Page 7

C HAPTER S EVEN

T he sun had peaked in the blazing Austin sky when a tissue-wrapped bouquet of red roses arrived at the door of the condo. Jasmine accepted the flowers, tipped the delivery boy, and carried them into the kitchen to be trimmed and arranged in a crystal vase.

She didn’t waste time looking for a card. Jasmine knew she wouldn’t find one.

She carried the finished arrangement into the living room—an elegantly appointed space with French doors that opened onto a balcony with a view of Lake Travis. Her mother looked up from the bestseller she was reading. Dressed in a flowing Indian caftan, with her abundant curls dyed to their original fiery hue and clipped into a twist, Madeleine Culhane hardly resembled a woman on the verge of death. But this was one of her good days.

“Thank you, dear,” she said, glancing at the flowers. “Put them there, on the coffee table, where we can enjoy the fragrance.”

Jasmine set the vase on the glass-topped table, next to an antique Limoges ashtray. To her daughter’s dismay, Madeleine continued to smoke, arguing that, with time so short, a few cigarettes would make no difference.

Jasmine eyed the bouquet. “They’re from him , aren’t they?”

Madeleine smiled. She was a stunning woman in a powerful, almost masculine way. So far, her terminal glioblastoma had done nothing to detract from her looks. “Of course, they’re from him, dear, just like all the others. Louis knows how much I love flowers.”

Jasmine still found it hard to accept that her mother was in a romantic relationship with Louis Divino, the notorious crime boss. They’d supposedly met after Divino had moved his operation from Chicago to Texas. Over time, their friendship had deepened into something more. And that was all Jasmine cared to know.

She’d made it clear to her mother that she disapproved of the man—especially since he’d helped Madeleine arrange the failed hit on Frank. Jasmine had done her best to forgive her mother’s behavior, which was irrational and had likely been caused by the tumor in her head. But for Louis Divino, there could be no such forgiveness.

“Is he coming by today?” Jasmine asked her mother.

“Yes, a little later. He’ll be bringing lunch, some takeout from my favorite Chinese restaurant. There’ll be plenty of food, dear. You’re welcome to join us at the table.”

“Thanks, but I’ll just raid the fridge. Carmela always leaves us something on her day off.” Jasmine had been about to go back to her room but changed her mind. She’d been meaning to have a serious talk with her mother. She’d put it off long enough.

Sinking onto an ottoman to face the couch, she fixed her mother with a stern look. “We need to talk,” she said.

“My goodness. This sounds serious.” Madeleine dog-eared her place in the book and laid it on the coffee table next to the roses. “You look as if you’re about to tell me you’re pregnant—which I wouldn’t mind a bit, as long as the father is that gorgeous, blue-eyed FBI man. Is everything all right? I overheard you talking to him on your phone.”

Jasmine sighed. “No, I’m not pregnant. And you know that Sam and I are keeping our distance until the investigation is over. This is about you.”

“If you’re ordering me back to those bloodsucking doctors, you can forget it.”

“No, it’s not that.” Why did her mother have to make everything so difficult? She’d even refused to give Jasmine the names and numbers of the doctors she’d seen.

“So it’s about Louis, isn’t it? I already know what you’re going to say to me, dear. The man is a gangster. He’s had people murdered. The FBI has been after him for years. If he’s arrested, I could be implicated, too, or get my poor little heart broken.” Madeleine paused to take a cigarette from a silver case, light it, and exhale a curl of smoke. “Sweetheart, in its own way, having a terminal condition can be very liberating. I can do anything I want—eat what I want, smoke and drink all I want, and love the man I choose—all without consequences. It’s a free pass. And if you don’t approve, that’s too bad.”

“And what about the consequences you leave behind for your family?”

Madeleine shrugged. “That’s not my problem.”

