Lone Star Blues
Clearly, he needed to have a chat with Lawson for egging him on to do something this stupid.
“So, who came up with the charity donation?” Dylan demanded. “And are there any other specifics that I don’t know about?”
Another shrug. “You’d have to ask Lawson. That’s about the time I left, and Lawson and you were still hashing things out.” Lucian’s huff was louder and more impatient this time. “Look, I’ve got three hours of work that I need to do in the next twenty minutes. Just finish sobering up, deal with the woman in your bedroom and don’t miss the meeting you’ve got first thing tomorrow morning with the new feed supplier.”
Oh, he was sober all right, and Dylan didn’t need a reminder about the meeting since he had been the one to set it up. Lucian never seemed to remember that he didn’t run the ranch 95 percent of the time. Dylan did. But that was an annoyance for another day. Today, he needed to deal with the naked woman right after he spoke to Lawson.
Dylan took out his phone, called Lawson, but it went straight to voice mail. Not really a surprise. After all, it was the morning after his bachelor party, and Dylan was betting Lawson had gotten as shit-faced as he had. Also, it was possible Lawson would be unable to recall what’d actually happened. If so, Dylan might never discover if the rodeo payout held some other special level of hell he didn’t know about. He wanted any and all specifics that he could pass on to his mother when she called.
Which she’d already done.
That’s when Dylan saw the five missed calls from her on his screen. He’d had his phone on silent, but it had only been three minutes in between the time when he’d sent out the celibacy video and her first call.
“Remember, you’ll need to apologize to Walter Ray,” Lucian threw out there. “Maybe send him a bottle of scotch to smooth things over. He favors single malt.”
Dylan only knew one Walter Ray. “Judge Walter Ray Turley?”
“That’s the one,” Lucian verified with a layer of smart-assery in his tone.
Dylan got a jolt of more memories, and these were the clearest yet. Walter Ray had shown up at the bachelor party, but things had gotten a little ugly when the subject of the Dylan Granger Sex Bingo had come up.
Because Walter Ray’s daughter, Melanie, was one of the winners.
The judge hadn’t approved. Dylan hadn’t approved of the threats that Walter Ray had doled out. Threats involving neutering or a shovel to the head if Dylan didn’t “put a ring on it.” His brother Lawson and his cousins Garrett and Roman had broken things up before they got ugly, and Walter Ray had stormed out.
“We do business with plenty of Walter Ray’s friends and family,” Lucian went on. “Best not to let this sort of thing fester.”
It was already past the festering point. About three months ago, Dylan had gone out with Melanie, and they’d run hot and heavy for a couple of weeks. Longer than most of Dylan’s relationships. That length of time was probably why Melanie, and therefore the judge, had got the notion that it was serious between them.
It hadn’t been.
And even though Dylan had long since ended things with Melanie, he wasn’t sure that she truly believed it was over between them. Walter Ray certainly didn’t believe it.
“Oh, and you might have to take Booger to the vet,” Lucian added just as Dylan headed for the door. “He might have eaten the elastic from your guest’s red panties.”
Great. Now, he could add possible canine intestinal issues to this already-shitty day. But there was a silver lining in this. At least there was if he believed in the old wives’ tale that bad luck came in threes. Booger was number three since Dylan had already gotten the naked woman and the riled judge. So, maybe the bad luck was all finished.
“Where’s Booger now?” Dylan asked.
“The sunroom. Karlee chased him down and left him with Bertha, the housekeeper.”
For a man with his pulse on the business, Lucian didn’t bother keeping up with the daily workings of his family home. Bertha had quit weeks ago, during Lucian’s last visit, and now they had Vera and Marylou. Dylan knew Lucian hadn’t meant Marylou because Booger hadn’t been with her when she was upstairs. So the dog had to be with Vera.
Since it was obvious Lucian already had too much on his plate, Dylan would keep the family jewels’ injury ribbing for later. Instead, he tried to call Lawson again, but when he got no answer, he decided to drive over and see him in person. His house wasn’t far, less than a half mile away, but he wasn’t going to walk there today. Best to get back here fast and take care of getting the naked woman home.
