Lone Star Blues. Delores Fossen

she was upstairs. So the dog had to be with Vera.

      Since it was obvious Lucian already had too much on his plate, Dylan would keep the family jewels’ injury ribbing for later. Instead, he tried to call Lawson again, but when he got no answer, he decided to drive over and see him in person. His house wasn’t far, less than a half mile away, but he wasn’t going to walk there today. Best to get back here fast and take care of getting the naked woman home.

      He walked the maze of halls that zigged and zagged through the house and came out the back door where he kept his truck. When he stepped out onto the porch, Dylan spotted their cook, Abe Weiser, who was stretched out, napping, in one of the wicker lounge chairs. He was a lousy cook, not especially good at managing the house, either, but he tolerated Lucian. That was Abe’s sole asset and the reason he’d stayed employed at Heavenly Acres for the last twenty years.

      “One of the hands said I’m supposed to tell you that a longhorn broke fence,” Abe said without sitting up. Or even opening his eyes. “It made it to your truck, and its horn hooked your radiator. Busted it. The radiator, not the horn. The horn’s all right, I reckon. You’ll have to take one of the other trucks if you’re going anywhere.”

      There went the old wives’ tale of three. Maybe old husbands’ tales had four bad things going wrong. If so, then he’d fulfilled that quota, too.

      Downing some more coffee, Dylan headed off the porch and toward the large detached garage for another vehicle. However, before he could even make it there, he saw something sparkly on the stone path. A silver purse that was smaller and flatter than the palm of his hand. It had some chew marks on it and was wet, possibly from dog slobber.

      Since this likely belonged to the naked woman, he opened it to see if he could find her ID. And there it was—her driver’s license along with a credit card and some lipstick. There was also one of those stupid Dylan Granger Sex Bingo cards folded up inside.

      Thankfully, it was blank.

      He pulled out the license and looked at her birth date first. She was twenty-six. Way too young for him but at least she was legal. Then he read the name, and his stomach went to his ankles. Because it was Misty Turley, the same last name as the judge who was pissed at him. And with the way his morning was going, Dylan seriously doubted that was a coincidence. No, this was likely another of his daughters. One younger than Melanie.

      Maybe he could send Walter Ray a whole case of scotch.

      Dylan didn’t know exactly how many daughters the judge actually had. Walter Ray had gotten divorced years ago, and when his ex-wife had moved away, the girls only visited Wrangler’s Creek every now and then. Or at least that had been the case until Melanie had moved back after she’d finished college.

      He picked up the purse so he could take it back inside and add it to the pile of clothes. Since the identity of the naked woman was bad news number five, that had to mean he was good to go at least for the rest of the day.

      Or not.

      Dylan heard the sound of an engine right before he saw the cop car pull up in front of the house. It wasn’t the local cops, either. The cruiser had San Antonio Police on the door.

      A tall, lanky man in uniform stepped out. “I’m looking for Dylan Granger,” he said, and he flashed his badge.

      Hell. What now? Had Walter Ray sent someone to look for his daughter?

      “I’m Dylan Granger.” He tucked the purse in his back pocket and walked toward the cop. “Is there a problem?”

      The cop didn’t answer. He just motioned to someone inside the cruiser, and a moment later, a gray-haired woman stepped out. She wasn’t alone. She was gripping the hand of a little boy who couldn’t have been more than two or three years old.

      Dylan silently repeated that—hell, what now?

      “You need to sign for him,” the woman said. She had some papers in her left hand, and she started toward Dylan, pulling the little boy with her.

      Dylan shook his head. “Why do I need to sign? And who is he?”

      The woman smiled as if there was something to smile about. “Well, Mr. Granger, according to this paper, this precious little boy is your son.”

       CHAPTER TWO

      MAJOR JORDAN RIVERA caught a reflection of herself in the airport window and realized something.

      She totally sucked at disguises.

      The floppy white crocheted hat with its drooping sides, the fuzzy mauve hoodie and bulging sunglasses made her look like a perverted Easter bunny.

      She was drawing attention to herself. The exact opposite of what she wanted to do. It wasn’t good attention, either. People snickered. There were elbow nudges and behind-the-hand whispers.

      The next time she needed a disguise, she really had to put more thought into it. And not get her traveling clothes from the Lost and Found at the base hospital. In hindsight, she wasn’t convinced the items had actually been lost but purposely abandoned because no one wanted to be seen in them.

      She kept walking from the gate where her flight had just landed, and she took out her phone. One look at it, and that got her attention off her inadequate disguise skills. The phone screen was filled with missed calls that she’d received while on her flight from Germany to Atlanta. The most recent one, though, caused her to frown and silently curse, and it had come in just five minutes ago.

      Why the heck was her ex, Dylan Granger, calling her?

      Maybe he’d heard that she was going to be stationed at the base in San Antonio and wanted to welcome her “home.” Or tell her how sorry he was for what’d happened to her. The latter would be far worse than the former so Jordan deleted that one without even listening to the voice mail Dylan had left. She didn’t have time for a blast from the past, especially when it would mean talking about wounds—both old and new ones.

      She quickly went through the rest of the list. There was a call from her good friend and occasional boyfriend, Lieutenant Colonel Theo Shaw, but it could wait because Theo was no doubt just checking on her. Too bad that she needed to be checked on.

      And Theo knew that firsthand.

      Jordan knew it, as well, but he’d have to wait. She didn’t delete his voice mail, though, the way she had Dylan’s, and she kept scrolling. Crap. There were seven calls from her cousin, Adele, and two from an unknown number.

      Obviously, something had gone wrong.

      But then, there was often something wrong when it came to Adele. She was Jordan’s first cousin, but they’d been raised together after Jordan’s aunt died from breast cancer when Adele was just a baby.

      Since Jordan was six years older, she’d become the big sister. The kind of big sister that Adele thought should bail her out, repeatedly, when she got into tight spots. Which happened way too often. Adele considered herself an activist, always chasing some cause or another, but that chasing had often gotten her into trouble with the law.

      “Welcome home, Major,” an elderly man said as he walked past Jordan.

      It wasn’t unusual for strangers to greet her when she was in uniform. They often would thank her for her service, but even with the shady-bunny clothes, this man had obviously recognized her. That meant he’d likely seen the news stories about her. About the helicopter crash and her being taken captive.

      Jordan still wasn’t able to say POW, but she suspected the news outlets here in the US had plastered those initials in their headlines. Ditto for her rescue, too.

      “You’re a hero,” the man added.

      No. She wasn’t. Far from it. Her rescuers were the real heroes. And Theo was part of that hero team that’d gone in and extracted Jordan and six others from what could have become a deadly situation.