“What about the fight to get the ranch back? You were so determined—”

“It’ll be your fight. Yours and Darrin’s. My lawyers will be at your disposal. You’ll have enough money to pay them. Just make sure they earn every cent. That’s as much as I can do for you.”

Madeleine stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, picked up her book, and opened it to the page she’d marked. Taking her silence as dismissal, Jasmine walked back to her room, sat down at her computer, and took up the job search she’d started earlier.

Tired of waiting by the phone for the acting and modeling gigs that no longer came her way, Jasmine had resolved to start a new career path. But after weeks of googling, searching, and submitting résumés, to jobs that turned out to be mostly scams, she was becoming discouraged. The positions listed with decent salaries required skills and experience she lacked. Even menial jobs such as cleaning and dishwashing required some kind of job history, as well as references.

It wasn’t as if she needed the money. Her future inheritance from her mother would leave her well-off. But she was tired of being a useless toy. She wanted to be independent, to make her own way in the world.

Because she’d done a number of TV commercials, Jasmine had decided to look into sales jobs. At least she knew how to look pretty, smile nicely, and convince her audience that the product she was pushing was something they shouldn’t live without. That should be worth something. But that still left her with a wide range of choices.

She was googling the requirements for a Texas real estate license when she heard the doorbell chime. Her mother was probably resting. With a sigh, Jasmine rose from her seat at the desk and hurried out of the room to open the front door.

Louis Divino stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him. If Jasmine had been producing a movie, she would have cast him as the character he played in real life. Dressed in a black silk shirt and immaculately tailored summer trousers, his thick iron gray hair pomaded and groomed, his skin deeply tanned, with a prominent mole on his cheek, he look every inch the handsome, aging Mafia don.

Jasmine hated him.

“Jasmine, would you mind?” He handed her the large white plastic bag he carried, weighted with cartons of Chinese food. While he strolled into the living room to greet Madeleine, Jasmine carried the bag to the dining room table, unpacked the cartons, and laid out two plates along with utensils, cloth napkins, two wineglasses, and a half-empty wine bottle from the fridge. From the living room came the sound of Divino and her mother talking in low voices. Jasmine didn’t have to ask whether they were lovers. Sometimes he took her out. Hours later he would bring her home, disheveled, flushed, and giggling like a schoolgirl.

Jasmine had never told Sam about Divino’s visits. It would only worry him. And if Sam were to act on his worries, it could put him in danger. Besides, much as Jasmine disliked the mobster, didn’t her mother deserve some happiness at the end of her life?

They came into the dining room together, Madeleine leaning slightly on Divino’s arm. He held out her chair and helped her sit. Then he looked around at Jasmine, who stood at the entrance to the hallway.

“Only two places set?” he asked. “You know you’re welcome to join us, Jasmine.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got work to do on my computer,” Jasmine said. “Enjoy your lunch.”

She turned and walked into the hallway. Divino’s invitation had been no more than a gesture. Sharing a meal with the couple would have been awkward for everyone involved.

Returning to her room, she took up the computer search she’d been doing when Divino arrived. But now she’d lost focus. She found nothing that fired her enthusiasm.

In spite of the door she’d closed, the faint tinkle of china and flatware and the low murmur of conversation drifted to her ears. Her throat felt dry and scratchy. She should have grabbed a cold soda from the fridge before retiring to her room. But she could still get one. Walking in and out of the kitchen shouldn’t create much of a disturbance.

Leaving her room, she stepped out into the hallway, took a few steps toward the kitchen—and stopped, galvanized by the conversation at the table, which she could now hear clearly. She wouldn’t have chosen to eavesdrop. But she couldn’t walk away from what she was hearing.

“I won’t rest easy till I get that damned fed off my tail.” Divino’s voice was a low growl, not meant to be overheard. “Nick Bellingham’s been after me since our time in Chicago. He’s determined to take me down before his retirement.”