He walked the maze of halls that zigged and zagged through the house and came out the back door where he kept his truck. When he stepped out onto the porch, Dylan spotted their cook, Abe Weiser, who was stretched out, napping, in one of the wicker lounge chairs. He was a lousy cook, not especially good at managing the house, either, but he tolerated Lucian. That was Abe’s sole asset and the reason he’d stayed employed at Heavenly Acres for the last twenty years.
“One of the hands said I’m supposed to tell you that a longhorn broke fence,” Abe said without sitting up. Or even opening his eyes. “It made it to your truck, and its horn hooked your radiator. Busted it. The radiator, not the horn. The horn’s all right, I reckon. You’ll have to take one of the other trucks if you’re going anywhere.”
There went the old wives’ tale of three. Maybe old husbands’ tales had four bad things going wrong. If so, then he’d fulfilled that quota, too.
Downing some more coffee, Dylan headed off the porch and toward the large detached garage for another vehicle. However, before he could even make it there, he saw something sparkly on the stone path. A silver purse that was smaller and flatter than the palm of his hand. It had some chew marks on it and was wet, possibly from dog slobber.
Since this likely belonged to the naked woman, he opened it to see if he could find her ID. And there it was—her driver’s license along with a credit card and some lipstick. There was also one of those stupid Dylan Granger Sex Bingo cards folded up inside.
Thankfully, it was blank.
He pulled out the license and looked at her birth date first. She was twenty-six. Way too young for him but at least she was legal. Then he read the name, and his stomach went to his ankles. Because it was Misty Turley, the same last name as the judge who was pissed at him. And with the way his morning was going, Dylan seriously doubted that was a coincidence. No, this was likely another of his daughters. One younger than Melanie.
Maybe he could send Walter Ray a whole case of scotch.
Dylan didn’t know exactly how many daughters the judge actually had. Walter Ray had gotten divorced years ago, and when his ex-wife had moved away, the girls only visited Wrangler’s Creek every now and then. Or at least that had been the case until Melanie had moved back after she’d finished college.
He picked up the purse so he could take it back inside and add it to the pile of clothes. Since the identity of the naked woman was bad news number five, that had to mean he was good to go at least for the rest of the day.
Or not.
Dylan heard the sound of an engine right before he saw the cop car pull up in front of the house. It wasn’t the local cops, either. The cruiser had San Antonio Police on the door.
A tall, lanky man in uniform stepped out. “I’m looking for Dylan Granger,” he said, and he flashed his badge.
Hell. What now? Had Walter Ray sent someone to look for his daughter?
“I’m Dylan Granger.” He tucked the purse in his back pocket and walked toward the cop. “Is there a problem?”
The cop didn’t answer. He just motioned to someone inside the cruiser, and a moment later, a gray-haired woman stepped out. She wasn’t alone. She was gripping the hand of a little boy who couldn’t have been more than two or three years old.
Dylan silently repeated that—hell, what now?
“You need to sign for him,” the woman said. She had some papers in her left hand, and she started toward Dylan, pulling the little boy with her.
Dylan shook his head. “Why do I need to sign? And who is he?”
The woman smiled as if there was something to smile about. “Well, Mr. Granger, according to this paper, this precious little boy is your son.”
CHAPTER TWO
MAJOR JORDAN RIVERA caught a reflection of herself in the airport window and realized something.
She totally sucked at disguises.
The floppy white crocheted hat with its drooping sides, the fuzzy mauve hoodie and bulging sunglasses made her look like a perverted Easter bunny.
She was drawing attention to herself. The exact opposite of what she wanted to do. It wasn’t good attention, either. People snickered. There were elbow nudges and behind-the-hand whispers.
The next time she needed a disguise, she really had to put more thought into it. And not get her traveling clothes from the Lost and Found at the base hospital. In hindsight, she wasn’t convinced the items had actually been lost but purposely abandoned because no one wanted to be seen in them.
She kept walking from the gate where her flight had just landed, and she took out her phone. One look at it, and that got her attention off her inadequate disguise skills. The phone screen was filled with missed calls that she’d received while on her flight from Germany to Atlanta. The most recent one, though, caused her to frown and silently curse, and it had come in just five minutes ago.
