The Stranger Next Door. Joanna Wayne
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She stepped over an inverted pot. “Right now, the ranch is the only tie I have to my past. I’m staying.” She looked around the room again and grimaced. “Only not tonight.”
“Good. But let me warn you. My brother Ryder’s never met a pretty woman he didn’t take to.” He led her through the wreckage and out the front door. “And my mom will badger you with questions. Feel free to tell her as much or as little as you like.”
“I have no secrets. If I do, I don’t remember them.” She followed him down the steps. “How many brothers do you have?”
“There’s four of us. Dillon, my oldest brother, is a Texas senator. He and his wife, Ashley, and their son, Petey, live in their own house on the Burning Pear when he’s not in Austin. Branson is the honeymooning sheriff. His wife’s name is Lacy. And then there’s Ryder and me.”
“You mentioned your mom. What about your dad?”
“He died when I was just a boy. But he was quite a man. Mom reminds us of that often enough when she’s telling us what she expects of us.”
“Your family sounds a little daunting.”
“Us?” Langley opened the passenger-side door and held it while she climbed inside the truck. “We’re just your basic cowboys.”
Danielle knew nothing about cowboys, but she’d bet her last $26.92 that Langley was a cut above basic. Her spirits lifted as soon as the truck engine roared to life. A bed at the Burning Pear had to beat sleeping at the Running Deer. Tomorrow would be soon enough to set up camp in the house of horrors.
DANIELLE WOKE TO THE SOUND of laughter and a blinding stream of sunlight that poured through the window beside her bed. Pushing up on her elbows, she struggled to come to grips with morning.
Conversation wafted down the hall and under her closed door, but she could only catch an occasional word or phrase. She recognized Langley’s voice, though, and the deep baritone had a soothing effect, the same way the cool freshness of the sheets had last night when she’d collapsed onto the guest bed.
She’d been spared meeting the rest of the Randolph clan last night. Langley’s mother had already gone to bed and Ryder had been out. She’d been thankful. Meeting new people while disguised as a drowned rat was not her idea of fun. Come to think of it, she wondered what her idea of fun was. Whatever it was, she hadn’t had any for the past two weeks.
She stretched and yawned, wincing as her body reminded her just what it had gone through at the hands of a maniac. But every day she grew stronger. Stronger and more frustrated that she couldn’t find the key to unlock her memories and go on with her life.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, shoved her feet into her shoes and walked over to stand in front of the oval cheval glass. She squinted in the sunlight, leaning close to the mirror to get a better look at the dark circles around her eyes and the hideous coloration of the healing cuts and bruises.
But at least she’d showered and shampooed her hair last night in the homey Randolph guest bath, standing under the hot spray until the tension had finally crept from her muscles and fatigue had settled in. And then she’d slicked her body with a fragrant lotion she’d found in a basket next to the stack of fluffy towels.
Now her hair fell loose and wild about her shoulders. Grabbing handfuls of it from the nape of her neck, she made a ball of the thick locks and pinned it to the top of her head with a gold-colored enamel clip, another gift from her friendly hospital mate. The only thing missing was some clean clothing to crawl into.
But she didn’t have any and she couldn’t very well go strolling into the Randolph kitchen in her undies. Thankfully, she had purchased extra panties. They were cheap but served the purpose.
Funny, she could have sworn she’d left her jeans and T-shirt draped over the chair last night. But there they were, folded neatly. She picked up the shirt, ready to slide it over her head. It smelled of lemon. And it was clean.
Talk about service. But surely Langley hadn’t slipped into her room while she was sleeping to collect and wash her dirty laundry. But someone had, unless the Burning Pear had good fairies on the staff.
Groaning, she forced her legs back into the stiff denim of the jeans, then tugged them over her hips. By the time she had the shirt on, she got her first whiff of brewing coffee and quickly lost interest in her appearance. She stepped into the hall and followed her nose to the kitchen.
“Open up, Betsy. It’s bananas. You like bananas.”
Danielle came to a quick stop in the kitchen doorway. Langley was sitting next to a high chair, shoving a tiny spoonful of mushy yellow food into the mouth of an adorable baby. It made a heart-stopping picture, but an uneasy feeling gripped her. She hadn’t been prepared for seeing him in the role of daddy.
He turned and saw her, and his face split in a wide grin. “Good morning. I started to wake you for breakfast but figured you needed the sleep. Besides, Mom saved you some pancake batter. It won’t take but a minute to heat up the griddle.”
Langley tried to shovel another spoonful of baby food into an open mouth. This time, his young charge swung her hands, catching the end of the spoon and sending food flying onto the tray of the high chair.
“Does that mean you’re full, Miss Betsy, or just that you don’t want me paying attention to anyone but you?” The baby smiled and cooed, and the big, rugged cowboy playfully chucked her under her fat little chin before he wiped up the spilled food. By that time, he had sticky fingers to clean, as well. “Don’t let Mom see this mess, young lady, or she’ll have me bathing you before I can get out of here.”
Danielle drifted toward the coffeepot. “Mom. Is that Mom as in your wife and the mother of your daughter, or Mom as in the woman who gave birth to you?”
Langley looked up from his feeding chores. “Betsy isn’t my daughter.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I guess I jumped to conclusions. You look so right feeding her.”
“I’ve had lots of practice. That’s what happens in these equal-opportunity families.” He poked the spoon back into the jar and dug around, getting the last bit of food from the bottom.
But Betsy was through eating and ready for play. She opened her mouth for the food and then let it slide out the corner of her mouth and down her chin while her eyes danced mischievously.
“In this case, practice does not make perfect,” Langley admitted.
But the baby girl clearly had the cowboy just where she wanted him, wrapped tightly around her chubby little finger.
“Help yourself to coffee,” Langley said. “Mom put sugar and cream out in case you wanted it. We’re all straight black around here.” He bent to retrieve the toy Betsy had just flung to the floor. “And, by the way, Mom is my mom. I’m not married.”
Danielle felt a flicker of relief as she poured the hot coffee into the pottery mug that apparently had been set out for her. She wasn’t sure why. She certainly had no designs on the man herself. For all she knew, she was married and might even have a baby of her own.
She carried the mug back to the table and took a chair across from Langley. “So where does Betsy fit into the Randolph family?”
“Officially, she isn’t kin. Unofficially, she’s in the dead center of everything that goes on at the Burning Pear. For someone so little, she demands, and gets, a lot of attention.”
“I can see that. She’s a little heart stealer.” Betsy slapped her hands against the tray, then laughed at her own antics.
Langley took the damp cloth and wiped up another smear of baby food. “We don’t know who Betsy’s real parents are,” he continued, turning back to Danielle. “She was brought to us six months ago when she was just a newborn. The woman who delivered her to us believed Betsy was a Randolph. But, as best we can figure, the man who’d told her that had been lying. He was actually scheming to bilk us out