“But he’s got nothing on you,” Madeleine said. “Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Yes. But the bastard hasn’t given up. He came by my office to see me yesterday. He’s like a bloodhound, barking up the same old tree. He asked me again about the hit on your ex. It appears he’s out to prove that I was lying to him, and the hit was real.”

Jasmine’s heart crept into her throat. If Divino’s hit man had really killed her father, her mother would be implicated. Madeleine could be arrested and charged again.

“But you gave me my money back,” Madeleine protested. “Did Agent Bellingham ever talk to your hit man?”

“No, and he won’t. I made sure of that.” Divino’s chuckle was humorless. “For God’s sake, don’t give me that look, Madeleine. I put him on a plane with a one-way ticket to the Bahamas. Bellingham doesn’t even know his real name.”

“But the FBI already knows that we arranged the hit. They just don’t know why. I let them think it was about my children’s inheritance—get rid of Frank, plant evidence to blame Lila, and the ranch would be theirs. The feds will never know that Frank had found out about the drug money laundering. He would have turned us both in and taken over my share of the estate.”

Jasmine stood in the hallway, frozen in shock. Drug money laundering? What was her mother talking about? And it almost sounded as if the hit man she and Divino hired had killed Frank after all.

“So far, the feds can’t prove a thing,” Divino said. “But Nick Bellingham’s making me nervous—him and that new man, Rafferty. If they dig deep enough—”

“Don’t you dare touch Sam Rafferty. I’ve chosen him to be the father of my blue-eyed grandchildren.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Divino said. “But if it comes down to him or me—”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Madeleine said. “All this doom and gloom is threatening to spoil my appetite. How about refilling my glass with more of that good pinot noir?”

As the conversation faded, Jasmine slipped back down the hall to her room. With the door closed behind her, she leaned against it, shaking. She needed to warn Sam about what she’d overheard. But what if that warning drew him into danger? Divino was capable of killing anyone he believed to be a threat. That included Sam’s boss, Nick Bellingham—and maybe Sam. He was also capable of lying about the failed hit on Jasmine’s father.

There was more at stake here. If Jasmine were to share what she’d heard, she’d be putting her mother in danger of arrest and worse. Louis Divino appeared to love Madeleine, but if he suspected she might use what she knew to bargain for immunity, he was capable of silencing her.

And if he were to discover how much Jasmine knew about him, Madeline wouldn’t be the only one silenced.

The burner phone she’d bought lay on the desk, next to her laptop. She stared at it, torn by the urge to call Sam and tell him everything.

But that wasn’t going to happen. There was no step she could take without endangering someone she loved—or herself. All she could do was wait.

* * *

Roper was working a buckskin mare in the arena when the black Escalade, with Mariah at the wheel, rolled through the front gate and pulled up to the front porch. Pausing the horse, he watched Lila climb out of the passenger side and mount the steps. She was walking on her own, but her left arm was in a sling. Probably a dislocated shoulder that had been set. Relief swept over him as she vanished into the house. She’d been lucky. The battling stallions could have killed her with a blow.

He checked the impulse to hand off the mare and go rushing after Lila. That would be presumptuous. Even questioning Mariah would be out of line. He would be smart to focus on his job and wait for Lila to come out to him.

Sunset was streaking the sky by the time Roper finished with the lineup of horses he was training. There’d been no sign of Lila. Was she all right? Had some trouble kept her away from the arena? Or had she simply decided to see less of him?

Roper cursed himself for caring. She was his boss, that was the only certainty. Despite what had happened between them, he had no business mooning over her like a lovestruck teenager.

One in a Million was settled in his stall after a day outdoors. Roper made sure the big roan was comfortable. Then he found Fire Dance, cross-tied and saddled him, wrapped his legs, and led him into the arena. The hired help had left for the day. Roper was alone with the horse he’d chosen to carry him to the million-dollar prize.

The chestnut stallion quivered and snorted, probably recognizing the place where he’d been attacked that morning. Roper spent a few moments stroking him and murmuring soft words of comfort.

