Jean Brashear’s Texas Hearts Trilogy:

 

Texas Hearts Trilogy

by Jean Brashear

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From Kindle and USAToday bestselling author Jean Brashear, a trilogy of classic romances rich with emotion, ripe with secrets, scandals and sexual tension.

Dalton Wheeler vanished from Morning Star, Texas nearly forty years ago under suspicion of murder, leaving behind him a trail of secrets, scandal and lives torn apart in the wake of his reported death. The woman he loved married another, and life went on.

Now the main characters in this tragedy are all gone, and in the wake of the final man’s last will and testament, the past has roared back with a vengeance. Secrets will be revealed and the lives of four people will be shattered as they learn that who they are and where they come from is not at all what they always believed.

FROM TEXAS SECRETS:

Morning Star, Texas

A man she’d never met had bequeathed her a house in Texas.

And then exposed her father’s whole life for a lie.

On the heels of finding her business partner and lover in bed with the woman he’d deemed more proper to marry, Maddie Rose Collins would have thought nothing could surprise her now.

She would have been wrong.

Here she was in Texas after driving cross-country for three days. Halfway up the dusty road that led to the big white house on the tree-dotted hill, Maddie stopped, her heart drumming.

A shiver ran through her. In the deepest part of her dreams, she knew this place—never mind that she had never laid eyes on it before, had never even known it existed.

A picture of this house should be in the dictionary right beside the word home.

Ah, you’re a hopeless romantic, Maddie. Only one of Robert’s scathing indictments. But she’d never been able to please Robert van Appel, and she was through trying to become someone she wasn’t.

She here she was, staring hungrily at a house that might have stepped right out of her childhood longings. It was the haven her father’s wanderlust had denied them, the kind of home she’d given up hoping for many years ago. She rolled down the car window and drew in a deep breath of country air.

Two stories, white, deep wraparound porch. Trees cast welcome shade, a lacy green overskirt billowing to either side of the structure. Spotting a porch swing curved Maddie’s lips in delight. She could already picture herself there in the heat of the day with a cool glass of iced tea. Drops of moisture would roll down the sides of the glass, falling to her bare legs, cool and welcome.

I wronged your father, Maddie Rose, but it’s too late to make it right with him, so I’m giving you the house that should have been his.

Thank you, Sam Gallagher. I need this.

Her whole life was upside down. She had money from dissolving the partnership. She had restaurants lined up to hire her as chef. The whole world was open to Maddie…

And she had no idea what to do next.

So Sam’s bequest was a godsend. She needed time and space to think, and here she would have both. Assured by her lawyer that it was all legit, Maddie had packed her car and left New York, here to explore a heritage she’d never known she had.

She would put Maddie back together here and figure out where to go next.

Just then, a piteous cry sounded, and she sought the source.

A calf in the pen to the left worried at something near its feet, but Maddie couldn’t see anything for the weeds growing just outside the fence. She looked toward the house, wondering why someone didn’t come to help.

The calf bawled again, and the heart Robert had damned as too soft wouldn’t let her linger. She opened the door and emerged, her sandals turning whiter with dust with every step.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” she crooned.

The calf’s head reared up; it took a jerky step backward but couldn’t move far, bawling louder.

A cow nearby stirred restlessly. Maddie gave her a glance, then looked back at the ugly stretch of barbed wire tangled around the calf’s foot.

Maddie eyed the weeds with suspicion. Snakes. Texas had snakes. She’d never been here, but everyone knew that. Maybe she’d just go to the house for help.

The calf cried out again, and Maddie saw blood well in the new gash.  The baby couldn’t wait.  “Hold on, sweetie. Just let me find something to—” She spotted a big rock and chucked it at the weeds, listening for a rustling sound.

The calf jumped back, bawling louder. The cow bellowed.

Smooth, Maddie. She eyed the ground between her and them. “Hello? Anyone here?” She looked around, wishing someone would notice and come to help, but there wasn’t a soul in sight and the calf was flailing around, ripping the gash deeper.

The section of weeds was sparse and only about two feet in depth. Surely she’d be okay.

Maddie took a deep breath and waded into her first taste of Texas.

  *

Sitting in the kitchen of the place that had once been home, Boone Gallagher expected to hear his father’s booming voice, unable to imagine anything bringing Sam Gallagher down. Sam had fought land and weather and lack of money to wrangle a living from this harsh country. Boone still couldn’t believe that his father was gone.

Or that it was forever too late to heal the breach.

A cup of coffee he didn’t need steamed on the scarred maple tabletop. He’d done his homework here all those years ago, listening to his mother hum church hymns while she worked, back in those golden days when this house had still been a home. So many years gone. So much loss. Exhausted by more than a day of travel from Asia to Texas, memories knotted in his chest, Boone sagged in the creaking chair.

He shouldn’t drink this coffee. He should fall into bed and sleep around the clock, but he had to talk to Vondell first, had to find out if Sam had ever softened, ever regretted what he’d done.

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” Vondell drawled, in a voice sandpapered by years of cigarettes. Barely five feet and topped by frizzy red curls, Sam’s housekeeper had always ruled this place with equal parts of tyranny and affection. They all knew better than to tangle with her, but even she hadn’t been able to make Sam see what he was doing to all of them after Boone’s mother died.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Go to bed, Boone. It’ll all be here when you wake up.”

