Midnight Rider. Joanna Wayne

Faith asked.

      “Nope,” R.J. said. “Probably a neighbor stopping by.”

      “I’ll get it,” Adam offered, already scooting back from the table.

      “You just keep eatin’,” R.J. said. “I need a little exercise. Old bones get stiff if I sit too long.”

      He held on to the edge of the table for extra support as he stood. Never knew when one of those dizzy spells would hit. He ambled to the door, taking his time about it. The doorbell rang again.

      “Hold your horses. I’m coming.”

      He swung open the door and stared into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. He took in the rest of the stranger, enjoying the tour. He might be near dead. But just because he couldn’t sample the wares didn’t mean he couldn’t window-shop.

      “You must be lost,” he said, sure he’d never seen the tall, willowy strawberry blonde before.

      “Is this the Dry Gulch Ranch?”

      “Was the last time I looked at the sign over the gate.”

      “Are you R. J. Dalton?”

      “Yep. You’re batting a thousand so far.”

      “Then I’m not lost.”

      A baby whimpered.

      R.J. followed the sound to a baby carrier resting on the porch, next to the stranger’s right foot. The young woman reached down and grabbed the handle, lifting the carrier so that he could see the adorable infant peeking from beneath a yellow blanket. The baby kicked and made a few boxing moves with its tiny fists.

      “And who might this be?” R.J. asked.

      “This is your three-month-old granddaughter, Kimmie.”

      “My granddaughter. Well, don’t that just beat all?”

      “Yes, it does.” She pushed the carrier toward him. When he didn’t take it, she set it on the floor inside the door.

      “Come on in,” R.J. urged, opening the door even wider.

      “No, thank you. I’m just here to drop off Kimmie.”

      “What do you mean drop her off?”

      “Just that. I’m leaving her in your care.”

      “You can’t do that. I’m a sick man. I can’t take care of a baby.” Had never done that when he was young and healthy.

      “Then I suggest you hire someone to take care of her or call your son Cannon and tell him to stop by and pick up his daughter.”

      So Cannon was playing around with more than bulls. A chip off the old block. But the old block had made a lifetime of mistakes.

      “Why don’t you go tell Cannon that yourself?”

      “I don’t have time at the moment to go chasing down some irresponsible bull rider.”

      Apparently not time to raise her child, either.

      She pulled a business card and an envelope from her pocket. “If Cannon has questions, he can reach me at this number. Inside the envelope, you’ll find everything you need to know about caring for Kimmie.”

      “I’m gonna need a lot more than some notes.”

      “Yes, you’ll need this to get you started.” The woman slid a large canvas tote from her shoulder and handed it to him, as well. “There’s formula, bottles, diapers and a few changes of clothing inside.”

      “You got a momma for her in there, too?”

      The woman didn’t answer, but he could swear those striking blue eyes of hers were moist when she turned and walked away.

      She stopped just before she reached her car. “I play classical music for Kimmie when she gets fussy. It calms her down.”

      There was a definite quiver in her voice but no hesitation as she got into her car and drove away.

      Once her taillights disappeared, R.J. took a look at the card she’d pressed into his left hand.

      Brittany Garner, Homicide Detective, Houston Police Department.

      Cannon sure knew how to pick them. Gorgeous, sexy and she could handle a weapon. All good traits in a woman—unless she turned the gun on you.

      R.J. was still staring at the newest addition to the family when his daughter-in-law Hadley joined him at the door. She stopped and stared at the baby. “Oh, my gosh. Look how adorable.”

      Hadley reached down, unbuckled the baby from her chair and picked her up, all the while gushing baby talk.

      “Hello, little sweetie. Did you just drop from heaven and land at our door?”

      “Something like that,” R.J. said.

      Hadley’s eyebrows arched. She dropped the baby talk. “What are you talking about? Who is this?”

      “Name’s Kimmie, or so her mother said.”

      “Who’s her mother?”

      “Apparently a lady cop.”

      “What do you mean apparently? You must know whose baby this is?” Hadley walked to the door and looked out. “Where is her mom?”

      “Gone back to Houston, I s’pect.”

      “Without her baby? What’s going on here?”

      “Supposedly this is my granddaughter.”

      “Who’s the father?”

      “Allegedly, it’s Cannon, but I bet he’s gonna be as surprised about this as we are.”

      R.J. smiled in spite of the situation. Not the ideal bargaining tool, but it was one way to get Cannon back to the Dry Gulch Ranch. His neighbor Caroline Lambert was right. God sure worked in mysterious ways.

       Chapter Three

      Macabre kicked his way out of the creaky gate with a vengeance that sent adrenaline exploding through Cannon’s veins.

      One. Two.

      The bull bucked wildly. The rope dug into Cannon’s gloved hand. His lucky Stetson went flying. Bad omen.

      Three. Four.

      The crowd’s cheers mingled with the thunderous stamping of the bull’s hooves and the frantic beating of Cannon’s heart.

      Five.

      Cannon’s body shifted and began to slide. Instinct took over. He struggled to hang on, leaning hard, fighting to shift his weight.

      Macabre’s fierce back hooves propelled the animal’s powerful muscles, twisting and spinning the two-ton mass of fury. The rope slipped. White-hot pain ripped through Cannon’s shoulder.

      He was on the ground. The rank breath of the snorting bull burned in his own nostrils. Flying dirt blinded him. He blinked, covered his head with his hands and rolled away.

      Shouts from the rodeo clown echoed though the arena, but the bull didn’t back off. It swerved and came back at Cannon.

      Cannon rolled in the opposite direction. The crowd gasped in unison as one hoof came so close to his head that Cannon could feel the vibrations rattle inside his skull.

      Then the bull turned and went after the clown. Cannon owed Billy Cox big-time.

      He picked himself up, grabbed his hat and waved it to the crowd as he scrambled back to safety. Cox was safe, as well. Only then did Cannon check the results.

      Seven seconds.

      Disappointment burned inside him. One more second and he would have scored big. He’d drawn Macabre, the most vicious of