“It’s all right, boy. You’re safe. You’ll be fine.”

He swung into the saddle and felt the tension in the horse’s body. Fire Dance was well trained, but he’d lost trust in the man on his back. Roper understood. The young stallion had been doing his job, behaving as he’d been taught, when the attack struck out of nowhere. And his rider hadn’t kept it from happening. Now, in the same place with the same rider, how could he not be scared?

Fire Dance had no visible injuries, but he was probably sore. Lila had talked about installing a water therapy feature in the new training facility she wanted to build. That would have been helpful now. But it was a long way from happening.

Roper started the stallion at an easy walk, testing his gait for any sign of pain. Little by little he eased the horse into the performance routine, taking it slow. Physically, Fire Dance seemed fine. But he was clearly nervous, hesitating with each move, as if he expected his angry rival to come charging into the arena again. Bringing back the spooked horse’s confidence was going to take time—or a miracle.

By the time Roper had finished working the stallion, rubbed him down, and put him away, it was dark outside. Looking toward the house, he could see the light on in Lila’s room. It was time to go home.

Tired and hungry after the long day, he drove through the gate and parked at the house. The horse trailer and other road vehicles were missing, gone off to another rodeo. The summer season was known as Cowboy Christmas because of so many chances to win prize money. Stetson and

Chance, at least, would be back on the circuit. Cheyenne had said she wanted to quit, but her horse, Jezebel, was gone from the corral, so she may have changed her mind. The terms of Rowdy’s bail wouldn’t allow him to travel, so he’d be missing out. Roper could only hope his brother was behaving himself.

The dog crossed the porch to greet Roper as he mounted the steps. He scratched the shaggy ears. Through the screen door he could smell beef stew, warming over from last night.

The kitchen table was set with four places. Kirby sat in his usual spot, sipping from his stained coffee cup. Rachel stood by the stove, stirring the stew. Tonight Roper noticed a weariness about her, the sagging shoulders, the mouth pressed into a thin line. There was no sign of Rowdy.

“Your brother’s somewhere outside, Roper,” she said. “Go and fetch him. We’ll be eating in a few minutes.”

Roper walked back outside. He hadn’t seen Rowdy when he drove into the yard, but he found him by the paddock, leaning on the fence.

“Suppertime, brother,” Roper said. “Mom sent me to fetch you.”

Rowdy didn’t answer or even look around. Not a good sign.

“Are you all right?” Roper asked, remembering his mother’s sour expression.

“I’m fine. Just not hungry.”

Rowdy was always hungry. Roper could have made a joke about it. Instead he chose to wait, giving his brother a chance to open up.

After a long moment, Rowdy exhaled. “Mom looked through my truck,” he said. “She found a bag of weed under the floor mat. You were lucky not to be there, Roper. You didn’t have to hear what she said to me.”

“You had weed?” Roper shook his head. “I’m trying not to judge, but maybe you deserved what she said to you.”

“Did I deserve to be told that I was going to hell? That I’d shamed her in front of her church and her friends? That she wished she’d never given birth to me?”

“Knowing Mom, I imagine she was as angry with herself as she was with you. She raised you to be a good man, and now she thinks she failed. But she still loves you. And it’s not too late to show her who you really are.”

“Damn it, Roper, you always try to see the good in people. It’s time you realized that some of us are nothing but shit.”

“Stop beating yourself up. Come on. You need to eat.” Roper took his brother’s arm and led him away from the fence. Rowdy kept on talking as they walked back to the house.

“I don’t have to put up with this. I’ve got money in the bank, and I’m old enough to be on my own. To hell with this so-called perfect family. I don’t need them to make it in rodeo. I can do it by myself.”

“What about that drug charge?”

“I’m not stupid. I got the name and number of the lawyer from that guy, Judd, in the other cell. I’ve already called him. He thinks he can get me off. Once that’s cleared away, I’ll be gone.”

