Texas Rose (2 page)

“Why?”

She wished her father would drop this already. “That's my business.”

“And what happens within this family is mine.” He paused, gathering himself. Knowing that, at least for the time being, it was useless to keep hitting his
head against a wall, he backed off. Just a little. “Well, I'm not going to have people flapping their jaws about you like you were common trash. You're going to live with my sister until this blows over.”

“This isn't going to ‘blow over,' Dad,” Justin pointed out patiently. “Rosie's having the baby.”

Archy waved a hand at his son. “Don't lecture to me, boy. I know that. That's just something I'll have to deal with later.”

You're not going to have to
deal
with it, Dad, I am,
Rose thought. But saying so out loud would only add fuel to the fire right now. She had to choose her battles.

“But Aunt Beth is in New York,” Rose protested.

Archy loomed over his daughter, in no mood to put up with any more opposition. He'd endured all he was about to from Rose.

“So?” he demanded.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she didn't want to go to New York, but then Rose thought better of it. Maybe distance from everything and everyone was the best way for her to go right now.

Rose had remained under her father's roof all of her life. She liked being in the thick of things, close to those she loved, and had no desire to take flight the way so many others had. But now she couldn't go on living here with her father's accusatory looks. More important, she couldn't remain in Mission
Creek, running the risk of bumping into Matt when she least expected it.

If he saw her pregnant, there'd be no question in his mind that it was his. If he did do the so-called honorable thing and asked her to marry him, she might not have the strength to say no. And then there'd be a showdown between the two men she loved most: her father and Matt. That was something she definitely didn't want to have on her conscience.

“So I'll pack,” Rose finally said. With that, she turned on her heel, leaving the other members of her family looking at one another in mute surprise and confusion.

“In a real short amount of time, Rosie's gotten to be a very contrary girl,” Archy muttered more to himself than to the others at the table. “Even when she's doing what you think you want her to.” He shook his head. “Just like her mother.”

 

“What the hell's gotten into you?” Flynt Carson asked as he stormed into the stables. He looked at his younger brother, waiting for a response.

He didn't like the one he got.

Matt continued cleaning his tack. He'd been doing it for the past hour. It beat running his Jeep into the ground. Matt rubbed a narrow edge on the saddle. “Don't know what you're talking about.”

Flynt glossed over the denial as if it'd never been spoken. He'd watched his even-tempered brother
grow progressively surlier with each passing day for the past two weeks. Something was definitely going on.

“Hell, you never were a sweet-tempered kind of guy, but these days, if I were a stray dog or small child, I'd stay out of your way before you kicked me.”

Matt snorted. “Wise thought.” He stopped to pick up another cloth.

Flynt placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, forcing him to stop and look at him.

“Something's bothering you.”

Matt knew Flynt meant well, but this wasn't something he could share. Not with any of them. He shrugged off his brother's hand and went back to polishing the tack. He was starting to wear the leather away. “Nothing I want to talk about.”

Flynt repositioned himself so that he was in Matt's line of vision. “Maybe so, but the rest of us are getting caught in the fallout of that less-than-sweet disposition of yours and we're not going to take it for long.”

Matt arched a brow in his brother's direction. “Then stay out of my way.”

“Not always possible.” As a rule, Flynt didn't meddle. But family meant bending rules. “Look, if it's about a woman—”

Matt looked at him sharply, the stilled cloth hang
ing in his hand. “What makes you think it's a woman?”

He'd hit a nerve, Flynt thought. The rumors about his younger brother and a so-called mystery woman were true, after all. Compassion nudged at him.

“I know the signs. Nothing like a woman to scramble up your insides worse than two eggs tossed into a blender. Way I see it, a fella's got only a handful of choices—you either marry her, put her in her place, or forget about her.” And then, because the situation was a difficult one, Flynt added, “But do one of those things before the rest of us decide to form a lynch mob and put you out of our misery.”

Matt tossed the cloth aside and sighed. “It's not that simple.”

There was sympathy in Flynt's dark eyes. “I'm listening.”

Matt was tempted, but he knew it would be a mistake. The affair had begun in secrecy and they'd both been aware of the consequences. “I'm not talking.”

Flynt lost his temper. “Damn it, when did you get this obstinate?”

Matt bent to pick up the cloth again. He had to keep busy, even doing mindless chores. “Runs in the family.”