Why the heck was her ex, Dylan Granger, calling her?
Maybe he’d heard that she was going to be stationed at the base in San Antonio and wanted to welcome her “home.” Or tell her how sorry he was for what’d happened to her. The latter would be far worse than the former so Jordan deleted that one without even listening to the voice mail Dylan had left. She didn’t have time for a blast from the past, especially when it would mean talking about wounds—both old and new ones.
She quickly went through the rest of the list. There was a call from her good friend and occasional boyfriend, Lieutenant Colonel Theo Shaw, but it could wait because Theo was no doubt just checking on her. Too bad that she needed to be checked on.
And Theo knew that firsthand.
Jordan knew it, as well, but he’d have to wait. She didn’t delete his voice mail, though, the way she had Dylan’s, and she kept scrolling. Crap. There were seven calls from her cousin, Adele, and two from an unknown number.
Obviously, something had gone wrong.
But then, there was often something wrong when it came to Adele. She was Jordan’s first cousin, but they’d been raised together after Jordan’s aunt died from breast cancer when Adele was just a baby.
Since Jordan was six years older, she’d become the big sister. The kind of big sister that Adele thought should bail her out, repeatedly, when she got into tight spots. Which happened way too often. Adele considered herself an activist, always chasing some cause or another, but that chasing had often gotten her into trouble with the law.
“Welcome home, Major,” an elderly man said as he walked past Jordan.
It wasn’t unusual for strangers to greet her when she was in uniform. They often would thank her for her service, but even with the shady-bunny clothes, this man had obviously recognized her. That meant he’d likely seen the news stories about her. About the helicopter crash and her being taken captive.
Jordan still wasn’t able to say POW, but she suspected the news outlets here in the US had plastered those initials in their headlines. Ditto for her rescue, too.
“You’re a hero,” the man added.
No. She wasn’t. Far from it. Her rescuers were the real heroes. And Theo was part of that hero team that’d gone in and extracted Jordan and six others from what could have become a deadly situation.
Yes, Theo knew firsthand what it was to be a hero. He also knew that what had happened five weeks ago was still eating away at her.
Despite that eating away, Jordan managed a smile and a polite nod to the man who’d welcomed her home. Then, she pulled the floppy hat even lower over her face so that no one else would recognize her.
Thankfully, there didn’t appear to be any reporters, but then maybe enough time had passed since the helicopter crash and rescue. And during those five long weeks, she’d been tucked away at the hospital in Ramstein, Germany. When Jordan had finally gotten her medical clearance, she’d kept her travel plans a secret from everyone but Adele, Theo and the handful of people in her immediate chain of command.
The fewer “welcome home/you’re a hero” greetings she got, the better.
Jordan kept weaving her way through the stream of passengers who were moving to and from the other gates. She’d gone nearly four months on this deployment without the smells of fast food and the thick crowds, a reminder that she hadn’t missed either. But that could be the headache and nerves talking.
Once she’d dealt with whatever family emergency was going on, had downed some ibuprofen and spruced up the disguise a little, then she’d buy herself a burger and chocolate shake. There’d be plenty of time for that because she had a three-hour layover before her flight to San Antonio.
Moving as fast as she could with her carry-on luggage and laptop bag, she finally saw the sign for the women’s restroom and threaded her way out of the crowd to duck inside. Jordan located an empty stall that was at the far end of the room, and the moment she was inside, she shut the door and took out her phone. She’d learned from experience that it was often best to deal with family matters in private.
Sometimes, yelling was involved.
And even though this bathroom stall wasn’t exactly private, it would have to do.
While Adele might not have remembered that Jordan had been on an international flight and couldn’t answer her phone, something had obviously happened.
Something urgent.
Of course, there was usually something urgent in Adele’s life—most of it from her own not-fully-thought-out actions. But whatever was wrong, maybe it was something that Adele had already managed to fix in the past seven hours since she’d made the first call. If not, then Jordan would figure out a way to take care of it for her. That was the one good thing about her being assigned to San Antonio. She’d be nearby when Adele needed her.