They washed their hands at the pump and mounted the porch, both of them silent now. Roper had looked at his family as the one constant in his life. But Cheyenne already wanted to be on her own. And now Rowdy was threatening to leave. How long before Stetson wanted his own life, leaving young Chance to finish growing up and be gone, as well?

Change happened. That was the way of things. But when it came, it wasn’t always easy to accept.

* * *

Last night, Crystal had driven all the way to Abilene and met Tony at a truck stop on the edge of town. On her way there, she’d almost had a change of heart. What if she’d been set up to be beaten, robbed, and maybe raped? Or what if she was about to be infected with some awful disease from a contaminated needle?

But the man who had come out to her car and introduced himself as Tony had looked like a nerdy student—young, slightly overweight, with thick glasses and a buzz cut. He’d put on fresh gloves and opened a sealed needle to collect blood from a vein in her arm. The procedure had been quick and skillfully done.

Afterward, he’d covered the needle site with a wad of clean cotton and a superhero bandage. She’d given him the money and a plastic shopping bag stuffed with everything she could find that might have Judd’s DNA on it.

“I’ll do my best to make something work,” he said. “But no promises. I usually ask for a cheek swab, but . . .” He shrugged. “I understand the problem. When I have something, I’ll call you.”

It went without saying that even if he couldn’t do the test, the money would be nonrefundable.

For the next twenty-four hours, Crystal’s mood had swung wildly between anticipation and dread. All day she’d waited for her phone to ring. What if the baby turned out to be Judd’s? Her first plan had been to get rid of it. But she found herself softening toward the speck of life growing inside her. She could always keep the baby, maybe get Judd to marry her. But the two of them would make horrible parents—not unlike Crystal’s own parents had been.

Lying awake in her bed now, she remembered growing up—the drinking, the screaming fights, the days with no food in the house. Her mother had made it clear that they’d married because of her . She’d never wanted a baby, especially a girl. Neither had her father. Crystal had run away at sixteen and never returned home. She’d found jobs cleaning motel rooms, washing dishes, and waiting tables. She was pretty enough to attract men, but most of them had only wanted one thing from her. Crystal had wanted more—security, respect, and love. For a time, she’d held out for those things.

But then she’d fallen for Judd, a dashing road warrior who’d offered her a world of thrills. She’d stayed with him, adapting to his rough lifestyle. But over time, he’d come to remind her of her father—self-indulgent, controlling, and violent.

She’d been looking for a way out when Frank Culhane had walked into her life. Frank, who was everything Judd wasn’t. For the first time, she’d experienced what it was like to be with a successful man who truly cared for her. She knew he was married, but when they were together, she could tell that he loved her.

If only he’d lived to learn about the baby. He would have divorced his wife and married her, she was sure of it.

Turning in the bed, she watched the moon’s reflection through the tattered blinds on her window. She had one last chance to better her life—but only if the test gave her the right answer. If she were religious, she might pray for that answer. But she didn’t believe in miracles. God wasn’t going to change an unborn baby’s DNA—especially not for her.

Incredibly, she heard her phone ring.

Groping for it on the nightstand, Crystal knocked the phone on the floor. She scrambled after it on her hands and knees, finally seizing it on the third ring.

“Hello?” she gasped.

“Ms. Carter, this is Tony.” The voice sounded distant. She could barely hear it over the pounding of her heart. “I have your test result. I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure because of the poor sample you gave me. But the match appears to be negative.”

“Negative?” Crystal sagged against the side of the bed. “You mean the man isn’t my baby’s father?”

“That’s right, as far as I could tell. Have a nice night, and don’t call me again. Our business is done.”

The call ended, leaving Crystal sprawled on the cold linoleum floor, nauseated with relief.

Negative.

It was as if she’d won the lottery. Her baby wasn’t Judd’s. She was carrying Frank Culhane’s child.