“There's not going to be a family if we have to kill you.” The smile faded. It looked as if his asocial brother had fallen and fallen hard. Why else would he be agonizing this way? This mystery woman of his
had to be something else again. “Really, Matt, if it's serious enough to have you this chewed up inside, then maybe you should try to untangle whatever differences you've come up with and make peace with her.”

Matt laughed shortly. “There's peace, all right. She dumped me.”

Flynt looked at him, dumbfound. “Dumped you? You mean she has taste?” He slipped his arm around Matt's shoulders in a silent show of camaraderie. “Sorry, that just came out. Then maybe you're better off without her.”

“That's what I've been trying to convince myself.” And he wasn't getting anywhere. All he could think about was Rose.

“Haven't been having much luck, I take it?”

Matt sighed. “None at all. I think about her and my insides pinch.”

Flynt nodded. He'd been at the same junction himself and knew how awful it could be. “That's either love, or you've been buying your underwear a size too small.”

“Real nice, Flynt. Maybe the ladies church group will embroider that on some kitchen towels.”

“Look, it's easy enough to confuse lust with that other L-word that's hard for us Carsons to say. Give it some time. If it's the first, it'll blow over. If it's the second, it'll get worse.”

Matt's eyes met his brother's. “It already
is
worse.”

He'd always been the straightforward one. “Then what are you doing sitting here talking to me? Go and tell her. Who is she, by the way?”

He didn't know if Flynt was being clever, or just asking. In either case, Matt couldn't tell him. He sighed and shook his head.

“Okay, don't tell me. But do something about it because, like I said, little brother, your days are numbered if you don't find that sunny disposition of yours again.” Above everything, Flynt knew when to back off. He crossed to the stable entrance and then paused to add, “Just a word to the wise.”

Matt said nothing. He was back to polishing his tack. And wishing he'd never set foot in that damn library and set his heart on the librarian. He should have stuck to cattle.

“W
ell, good news, Harrison,” Ben Ashton announced, sticking his head into the local district attorney's office after the latter had offered an absently voiced, “Come in.”

D.A. Spence Harrison's relaxed demeanor immediately disappeared. The private investigator wasn't stopping by to exchange thoughts about a case coming to trial, he was here on a far more personal matter. A matter that had involved Spence and three of his closest friends, all because they'd had the unfortunate luck of being on the ninth tee of the Lone Star Country Club golf course the Sunday that the baby had been discovered.

Spence and his friends found the baby, crying and wet from a recent christening by the course's sprinkling system. The chance watering had inadvertently all but obliterated the note that had been pinned to the baby's blanket, a note that had, from all appearances, been addressed to the baby's father.

Because it was known that they frequently played at this time, they'd each been held suspect as the baby's father. The best way he knew of to eliminate
suspicion, though, was voluntary DNA testing. Flynt Carson had decided that he needed to be the one to care for the baby. Child Protective Services had taken his DNA first and run it by a lab. Flynt wasn't the father.

Unwilling to have even a hint of scandal hovering over him, especially in view of his future aspirations, Spence had volunteered to be tested next.

Obviously, Ashton had the results in his possession now. He tried to read the private investigator's face, attempting to decide whether the smile there meant that the search had come to an end by some other means, or simply that his DNA test had been negative. He knew that there was no way on earth there was even a close match. This was not his baby.

Spence suppressed a sigh. He was due for some good news. He gestured to the chair in front of his mahogany desk.

Ashton shook his head. “Can't stay, Harrison. Just came by to tell you that you're not the baby's father.”

Spence fixed the other man with a look. “I could have told you that.”

“You did.” The detective's reminder was droll. “But the police department likes to see proof and verify things for themselves.”

Spence supposed that was what he and the others were paying this man for. To play the devil's advocate on their behalf as well as to find the identity of
the baby's parents. He leaned back in his chair. “So who are you going to verify next?”

They both knew the answer to that. “With you and Carson in the clear, that leaves Tyler Murdoch and Michael O'Day.”

Poor Michael, Spence thought. When they'd tapped him to fill Luke Callaghan's place to round out the foursome, the man had undoubtedly thought he was in for a morning of relaxation. With Luke away, gallivanting to places only the incredibly rich had the privilege to go to at a moment's notice, it seemed like an innocent enough thing to do. Michael hadn't known what he was in for. It could be that Michael O'Day just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or not. Either way, things had to be done by the book. That meant checking out a man whose history with the group did not go back nearly as far as the rest of them.

