Texas Rose. Marie Ferrarella
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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 hanging 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.
Two
“Well, 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