Son of a Gun. Joanna Wayne

      Damien Lambert worked the curry comb in a circular motion, talking to King as he did. The black steed stood contentedly even though thunder growled continuously and zigzagging bolts of lightning split the sky, the glaring streaks of light visible through the open barn doors.

       The other horses in the barn were also calmed by Damien’s soothing voice and company. Only Jolie, his mother’s pale gray quarter horse, pawed the hay-covered dirt as if she knew something about the approaching storm they didn’t.

       Normally, Damien appreciated a good thunderstorm. It watered the pastures and refilled the creeks. The fierceness even had a way of clearing the air, a release of the occasional friction that erupted between him and his father. At times the two locked horns so tightly that Damien didn’t see how they could keep working together in the same state, much less on the same ranch.

       Hugh Lambert. Bigger than life. A man who swore like a sailor, liked his bourbon a little too much at times and who’d go up against any politician with rhetoric, clout and his considerable wealth if he thought their policies interfered with him running his spread or his oil company as he saw fit.

       But Hugh was also a man who’d fire his best wrangler or even a foreman in a second if he found they’d mistreated an animal. And even in the business world, he was a man whose word and handshake were as binding as a contract.

       Damien had grown to appreciate that more and more as he’d matured. And when his father wasn’t reaming him out, Damien realized how lucky he was to have Hugh as a father. It had made him the man he was. Independent, tough and thick-skinned.

       A clap of thunder fired like an explosion. Apprehension surfaced and weighed on Damien’s mind. His father and some of his ranching buddies had flown by private jet to the Cowboys/Cardinals game in Arizona. That would put their return flight straight in the path of the storm.

       But they’d run into weather like this enough times that they knew the risk. When the weather warranted, the pilot landed the plane in any small airport in their path or else postponed the trip home until the next day.

       Damien finished currying King and was brushing him down when he heard his brother Tague yelling for him. By the time Damien reached the barn door, Tague was standing there, out of breath, panic rolling off him like the dust the wind had kicked up.

       “It’s Dad.” Tague’s words were shaky and barely audible.

       Anxiety pitted in Damien’s stomach. “What happened?”

       “The plane crashed.” Tague slumped against the door.

       “Where?”

       “Somewhere in West Texas.”

       Damien felt something crack inside him, and he held on to a post for support. “How did you find out?”

       “Sheriff Garcia is at the house. Dad’s dead, Damien.” Panic tore at Tague’s voice. “Mother’s just standing there. She’s not even crying, but her eyes…they look like she’s dying, too.”

       Adrenaline bucked off the paralyzing shock. Damien took off running. He thought he heard Tague’s footsteps behind him, but he didn’t slow down or wait for his youngest brother. His dad couldn’t be dead. This was all some horrible mistake. They’d find that out later, but his mother needed Damien now.

      Chapter One

      Three Months Later

      The truck rocked and bounced along what felt like a dry, stony creek bed. Emma Muran’s stomach rolled violently as she was jostled and pressed against the sweaty bodies that were crammed into the back of the type of small rental trailer used for moving furniture. Only this one was painted a dull gray.

       Though the air outside was bitter cold, the air inside the crowded trailer was stagnant, the odors of urine and perspiration sickening. Babies cried. A kid in the back was begging to go home. An old woman wailed and murmured heart-wrenching prayers as she clung to her rosary beads.

       The woman next to Emma slumped against her as her baby pushed away from the woman’s semi-bared breast and began to cry again.

       “Would you like me to hold him for a few minutes?” Emma offered, avoiding looking directly at her. Making eye contact created a bond. Emma couldn’t afford a bond, no matter how tenuous.

       “She’s a girl,” the young mother said, pulling away the lightweight cotton scarf she’d been using as a privacy shield so that Emma could see the baby’s delicate white dress and tiny yellow trimmed booties. “She’s eight weeks old. Her name is Belle.”

       The woman’s voice was weak, her eyes wet and filmy as if covered with transparent gauze.

       “She’s beautiful,” Emma said, “and the dress is exquisite.”

       “I made it myself for when she sees her papa in Dallas for the first time. I saved as much as I could from every dollar he sent us to live on until I had enough to pay for this trip.”

       “Why does she keep crying? Is she sick?”

       “She’s hungry.”

       “You just fed her.”

       “I don’t have enough milk to satisfy her.”

       “Didn’t you bring a bottle of formula to supplement?”

      “Ningún dinero.”

      No money. No doubt she’d spent every cent she could scrape up to get to her baby’s father. Emma had paid three thousand American dollars to be treated like cattle.

       “Does your husband know you’re coming?” Emma asked.

       She shook her head. “No married, but Juan Perez is a good man. He take care of us in Texas.” Emma assumed the woman wasn’t an American citizen. Why else would she pay to be smuggled into the country? Emma was likely the only citizen amidst this group of desperate elderly people and mothers with children.

       Yet she was no less desperate. Her fate in Mexico was certain death. And in America, as well, if the monster found her.

       The baby started to cry louder. Poor thing. Emma weighed her own terrifying fears against the baby’s needs. Staying unnoticed was no longer an option.

       “This baby is hungry,” Emma called in Spanish over the clattering rattles of the truck. “If you can spare a few sips of milk. Please.”

       Finally, a young mother whom Emma had noticed earlier nursing a boy of about six months reached for the baby without a word. A stranger’s hands took Belle and passed the crying infant to the woman. Exhausted from crying, Belle sucked for only a few minutes before falling asleep.

       By this time, Belle’s frail mother had slumped against the shoulder of the young man next to her and seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep. Emma took the dozing infant and cuddled her to her own chest.

       So precious. So innocent. She hadn’t asked for any of this.

       The truck came to a jerking stop and bodies collided with each other like rotting melons. The back door opened and everyone gasped as if choking on the fresh air their lungs craved.

       The man in charge, who they knew only as Julio, climbed aboard. “We crossed the border a few miles back. You’re in Texas.”

       A cheer went up from the disheveled group.

       Tears wet Emma’s eyes. She was back on American soil. A week ago, she’d all but given up hope of that ever happening. Unfortunately, even here she’d have to find a way to change her identity so completely that Emma Muran ceased to exist.

       “If you want out now, you’re welcome to haul ass and take off on your own,” Julio continued. “But you’re pretty much in the middle of nowhere. I’ll take you all the way to Dallas if you stay on board, just as promised when you paid and signed on.”

       About half of the