That was also the bad thing about being assigned there.
Sometimes, like now, Jordan wondered if she was actually helping or if she’d just become an enabler to Adele’s insane life choices.
Jordan hit the call-back button on Adele’s number. No answer. So, she played the first of several voice mails, and she immediately heard Adele’s frantic voice.
“Jordan, I’m in big trouble. I need to talk to you. Call me ASAP.”
Even though Jordan had gotten many, many messages like that from Adele over the years, it still twisted her stomach. Still made her angry, as well. Adele was twenty-eight now, too old to be getting into trouble and calling her big sister for help. But then, Adele didn’t have anyone else.
Neither did Jordan.
And that’s why the knot twisted even harder.
The next two voice mails had the repeated gist of the first message so Jordan kept going through them, hoping for some explanation.
“Where are you?” Adele had shouted in the fourth one. “I need you. Corbin needs you. Why aren’t you answering your bleeping phone?”
“Because I was on an international flight that I told you about—twice,” Jordan grumbled. Behind her, the automatic toilet flushed. “And why are you using words like bleeping?” But she was obviously talking to herself.
Jordan didn’t know who Corbin was, but since it had been over a year since she’d seen Adele, it was possible that was the name of her current boyfriend. Also possible that this Corbin was the reason Adele was in some kind of trouble. Adele didn’t usually make good choices when it came to men or her social/political causes—a reminder that only twisted Jordan’s stomach even more.
Before she went to voice mail number five, Jordan tried to call Adele again. Still no answer, and she hoped this was a case of Adele’s crisis already being fixed. Maybe Adele and Corbin were in the kiss-and-make-up stage and had turned off their phones so as to not be disturbed. If so, then Jordan was definitely going to have that burger and shake. Maybe a margarita, too.
After Jordan left a message for Adele to call her back, she played the next voice mail. This one didn’t start with a shout but rather a sob. “Oh God. Jordan, I really screwed up. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me. Please.”
That hit Jordan far harder than the shout had. Adele apologized a lot, but an apology mixed with tears was never a good sign. With her hands a little unsteady now, Jordan quickly scrolled down to the next voice mail.
But this one wasn’t from Adele.
It was a number that wasn’t in Jordan’s contacts, and when she hit Play, the voice was unfamiliar, too. “Major Rivera, I’m Ruth Gonzales, a social worker from the Department of Human Services in San Antonio. Could you call me immediately?”
Jordan’s stomach did more than merely tighten. It went to her knees. She doubted it was a coincidence that DHS and Adele had left her messages within the same hour. But what the heck was going on? There was only one more voice mail, and it had also come from the social worker’s number.
Her hands were more than just a little unsteady when she hit Play, and her heart was beating hard enough that it might be difficult for her to hear. “Major Rivera,” the message said. “This is Ruth Gonzales again from the DHS, and I just wanted you to know that it’s all been worked out. Corbin is on his way to be with his father.”
All right. That calmed Jordan’s nerves and heartbeat some. Or at least it did until she thought about why a social worker would have contacted her to tell her that Adele’s boyfriend was with his father.
A social worker wouldn’t have done that.
Mercy. Yeah, this was bad.
Jordan hit the button to call Ms. Gonzales to find out what the heck was going on, but she had to wait through five long rings before the woman finally answered.
“This is Major Jordan Rivera—”
“Oh yes,” the woman interrupted. It was the same person on the two voice mails. “Didn’t you get my message? It’s all taken care of.”
“Yes, I got your message, but I don’t understand. Who’s Corbin?”
Silence. And it lasted even longer than the telephone rings. “He’s your cousin’s two-and-a-half-year-old son.”
The relief came just as the toilet flushed again. This time, though, the plastic seat cover decided to switch itself out, as well. The whirling-grinding sound was so loud that Jordan had to raise her voice to make sure the social worker heard her.
“There’s been some mistake. Adele doesn’t have a child.”
“But she does.” Ms. Gonzales sounded pretty adamant about that.
However, Jordan was equally adamant. “If Adele had had a baby, she would have told me.”
Though the moment the words left her mouth, Jordan got another of those bad thoughts. Maybe Adele would have told her. Unless she’d thought it would upset Jordan.
