The Hopechest Bride. Kasey Michaels

Freedom of the press, and all of that.”

      Joe wasn’t listening. He was too busy pacing, hands clenched into fists, talking to himself. “And Teddy! Damn it, why did she have to mention Teddy? And to say I won’t be indicted? Indicted for what? Would anyone actually believe that I would have been a willing partner in Patsy’s scheme? Hell, obviously that reporter did. She wondered enough to ask the question and print an answer. Because of Teddy, I suppose. What a mess. Harris is making it all sound like some kind of tabloid scandal.”

      Rand rubbed at the bridge of his nose and winced. “Yeah, I know. It was bad enough when the news came out about Emmett, but this one does have all the makings of a tabloid feeding frenzy. You can keep it low-key on Colton Enterprises stations, and my cousin Harrison won’t allow anything sensational in his publications—but this definitely is not going to go away overnight, Dad. You’re a former senator and business magnate, your sister-in-law unbelievably impersonated your wife for ten long years, you fathered her child—”

      “I did not— Oh, God,” Joe said, collapsing into the huge leather chair behind his desk. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly as he looked at his son. “Teddy’s not my child, Rand,” he said carefully, looking toward the shut door to the hall. “And that’s when I should have known. She—Patsy—came to me, all excited, telling me she was pregnant, but I knew that wasn’t possible. I knew I was sterile, and had been since that bout of mumps years ago. Your mother and I learned that when we tried to conceive after Michael’s death and couldn’t. But Patsy didn’t know. I should have known then, sensed something then. Teddy’s eight. This mess lasted eight more years than it should have. If only I hadn’t forgiven Patsy, believed that she’d made a mistake, had a short affair because I wasn’t…because I wasn’t paying her enough attention, meeting her needs. God, you’re right. The whole thing does sound like fodder for the tabloids.”

      His son remained silent for some moments, lost in his own thoughts, then asked, “Who is the father? Do you know?”

      Joe shook his head. “No, and I don’t think I want to know.”

      “Teddy might want to know,” Rand put in tightly, avoiding his father’s gaze.

      Joe pushed back his chair, stood up. “Not now, Rand, don’t go all ethical on me now. I can’t think about Teddy’s parentage now. I can’t think about that, or the fact that your mother, when she saw Teddy and Joe, Jr. last night, remarked on how they looked very much like brothers. Because if I were to think that Joe is also— No. Like I said, I can’t think about any of this now, about how blind I was, about the mistakes that were made. All I can do is protect your mother, Rand. We all have to protect your mother.”

      “That’s a given, Dad,” Rand said, walking over to the window and looking out into the courtyard, to where Teddy and ten-year-old Joe, Jr. were kicking a soccer ball. “Joe showed up on our doorstep, just an infant, only shortly before Mom’s accident, remember? Just before Patsy took Mom’s place here at the ranch. We all know how crazy Patsy is about Joe, about Teddy. It was almost as if the rest of her children, natural, adopted and foster children, were cut out of her life, leaving just those two boys. Could it be? Is it possible that Patsy left Joe on our doorstep, then arranged to move in herself and mother her child?”

      Rand turned away from the window and looked at his father. “I think we need DNA tests, Dad. I think we need to know exactly what went on when Joe came to us. For Joe’s sake. And if Teddy isn’t to grow up believing you to be his father, maybe we need DNA testing on him, too. The last thing we need in this house, Dad, are more secrets.”

      Joe slowly nodded his head. “I’ll talk to your mother, see what she wants to do. But not yet, Rand. She’s too overwhelmed as it is, and very worried about Emily.”

      “We’re all worried about Emily, and I’ve been giving something some thought for a few days now, even before we all came here to the ranch. I know I’m rushing things here, but I watched Emily when we were with Mom’s psychologist in Mississippi. Dr. Martha Wilkes—a good, caring woman Mom really trusted. I was thinking, Dad, maybe we could get Dr. Wilkes to come out here for a while, stay at the ranch? Talk Mom past this media circus we’re sure to have, help her adjust? And maybe talk with Emily while she’s at it?”

      “It’s one step,” Joe agreed, sighing. “We have to start somewhere, don’t we? God knows I feel the need to do something. Go ahead, Rand, call the doctor and see if she’s agreeable. We’ll pay all her expenses, of course, and have her here as our guest. And after that, find out if we can visit Patsy at the jail later today. I have some questions for her, and possibly a deal to make with the woman.”

      Once upon a time there had been a small toddler-aged girl who was placed in the foster system after the deaths of her parents.

      And once upon a time a fairy princess and her big, handsome prince had rescued that little girl from the system, taken her into their fairy-tale palace and raised her as their own. Adopted her, gave her their name while preserving the name of her parents, making sure the little girl still saw her grandmother while that good woman was alive.

      Once upon a time that little girl was happy, loved, cherished. She lived in the fairy-tale palace, surrounded by foster and adopted brothers and sisters, adored by her new parents.

      And then, when the girl, Emily Blair Colton, was eleven, the wicked witch destroyed all that happiness.

      One fateful day, as Emily’s adoptive mother, Meredith Colton, drove the child toward town, to visit her grandmother, there was an accident. A planned accident that drove Meredith’s car off the road, tumbled it into a ditch.

      Meredith was knocked unconscious, as was Emily, and when Emily awoke, still strapped into the seat belt in the back seat, she saw two mommies. Her good mommy, and the evil mommy. The wicked witch. Frightened as only an eleven-year-old could be, Emily fainted, and woke much later in the hospital, to see just one mommy.

      But which mommy?

      Not her mommy. Oh, no. Her real mommy would never yell at her, put a hand across her mouth to stop her from crying. Her real mommy wouldn’t have somehow changed from laughing and loving to cold and accusing. Her real mommy would call her “Sparrow,” and read her stories each night, and never yell, never call her “you bad, bad child.”

      Ten years. Ten long, dark years the wicked witch had stayed and the good mommy had been gone. Lost.

      Nobody listened, nobody believed. Or did they? Someone finally had believed Emily. Someone had believed her enough to try to kill her, here at the ranch, here in her own bedroom. Someone had felt it necessary to shut up the child who was now a woman, yet still also the child who questioned, who still believed her good mommy had been stolen away by the wicked witch.

      Because of that somebody, Emily had nearly died. Three times. And somebody had died, had died protecting her, had died saving her…had died loving her.

      “It’s my fault,” Emily said aloud in her quiet bedroom, the yellow November sun slanting through the windows, onto her coverlet. “Toby’s dead, and it’s all my fault.”

      Detective Thaddeus Law pushed a fresh cup of coffee across the scarred wooden table, then waited as Patsy Portman lifted the cup and drank deeply. A department video camera perched on a tripod in a corner of the room was loaded with a fresh tape and ready to go after their lunch break, which had just ended. He hit the remote button, starting the machine, then once more recited his name, Patsy’s name, the date, the place, the time. Once more he read Patsy Portman her Miranda rights, which she once again agreed to waive.

      Everything was set, ready. He looked to his left, at the two-way mirror, and nodded. He’d begin now, ask the questions the men behind that two-way mirror had suggested.

      Patsy Portman was dressed in the royal blue T-shirt and scrub pants imprinted with “Prosperino Jail” on the shirt back and one pants leg. Yet she still held her head high, her perfectly combed hair and makeup-free but still classically beautiful face so at odds with her attire, as were her carefully manicured fingernails.

      It