Son of a Gun. Joanna Wayne

Texas.” Another lie, but she’d heard someone in the trailer mention it and she knew it was south of Houston.

       “Where are you from originally?”

       “Nashville,” she said, this time answering truthfully. She hadn’t lived there since…since the last major upheaval in her life.

       The smell of burning wood grew stronger. She hadn’t imagined it earlier. A few minutes later, she caught her first glimpse of smoke rising from three chimneys that accentuated the steep lines of a multi-gabled roof.

       The house was two-storied and sprawled out in several directions, as if it had stretched over the open land like creeping phlox.

       “Who owns the ranch?” she asked as they drew nearer.

       “The Lamberts.”

       He surely wasn’t a Lambert, not wearing the tattered leather jacket he’d lent her. More likely he was just a working cowboy. “Where do you live?”

       “You’re looking at it.”

       That surprised her. “Do you and your wife have children?”

       “Nope. No children. No wife, either.”

       “So, how many people live in the house?”

       “Six when we’re all present and accounted for.”

       “That sounds like a houseful.”

       “Always room for one more.”

       “I won’t be staying,” she said quickly. “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can get a ride to the nearest motel. Any will do.”

       “You’re nowhere near a motel, and you’d be hard-pressed to find transportation into town tonight. Even if you could, I wouldn’t recommend it. You might end up worse than merely in a ditch. Besides, there’s plenty of room here.”

       As they approached the house, she was even more awed by its sheer size. But that wasn’t all it had going for it.

       A large glass-enclosed porch extended across part of the back of the house. The lamps were turned on and their soft glow fell across sofas, rockers, hooked rugs, potted plants and baskets in all shapes and sizes. A round table in the middle of the room held a huge winter arrangement of greenery, berries and cones.

       To the left of that was a covered entryway that led into the house, and to the left of that were wide, uncovered windows that opened into a massive kitchen filled with people. Evidently, they were enjoying a late dinner.

       Damien stopped at the base of a winter-bare oak near the back of the house. He took the reins and looped them over a low branch, securing the horse before reaching to help Emma dismount.

       Anxiety swelled inside her. There would surely be questions. They’d know she was lying. They might just call the sheriff and have him come pick her up. All it would take was a fingerprint check and then there would be no hiding from the glare of the media.

       Woman Kidnapped While Vacationing in the Caribbean Islands Escapes, the headline would read.

       No one escaped Caudillo and lived to tell about it.

       Damien’s touch was firm but gentle. “Relax,” he said, obviously sensing her nervousness. “The Lamberts can be a cantankerous bunch, but they don’t bite. You’re safe.”

       Safe. Even the sound of the word made her breath catch. But the safety Damien or the Lamberts could provide was only temporary, little more than an illusion.

      * * *

      SURPRISINGLY, THE ANXIETY eased the second Emma stepped into the kitchen. The warmth, the odors, the easy chatter and laughter among the people gathered around the scarred oak farmhouse table was the total opposite of what she’d lived with for much of the past year.

       “We have company,” Damien said, interrupting chatter that was so noisy no one had heard them come in through the mudroom and walk to the kitchen door.

       Heads raised and immediately all pairs of eyes focused on Emma and Belle. Belle began to wiggle and fuss, sputtering cries that were likely the prelude to full-fledged bawling.

       The two men pushed back from the table and stood in true Texas cowboy gentleman fashion. An attractive middle-age woman at the head of the table looked up. Her piercing gaze met with Emma’s, and Emma’s whisper of reprieve took a nosedive.

       This was not a woman who’d be a pushover for Emma’s lies. Nor would she welcome trouble into the midst of her family.

       “This is Emma Smith,” Damien said. “She drove up from Victoria to visit her aunt. Somehow she took a wrong turn and ended up on the logging road that runs parallel to Beaver Creek.”

       “What were you driving, a tank?” one of the men questioned. “The holes in that road would swallow a normal vehicle.”

       “Apparently one of them did,” Damien explained. “The car is now likely sinking like quicksand.”

       Emma breathed easier. The explanation sounded far more feasible coming from Damien. She’d always been a rotten liar.

       “Thankfully, I wandered into your pasture hoping to find help, and Damien came along,” Emma said.

       The woman who’d eyed her warily at first smiled as she stood and walked toward Emma. “We wondered where Damien had gotten off to. But when Tague checked and found his horse missing from the barn, we figured he’d gone out for one last check on the cattle.”

       “Lucky for me and Belle that he did.”

       “I’m Carolina Lambert, Damien’s mother.”

       So he wasn’t a simple cowboy. He was a Lambert. Obviously wealthy and likely powerful, yet he’d easily passed for your everyday wrangler. Already she loved Texas.

       Carolina stood, walked over and leaned in for a closer look at the squirming infant, whose face was turning redder by the second.

       “Oh, poor little sweetheart. You must be cold. We’ll take care of that.” Carolina looked up. “She’s adorable.”

       “Thank you.”

       Damien made quick introductions of the rest of the people at the table as Belle tuned up. The two men were his brothers, Durk and Tague. Both were tanned and muscular and shared Damien’s good looks. Tague sported a ready smile. Durk eyed her suspiciously, his handshake firm.

       Damien’s grandma Pearl was silver-haired, petite and wrinkled but with a mischievous sparkle in her violet eyes. His aunt Sybil looked to be in her sixties. She wore heavy makeup and her neck and wrists were weighted down with chunky silver and turquoise jewelry. A black wig topped her head like a hat. Emma hoped hers was not nearly so conspicuous.

       “You’re the best-looking stray Damien’s ever come home with,” Tague said. “Of course, your closest competition was a mangy yellow dog with a bad drool.”

       “Glad I beat that out.” She managed a smile.

       “Have a seat,” Grandma Pearl said. “You need some soup to warm you up. A little sherry wouldn’t hurt, either.”

       “Mother thinks sherry is the cure for everything,” Sybil said. “I’ll get you some soup.”

       “Maybe we should give Emma a chance to catch her breath and warm up before we start pushing food on her,” Carolina said.

       Belle began to wail.

       “Why don’t you let me take her for you,” Carolina said. “You must be exhausted.”

       “She’s hungry,” Emma said. “I really need to feed her.”

       “Of course. And I’m sure you’d appreciate some privacy,” Carolina said. “Come with me to the family room. There’s a rocker near the fireplace.”

       Emma took a