, she sometimes thought, for one heart to hold.

      When Joe had been born she’d known with a protectiveness so fierce it scared her that she would do anything to keep her baby from suffering the kind of upbringing that she’d had—one that had become essentially homeless, parentless and loveless after her mother had died when she was only five. Right from the start, though, she’d denied Joe a father, even if it hadn’t been entirely by plan. Could she continue to deny him the truth as well, especially now that Luke was back home and the can of worms had been opened again?

      Listening to his grandfather’s diatribe, Joe cocked his head in such a way that Sophie was reminded of Luke so explicitly that she wondered why no one else noticed. Or commented.

      Probably some of them did, but only behind her back.

      The Lucas brand, she thought, growing doleful as she twisted a thick curl of hair around her index finger. She’d always worried about what Mary Lucas, the dominating family matriarch, might do if she knew for sure that Joe carried her blood. As of yet, her eldest grandson Heath hadn’t produced an heir. For a long time now Sophie had watched and waited, knowing more about Heath’s personal life than she cared to because she was friendly with his wife, Kiki. It was Sophie’s greatest fear that one day Mary Lucas might began to look elsewhere for her heir.

      And there would be Joe Ryan, hidden in plain sight.

      The Lucas brand was more trouble than it was worth, in Sophie’s estimation. Joe wasn’t one of their heads of cattle, mineral mines, or uncut trees. He wasn’t their property.

      She would never let that family stamp their brand on him!

      If that meant she had to deny his parentage,