Which it would have.
Adele had no business having a child when she could barely take care of herself.
“It was your cousin’s name on the boy’s birth certificate,” Ms. Gonzales went on. “And she had his social security card. The child even called her Mama.” The woman paused. “Major Rivera, I watch the news so I know who you are. I’m also aware of what you’ve been through.”
Jordan heard something in the woman’s voice that she’d been hearing way too much of lately—sympathy. Not just a little dose of it, either. It was the poor, pitiful you tone. Since she was a woman, everyone thought the worst. That she’d been sexually assaulted. She hadn’t been. But during those two days she’d been held captive, Jordan had imagined in crystal clear detail all the bad things that could have happened to her.
She’d broken down and cried.
Some hero she turned out to be.
“Major Rivera,” the social worker said, getting Jordan’s attention. “Adele explained that you’ve been out of the country for months and that you were coming here on leave in between assignments, but do you have any idea what’s going on?”
Apparently not. “Why don’t you fill me in?” Jordan suggested.
It sounded as if Ms. Gonzales dragged in a deep breath. “Well, before your cousin was arrested, she brought her son to me, hoping that he wouldn’t be put in foster care while she was in jail. She said she didn’t have time to take him anywhere else because the cops followed her here.”
There was only one word that Jordan managed to hear in that explanation. “Arrested?” she howled. “For what?”
“Uh, I’m not at liberty to discuss that, but maybe you can talk to Dylan Granger about it? If you’re comfortable talking to him, that is. Your cousin said something about things being strained between you two. Because he’s your ex-husband.”
Even though the toilet was flushing nonstop as if it were possessed by a demon, Jordan had no choice but to sit down on it. The automatic plastic cover seat slithered like a snake beneath her butt.
“Dylan Granger?” Jordan managed to repeat.
“That’s right.” Ms. Gonzales sounded downright perky that Jordan had managed to make the connection. “Your cousin gave him temporary custody of Corbin because Dylan Granger is the boy’s father.”
* * *
DYLAN NOW KNEW firsthand what it was like to be a Ping-Pong ball. He was volleying stunned glances between the paperwork the social worker had handed him and the little boy who was standing just a few feet away from him.
He was a cute kid. Dark hair and big blue eyes. And he was eyeing Dylan with as much concern as Dylan was eyeing him.
According to the paperwork, the boy’s name was Corbin Dylan Rivera, and his mom was none other than his ex-wife’s cousin, Adele. Dylan hadn’t had Adele’s number, and that’s why he’d gotten Karlee to locate Jordan’s, but his ex-wife hadn’t answered when he’d tried to call her.
Of course she hadn’t.
She was Adele’s gatekeeper, and if Jordan knew there was any possibility that he’d fathered a child with Adele, then his ex might be on her way to issue some of the same kinds of threats as Judge Walter Ray had the night before. And Jordan just might have the right to carry out those threats, too.
Because this wasn’t just unforgivable. It was also a really shitty thing to do. It didn’t matter that Jordan and he were divorced. Adele was Jordan’s family, and this was like dicking around with someone she thought of as a kid sister.
“Are you okay?” Karlee asked him.
Dylan didn’t even try to lie. “No.”
Shortly after he’d gotten hit with the he’s-your-kid bombshell, the bones in Dylan’s feet and hands had vanished. That’s why he’d sunk down onto the porch steps. That was also about the same time that Karlee had come outside. Why, he didn’t know exactly, but it was possible that she’d heard the police car. Or his stunned groans. Once she’d alerted his brother that something was wrong, Lucian had come out, too. So had the two housekeepers and Booger.
Lucian was now reading through the papers—a good thing because Dylan was worried he might no longer be capable of seeing words much less understanding them. Karlee was next to Dylan, her hand making slow, circular motions on his back. She was also doing some volleying glances of her own. No doubt trying to figure out if the kid looked like him.
Booger was gnawing through the heel on Dylan’s right boot.
Dylan wasn’t anywhere near that stage yet of picking through the boy’s features. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the basics of me, father/you, son. Still trying to rein in his emotions, as well.