Son of a Gun. Joanna Wayne

Karen shows up at the Bent Pine almost as often as the mailman.”

       Damien went to the coffeepot and filled a mug with the hot brew. “Where is Mark the Magnificent?”

       “Apparently dear hubby is in L.A. for a meeting.”

       “And missing all the poopy diapers. Those rich investment types know how to suffer.”

       Damien lifted the lid off the big pot on the back burner of the range. The heady aroma of onions, stewed tomatoes and spices filled the room. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of his mother’s famous homemade soup.

       “I’m going to grab a quick shower,” Damien said, “unless you need help bringing in logs.” With three fireplaces in the rambling old house—they could burn a lot of wood on a cold weekend.

       “I’ve got it covered,” Durk said. “And then I’ll get to those boxes in the attic Mother asked me to bring down.”

       “The attic is full of boxes. Did she say which ones she wants?”

       “Yeah. The ones she scooted next to the opening.”

       “I’ll get started on the boxes,” Damien said. “The shower can wait a few more minutes.”

       Not that he liked the idea of his mother spending another long weekend buried in grief and memories. Since his father’s death, she’d spent far too much time going through old chests, boxes and trunks. It was as if she were trying to hold on to him by reliving every moment of their past.

       Damien had no need for pictures or mementos. His father was so much a part of the ranch that he felt his presence every minute of the day. That didn’t lessen his pain or the regret that he’d never had a chance to tell his dad how much he loved and appreciated him. The two of them had tended to leave too many good things unsaid.

       He finished his coffee, deposited the cup on the counter and took the stairs to the second floor. Once in the hallway, he reached for the overhead grip and pulled down the ladder. He climbed quickly to the dusty attic. Dusk was closing in fast, and he switched on the light to dispel the shadows.

       His mother had four cardboard boxes and one sturdy metal file box that resembled an old-fashioned safe piled near the rectangular opening. He’d never noticed the metal safe in the attic before.

       He scanned the area and realized that the large black trunk in the back corner was standing open. That trunk had been padlocked for as long as he could remember.

       In fact, once when he and Durk were kids and had been playing hide-and-seek in the attic, they’d made up a horror tale about a body being buried in that banged-up old trunk.

       His curiosity piqued again, Damien walked over to the trunk. One side of it was empty, a space easily large enough to have accommodated the metal safe.

       The rest of the trunk held a half dozen or so old photo albums. He picked one up and opened the tattered cover. He didn’t recognize anyone in the picture, but one of the men was definitely a Lambert, an older version of Hugh.

       One of the photos had fallen loose from the old-fashioned black tabs that had held it in place. Damien turned it over and read the names of the people in the picture. The man in work coveralls was Damien’s great-great-grandfather, Oliver Lambert, the original owner of the Bent Pine Ranch.

       Hugh had made sure Damien and his brothers knew all about the blood, sweat, tears and glory that had gone into building this ranch. The man standing beside Oliver was Damien’s great-grandfather as a young man.

       Damien picked up a new photo album, this one not quite as old. He slipped one of the pictures from its tabs. Again the names were written on the back of the photo.

       Damien’s great-grandfather was standing beside a magnificent black stallion. The boy in the saddle was Damien’s grandfather. The house in the background was the same as the one Damien was in right now, although several wings had been added over the years.

       Alive and dead, the Lambert roots extended deep into the earth of Bent Pine Ranch. His ancestors were buried in a cemetery near the chapel that Damien’s great-great-grandfather had built for his own wedding. All the succeeding Lambert weddings, including Damien’s parents’, had been solemnized in that same small, weathered chapel.

       If Damien ever married, he’d hopefully continue the tradition. The “if” loomed larger every day. Not that Damien hadn’t dated. He’d just never clicked with a woman the way he figured a guy should click with someone he intended to spend the rest of his life with.

       Damien closed the trunk but didn’t bother to latch the padlock. He made quick work of delivering the boxes to his mother’s bedroom.

       That done, he made a last trip up the ladder, picked up the portable safe and muttered a curse as the lid fell open. Files and loose papers scattered about the floor, a few floating through the attic opening to the hallway below. He stared for a few seconds, tempted to leave the mess until tomorrow. It wasn’t like his mother would get to all the boxes tonight.

       But his father had taught him too well. If a job needed doing, do it right and do it now.

       Damien stooped to his haunches and began to gather the scattered papers. There were baptismal records, old report cards, outdated contracts and files containing yellowed documents. He checked the date on a receipt for fifty head of cattle. He’d paid more than that for the last bull he’d purchased at auction.

       The receipt was dated thirty-one years ago, thirteen months before he was born. He figured the old records would make interesting reading over a cold weekend.

       Working quickly, he gathered the loose papers by the handful and slid them into the box without putting them in any kind of order or attempting to return them to the correct files. He paused when an old birth certificate caught his eye.

       The name of the baby boy was Damien Briggs, almost identical to his name, except that he was Damien Briggs Lambert. Briggs was his mother’s maiden name.

       The date of birth was exactly the same as his. He found that uncannily weird. He kept reading.

       The mother was listed as Melissa Briggs. The father was unnamed. The Melissa in question must have been his mother’s sister. His mother seldom talked about her family, but she had mentioned a sister named Melissa who’d died years ago.

       Somehow Damien had gotten the impression that Melissa had died when she was only a child, but apparently not so if she’d given birth to a boy on the same day he’d been born.

       So where was this first cousin that Damien had never heard mentioned? Had he died in the accident that had also killed his mother?

       Damien read the names and dates again. Disturbing possibilities surfaced. Was it possible that he and Damien Briggs were one and the same? Could it be that his real mother was Melissa Briggs?

       No. Carolina was his mother. Hugh was his father. He’d seen his own birth certificate.

       Still, the troubling suspicions refused to dislodge themselves from his mind. Acquiring a fake birth certificate listing himself as the father would have been no sweat at all for a man with the political clout of Hugh Lambert.

       But then again, Hugh would never give his name to a son who wasn’t his. Case closed.

       His mother’s voice drifted from the kitchen. She was home. Damien should just confront her with the birth certificate. She’d clear up the confusion. It would be over and done with.

       But if his suspicions were on target, it would explain why Hugh had frequently treated him like a wild horse that he’d captured but didn’t really want in his fold.

       More disturbed than he was willing to admit, Damien carried the safe downstairs and left it sitting on the coffee table. He marched out the front door, pulling it shut tight behind him.

       Flakes of snow fell on his shirt and in his hair. A frigid cold settled in his bones, but he didn’t go back for his jacket. Instead, he walked toward the horse