The Second Son. Joanna Wayne

like to see my sister.”

      “I can drive you to the hospital.”

      She nodded, accepting his offer. “But not in this.” She held up the skirt of the bridal dress, looping one finger through the unsightly rip. “I can find something of Kate’s to wear, but you’ll have to help me get out of this dress. It is not a one-person operation.” She turned her back to him, her fingers already fiddling with the top button.

      Branson’s throat grew scratchy dry. Undressing women was not in his job description. Not that he had anything against the task. He was a man, after all. But he doubted seriously his fingers would fit around anything as delicate and small as that row of pearl buttons that stared back at him.

      Lacy’s fingers made quick work of the top few buttons. “I can’t reach much lower, so you’re going to have to help or we’ll be here all night.”

      Branson nudged his Stetson back an inch or two to keep it from crashing into Lacy’s head. Bending, he forced his fingers to the task, fiddling endlessly with the first reluctant button. He leaned close, and the mind-numbing fragrance of Lacy’s perfume worked havoc on his senses, making the task at hand even more difficult.

      Long minutes later, he was only three buttons down and dozens more to go. He struggled to steady his breath as his rough knuckles collided with the silky flesh of Lacy’s back. Damn. Here he was undressing another man’s bride, and his own libido was acting as though it had a honeymoon coming.

      Button by button, inch by inch. The opening grew wider, revealing more flesh, finally dipping below her waist to the top lacy band of her panties. His fingers, and other parts of his body, grew stiff and his chest constricted painfully.

      She wiggled and stretched her neck as far as she could, trying to see what was taking him so long. “I hope you’re better at apprehending criminals than you are at undoing buttons.”

      “Just hold still. And suck in your breath so I have room to work.” His words came out a little gruffer than he’d intended, in an effort not to reveal the effect this undressing act was having on him.

      “Yes sir, Sheriff.” She held her breath for a few seconds then let it out in a resounding whoosh. “So whose baby was this that Kate delivered to your house?”

      “It wasn’t mine. I can guarantee you that.”

      “Oooou. Touche´.” She wiggled a little more, tugging on the skirt and pulling it lower over her shapely hips. “But I wasn’t accusing. Actually, I meant, who was the mother of the baby?”

      He stopped struggling with the contrary pearl dots. “Are you saying this baby wasn’t your sister’s?”

      “Absolutely not. I see her at least once a month, whether she wants to see me or not. She’s as thin as a rail. I’d have noticed if she were pregnant.”

      “Then where did she get the baby?”

      “I’d think you’d know the answer to that if the baby’s a Randolph.”

      “I said your sister claimed the baby was a Randolph. There’s a big difference.”

      Lacy twisted from the waist, and the skirt slipped lower still. Branson’s breath grew so hot it burned his lungs. He’d seen nearly naked women before, but never one like this. Actually, he hadn’t seen all that many, when you got right down to it, and none in many a Texas moon. Still, he would have doubted this type of perfection existed in real life.

      “Sorry, cowboy. The show’s over.” Lacy took him by the shoulders and spun him around to face the door. “You can wait in the hall while I change into something of Kate’s.”

      Branson walked away, thinking Charles Castile had to be one of the luckiest men alive, but wondering why in the world the man wasn’t here to undress his own wife on her wedding day. He paced the hall while he waited, forcing his thoughts from Lacy to the newest fact in the case at hand.

      If the baby wasn’t Kate Gilbraith’s, whose child was she? Had Kate kidnapped the infant, left some new mother fearing for her baby’s life? Only, if that were the case, why hadn’t Kate demanded money? Why had she just placed little Betsy in their hands and fallen at their feet, a bullet firmly embedded in her shoulder?

      The best clues as to what happened probably resided with Kate or with the person who’d tried to kill her. And in spite of Lacy’s protestations of ignorance, Branson had an idea she knew a lot more about what had happened than she was admitting.

      After all, she was here in Kate’s apartment when she should be cavorting in some luxurious honeymoon suite.

      Branson jerked as the sound of breaking glass ordered him to full attention. He peered over the railing as a tightly wound contraption of glass and metal crashed through the living-room window. It careened across the carpeted floor and slid under the sofa.

      Adrenaline rushed through him. “Under the bed,” he ordered, racing back into the bedroom. He grabbed Lacy and shoved her resistant body in that direction. A second later, the room rocked with the explosion of a homemade bomb.

      Chapter Three

      Lacy shifted beside Branson and then dissolved into a spasm of ragged coughing. He turned toward her, the muscles in his arms straining as he pushed against the mattress that had collapsed on top of them. “Are you all right?”

      “Probably not.” She sucked in a gulp of air and raised her knee, giving herself a little leverage with the mattress. “But I’m alive.”

      “Good. If you want to stay that way, we should get out of here. Fast.” He scooted toward the edge of the bed, holding up the mattress so that she could follow.

      He watched while she stood. She was a little unsteady, but he didn’t see any blood or signs of bruising. And fortunately, she’d traded the yards of satin for jeans and a sweater, and the nosebleed heels for a pair of loafers.

      Grabbing one of her hands, he pulled her through the door and into the open hallway. His eyes stung from the haze of black smoke that hit him in the face. He squinted, making a quick assessment of possible escape routes.

      Flames licked and sputtered around the sofa and were racing in a jagged line toward the front door. That left the back door, a path through thick smoke, broken glass and who knew what else. A gas leak from any appliance could send the kitchen portion of the house, including the back door, orbiting into space at any second.

      Lacy muttered a word she hadn’t learned in Sunday school. “I say we run for it.”

      She tried to wrestle her hand from his grasp. He held on and turned back to the French doors that led off the bedroom. “How are you at leaping from second-storey balconies?”

      “I’ll leave that to you and superheroes. I’ll take the patio door.”

      “Too dangerous.”

      She fell into another bout of coughing. He took that opportunity to drag her back into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. She stumbled after him, tripping once on the dress she’d shed just in the nick of time. He pushed the French doors open and gulped in a lungful of semiclean air. She grabbed the doorknob and held on, resisting his attempts to coax her onto the balcony.

      “You’re not going to go coward on me now, are you?” Branson pried her hand loose. Manhandling women was not his style, and he got no enjoyment from it. But there was no time to argue when she had no choice.

      She shook her head doubtfully. “If we jump from here, we’re going to break something, possibly my skull.”

      “Break or burn. It’s your choice.” It was a rhetorical option, and he didn’t wait for her answer. He let go of her hand and leaned over the railing. It was a fairly long drop, but all they really had to do was crawl over the guardrail, hold on to one of the pickets and dangle until they could wrap their legs around the main support column. From there it was just a fireman’s