When Ashton began to leave, Spence asked, “Want my prediction?”

The P.I. paused in the doorway, politely waiting.

“You're not going to find a match. You're wasting your time.”

“But I'm not,” Ashton pointed out. “We need to prove that none of you is the baby's father, that it was sheer coincidence that you found her when and where you did, at a time and place the four of you are known to be every Sunday.” The detective smiled. “Besides, it's what you're paying me for.”

Spence nodded. “Yes, I guess we are. Sorry if I sounded testy just then. This whole thing…” He waved his hand, letting the sentence just fade away. He couldn't put his restlessness into words. Spence looked back down at the brief he'd been reading when the private investigator had walked in. The meeting was over. “Keep me posted, Ben.”

“Count on it.”

The door closed firmly in his wake.

Spence reached for the phone to tell Tyler to expect Ashton soon. Instinct told him Tyler would be next on the investigator's list rather than Michael. It stood to reason. The man was trying to beat the police department to the punch and clear Tyler before any gossip via the news media took hold. Nothing the news media liked better than to find dirt sticking to a group of ex-combat heroes who'd managed to return from the Gulf War and work their way back into the civilian world, garnering money and prestige along the way.

Everyone loved a hero. And for some unknown reason, everyone loved finding tarnish on that same hero, Spence mused.

With a sigh, he began hitting the familiar keys on the keypad.

 

“So you've got everything you'll need?”

Rose stopped folding a blouse she knew she
couldn't wear much longer and turned around. Her father was standing in the doorway of her bedroom.

A tall, still athletically built man, Archy Wainwright looked a little lost for a moment, despite his stately stature. For a second she entertained a flash-back. When she was a little girl she'd always thought of her father as being a giant of a man.

Too bad childhood didn't last longer, she thought sadly.

He'd shrunk a little in her eyes these past few months. Not because of any affliction of age, but because she knew how adamant her father was about the feud, a feud that had begun years before he was born and pitted their family against the Carsons on things that were only hearsay. The feud that was responsible for separating her from the man she loved.

If things had been different…

But they weren't, she told herself sternly, and she was strong enough to deal with that.

She hoped.

Rose dropped the blouse into the open suitcase. It was one of three spread out on top of her queen-size bed in various stages of being packed.

“Yes, I have everything.”

Her voice was cold, Archy thought. He wasn't used to that. Not from Rose. He cleared his throat. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” she said crisply, as if they weren't discussing her exile but some short vacation from
which she'd be back before her bed was cold. She paused, then added more softly, “I thought I'd go into Mission Creek and have a last look around when I'm finished.”

Archy nodded. He wasn't a sentimental man, but he understood the need for it. “Need me to drive you?”

She didn't think that being with her father in close quarters for any length of time was wise right now. Besides, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Thoughts that involved Matt and the places they'd secretly met over the past few months. Months she intended to cherish despite the outcome of their affair.

“No. I can still drive.”

Archy began to retreat, common sense telling him that it was best not to say anything else. But common sense gave way to filial passion. He wanted to make sense out of all this, and he couldn't.

“What were you thinking, girl? Didn't we enter into this at all for you?”

She straightened her shoulders, feeling under attack. “No,” she replied simply. “You didn't. You don't govern my every waking moment, Dad. Just like I don't govern yours.”

Archy's anger stirred. There was no comparing the two of them. “You're a child, I'm an adult.”

In years gone by, just the hint of anger across her father's brow was enough to send her scurrying away. But she wasn't six anymore.

“Wrong, we're both adults and free to do what we choose.” She raised her chin proudly, knowing she was doing the right thing. “And free to bear up to the consequences of those choices.”

Archy resorted to an age-old defense. “You're breaking your mother's heart.”

It took effort not to laugh at that. How could he throw her mother up to her, after what he'd done himself? Her mother had divorced him and moved out years ago because of his transgression and had only recently returned to care for her ailing mother. Kate Wainwright now spent part of her time living on the vast ranch in a small cabin her father had built for her.

“I suspect you took care of that long before I did.” She saw her father's face turn red and knew he was struggling with choice words he didn't want to say to her. “See, I can play the guilt game, too, Dad. And it doesn't do either one of us a bit of good.”

Like fire flashing in a pan only to be smothered by a lid, his anger dissipated, replaced by memories he didn't feel equipped to deal with at this time. He wasn't a man who liked to get sloppy. Archy took his firstborn daughter into his arms. “If you need anything…”

She understood what he was trying to tell her. Rose nodded, her soft hair brushing against his broad chest as she returned his embrace.

