The Second Son. Joanna Wayne

      He shook his head, as if he was sorry he had to refuse the request of a spoiled child. “We made a bargain.”

      “And I’m trying to keep it. All I’m asking for is a little time.”

      He grabbed her right arm just below the elbow, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Listen carefully, Lacy. That’s the church organ playing. The guests are seated and waiting. You will walk down the aisle.”

      The phone rang. She broke from his grasp and dived for it. It had to be Kate.

      “Hello.”

      “Hello, Lacy.”

      The voice was male, but not one she recognized. It sounded strained, muffled.

      “Who is this?”

      “A friend. I called to wish you the best on your wedding day. And to tell you that you are going to die very soon.”

      The connection was broken before Lacy had a chance to reply, but she was shaking when she hung up the phone.

      “Who was that?” Charles barked.

      “No one. A crank call.”

      “To a church? Some people are really sick.” He took her hand and pulled her toward him. “Let’s just forget about Kate for now. Don’t let her spoil your wedding day.”

      “I won’t go through with this wedding, Charles, not unless Kate is here.”

      “Kate’s attendance at the ceremony was not a part of our bargain. And I know you are not foolish enough to back out of our agreement.” He smiled into the mirror and ran his hand down the front of his tuxedo shirt, smoothing the pleats. “Now, touch up your makeup where your tears mussed your mascara. And for heaven’s sake, wipe that look of gloom from your face.”

      He stepped toward the door. “The next time I see you, I’ll expect smiles. After all, this is your day.”

      She stared at the door for long seconds after the back of Charles’s head had disappeared from view. Stopping by the mirror one last time, she poked a dab of cold cream on the smeared streaks of black under her eyes. The tears were gone now. She repaired the makeup and smiled at her reflection.

      She’d do what she had to do. It was called survival, and both she and Kate had learned the ropes of it a long time ago. They’d just chosen different arenas in which to perfect their skills.

      SHERIFF BRANSON RANDOLPH swerved his pickup truck into one of the designated parking spaces for a brick town house in an upper-middle-class area of San Antonio. The house was at the end of a row of similar structures. They backed up to a parklike space with twin gazebos, picnic areas and a pond about half the size of the Alamodome.

      Even from the back entry, the building was impressive, two stories with a covered slate patio that looked more like an outdoor living room. Tables, chairs and potted palms as tall as the mesquites that grew in Burning Pear pastures. Not at all what he’d expected.

      He pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and double-checked the address. There was no mistake. This was the residence of the woman who’d paid a gift-bearing visit to the Burning Pear three nights ago and then collapsed at his feet. Kate Gilbraith, age thirty-three.

      At this point, she was still recovering in a hospital across town. The small hospital-clinic in Kelman was okay for minor emergencies and routine health care, but serious bullet wounds required a trip to one of the larger San Antonio hospitals. Kate’s injury had been complicated by a serious loss of blood.

      The doctors reported she was making a miraculous recovery. In spite of that, she hadn’t come to enough to answer Branson’s questions. Until she did, he still had no clue as to who had shot her in the right shoulder or why.

      To top it off, she’d had no identification on her. Nothing but a key ring with three keys and a few wadded dollar bills, all stuffed into the front pocket of her slacks.

      If she hadn’t had a record, he might still be trying to figure out who she was. But her fingerprints had told him what she couldn’t. Name. Previously arrested on charges of writing hot checks. A few years earlier, she’d done a short stint in the slammer for shoplifting.

      Her current address had been a matter of public record. Once you had a name, you could find out a multitude of facts about anyone, if you knew where to look.

      What the records didn’t tell him was where Kate Gilbraith had come up with the baby she claimed was a Randolph.

      It wasn’t his. That was for sure. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had sex with a woman. No, that wasn’t exactly true. He did remember. He only wished he didn’t, considering how it had ended up. But it hadn’t been with Kate Gilbraith.

      And his brothers had all sworn they’d never set eyes on her before the night of the birthday party. And, if a Randolph gave you their word on something, you could take it to the bank. That had been the legacy they’d inherited from their father and his father before him. The Randolph curse, they’d called it growing up on the ranch, but they’d all bought into it.

      Nonetheless, his mom had talked Social Services into letting her take care of the newborn baby until Miss Gilbraith was well enough to do the job herself. He’d been against it. He’d been outvoted.

      Branson locked his truck, a task he never bothered with in Kelman, and slammed the door behind him. Stepping over a smashed beer can, he headed across the patio and toward the back door. He noticed another beer can on the edge of one of the padded lounge chairs. Looked like the residents’ taste, or that of one of their friends, ran to Coors. And no one around here was a neatness freak.

      The back door was closed. He knocked. No one answered, but the door squeaked open. Just a few inches, but enough that he could hear someone rummaging around inside. Maybe looters, since he knew the woman of the house was not home. Maybe the person who’d shot Miss Gilbraith. Maybe not. “Police. Come out and identify yourself.” No one responded.

      Taking the safe approach, he eased his pistol from its holster. Soundlessly, he slipped through the open door and into a shiny kitchen, black chrome appliances, dirty dishes piled in the sink. The noises continued, coming from upstairs. He tiptoed up the stairs and across a carpeted runway that seemed more a loft than a hallway. He peered over the railing and into the lower-level living area.

      There was a big-screen TV, a sectional sofa in dirt-brown leather and a bearskin rug thrown down in front of the fireplace. And more empty beer cans scattered about among stacks of magazines and newspapers.

      He made his step light, making his way down the hall and past a series of closed doors. A crash of wood on wood, probably the forceful closing of a drawer, alerted him that he was getting warm.

      Stopping, he peered through the open crack of a bedroom door. The woman making the noise was facing the other direction, but there was no mistaking the gender. She was in a wedding dress, with rows of minute pearl buttons that went far lower than the tiniest waist he’d ever seen on a full-grown woman. Or maybe it just looked that way above the yards and yards of billowing satin that cascaded over her hips and fell to shapely ankles.

      She was bent over, ransacking her way through a dresser drawer. She pulled out a pair of short shorts and held them up for a second before stuffing them back in the drawer. If she was a looter, she had a strange way of dressing for the job, and she was apparently very picky.

      The room had French doors that opened onto a balcony and a terrific view of hilly land that sloped to the banks of a sparkling pond. A nice setup. Evidently Kate Gilbraith had changed her ways, or else found that crime did pay.

      He watched her for a few more seconds before deciding to let the woman in white know she had company. “Police. Keep your hands in plain view, and turn around nice and slow.”

      She jumped at the sound of his voice and then twirled around lightning fast, the one hand that was in view dangling a lacy scrap of underwear.

      “You