“I'll know who to call.”

Afraid emotion would get the better of him, Archy left the room before either one of them could say another thing.

 

The bartender straightened the name tag on her blouse that proclaimed to anyone who passed through the doors of the Lone Star Country Club that she was Daisy. Daisy Parker was the name she'd taken to keep her own identity a secret until she could safely reveal who she really was. Those who mattered would be surprised to discover that beneath the dyed blond hair and the slightly altered appearance—thanks to a plastic surgeon in London—was a woman who had grown up among them as Haley Mercado. The same Haley Mercado whose family had ties to the Texas mob. The mob that was now after her.

Turning around, she went to take the order of the customer she'd heard come in. A woman, by the sound of the heels clicking on the Spanish tile.

Haley put on her brightest smile and walked up to the woman she recognized as Rose Wainwright.

“Why the long face, honey?” she asked in the deep Texas twang she'd affected.

Rose slid onto the stool and looked around the almost-empty room. “Just taking a last look around.”

Haley cocked her head, hair that had once been a midnight-black but was now a golden blond brushing against her shoulder. “You going somewhere?”

Rose nodded and took a deep breath before saying, “New York.”

She didn't sound very happy about it, Haley thought. “Business or pleasure?”

“A little bit of both.” She laughed softly to herself. “A little of neither.”

Haley saw her boss pass by the entrance to the lounge and nodded in his direction. Not twenty minutes ago he'd unwittingly enabled her to gather more information by asking her to tend bar for a big private party on Thursday night. The more she unobtrusively circulated, the more information the wire she wore would pick up. With any luck, the ordeal she was enduring would be over soon.

Haley felt rather bad that Rose's privacy was being invaded this way, but it couldn't be helped. The young woman did look as if she needed to talk. “So, what's your pleasure? The usual?”

Rose shook her head. “No. I'll just have a ginger ale.”

The last two times she'd seen Rose, the older Wainwright daughter had ordered a white wine. Haley's brow arched. “That's even tamer than usual. Sure you don't want any wine?”

Rose shook her head. “I need a clear head.”

Haley reached behind her on the bar, extracting a bottle of ginger ale. Twisting off the top, she poured the contents into a glass. “I've never seen you imbibe too much.”

“Well, I've turned over a new leaf,” Rose replied.

Haley set down the near-empty bottle. “New York and ginger ale. Any other new things?”

Rose pressed her lips together, seeming to be deep in thought.

“No, that's it for now.” Rose wrapped her hand around the chunky glass that Daisy had placed in front of her on the counter.

“You don't look very happy about going.”

She waved a hand. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

This wasn't the kind of thing the FBI was hoping for when they wired Haley. None of what this unhappy young woman had to say would help her reach her own goal, that of reclaiming her life. But the sadness in Rose's eyes spoke to her.

She leaned forward, placing a hand on top of Rose's. “Honey, if you ever need someone to just listen, you know where to find me.”

Rose smiled, obviously touched by the offer. “Thanks, but like I said, I'm going to New York.”

“They've these newfangled things they call telephones. People talk into them and people on the other end can hear every word. Imagine that.”

Rose laughed.

Haley smiled, her eyes crinkling. At least she'd done one good deed today. “That's better.”

 

Matt finally understood the old, trite saying. He understood what it meant to be at wit's end, because he was at the end of his.

He had no idea what to do.

After deciding that Flynt was right, that he should take the bull by the horns before he allowed it to ram right through him, he'd gone to see Rose.

But she was gone.

She wasn't at the library, wasn't anywhere in town. And when he'd finally broken down and called her house, the woman who had answered the telephone informed him that Rose wasn't available. No details, nothing. Impatient, he'd asked when she would be back. The only answer he got was that information was unavailable at this time. Then the phone had gone dead.

He'd slammed down the receiver. What kind of garbage was that?

Unavailable.

That was the whole problem. Rose was supposed to be unavailable to him because he was a Carson. But she hadn't been. She'd been like fireflies and light. Magic. Pure magic in his arms, in his bed. The memory of making love with her into the wee hours of the morning clung to him tenaciously, coloring every moment of his day and night.

He couldn't go on this way.

Damn it, a man should be able to shake off anything, but he couldn't seem to shake off the effect she'd had on him. He needed to tell her that. To find her and talk to her face-to-face.