He scrubbed both hands over his face. “Did he know it was coming, Vondell? And he still wouldn’t send for me?”

For a moment, her hand hovered as if to touch his hair. “Boone, I wish…”

Vondell seemed troubled, glancing away toward the window over the ancient porcelain sink. Suddenly she came to attention, her gaze caught by something outside. “Would you look at that?”

Whatever Vondell saw, Boone couldn’t imagine anything on Sam’s ranch that could be worth having to rise to look at right now.

Then it struck him with the force of a hammer blow that it wasn’t Sam’s ranch anymore. It was his ranch, his and Mitch’s—that is, if he could ever find his brother and coax him back. Boone had found Mitch’s whereabouts several years ago before leaving on the mission that had ended his military career. Mitch’s trail had gone cold before Boone had gotten back on his feet. Then he’d met Helen and started down the road to disaster.

Too many years, too much misery. Boone had been fourteen, Mitch sixteen when their lives blew apart. Sam had roared out blame and hatred, lashed out in unreasoning, raging grief. It had been the beginning of the end the day he drove Mitch away.

“Boone, she’s gonna get herself hurt.”

“One of the cows or a mare?”

“Neither. A woman.”

A woman? Last he knew, Vondell was the only woman on this place. He rose and crossed to the window, the flash of reds and purples snagging his eye.

It was a woman, all right, one like he’d never seen around here. Her slip of a dress sparkled bright with gypsy flair. She was out in knee-high weeds in sandals, for Pete’s sake, risking chiggers and ticks, never mind that a mama cow stamped restlessly only feet away from the woman reaching through the fence toward the cow’s calf.

And right now that woman was headed straight for trouble.

“What the—” Boone turned to Vondell. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know.” Vondell shrugged and frowned. “I didn’t hear anyone drive up.”

Boone crossed the kitchen.

“Wait, maybe— Boone, there’s something I should—”

“No time now. I’ll be back in a minute.” He was already heading out the screen door toward the small pasture by the barns.

Long strides brought him close enough to see a very shapely backside as the woman started climbing the pipe fence headed toward the calf, oblivious to her danger.

“Get away from that calf,” he shouted.

But she didn’t seem to hear him over the bawling.

Boone broke into a run as she neared the top. “Don’t go near that calf!”

She jerked around at the sound of his voice, losing her balance and tumbling inside the pasture. Boone closed the distance and vaulted the fence. He landed beside her as she scrambled to her feet, scooping her up and using his body to shield her. Half-shoving, half-carrying, he got her over the fence and followed with only seconds to spare.

Roaring her outrage, the cow hit the fence. The metal clanged and shuddered.

The woman in his arms shivered, the color draining from her face. Slender fingers clutched his biceps.

Her head just reached his chin. Over the adrenaline roaring through his system, Boone registered soft, tempting curves that felt much too good. “Are you all right?”

Eyes wide, the woman looked over at the cow now sniffing at her calf. Then she glanced sideways at Boone and did the damnedest thing.

She smiled.

Here Boone was, still trying to get his heart to slow down, and the crazy woman…smiled. Her eyes sparkled, her generous lips curved as though she had no clue how close she’d come. “My first day in Texas and already an adventure.”

He lost it.

“Damn it, lady—don’t you have a lick of sense? You don’t ever get between a cow and her calf unless you’re itching to get hurt.” His hands tight around her slender shoulders, Boone quelled the urge to shake her.

“I was only trying to help the baby.” Her chin went up in the air, and her eyes sparked. “How was I supposed to know he belonged to one of them?”

Her voice was pure sex, low and throaty.

He bent to her, all but growling. “You don’t climb into pens with animals you don’t know. That cow weighs over a thousand pounds. She could crush you without even trying.”

She didn’t back up an inch. “I called for help, but no one answered. Only a total jerk would leave that poor thing to suffer.” Her tone went frosty. “You’ll have to excuse my inexperience. There aren’t many cattle in Manhattan.”

“You’re from New York.” An accusation, not a question.

“Most recently. I’ve lived all over.”

A city girl. Just like his wife, who had hated every second spent in this place. At least his wife hadn’t thrown herself into dangerous situations, though. Not here, anyway.

In the end, he’d still lost her, and the memory turned his voice sharp. This woman shouldn’t be here. He wanted to know why she was.

“Who are you? What are you doing on my ranch?”

Gray eyes went wary, studying him for a long moment that made Boone’s spine tingle with unease. Fringed with thick dark lashes, a striking black ring around the irises, her eyes softened.

“Are you Boone or Mitch?”

He stared at her.    “I’m Boone,” he replied, frowning. “How do you know my name?”

She stuck out one slender hand to shake his, her eyes still soft. Too soft. Almost like an apology. “I’m Maddie Collins. Your father mentioned you in his letter.”

He forgot the extended hand. “What letter?” Boone had only gotten a telegram, and that only after Sam was dead and buried.

“You didn’t—?” Her eyes darted to the side, looking toward the house. “He didn’t…?”

“Didn’t what?” His stomach clenched. “Why are you here?”

The woman named Maddie swallowed, then straightened, shaking her dark brown hair back over her shoulders as if preparing herself. In the sunlight, it glowed hints of red like the sky’s warning of storms to come.

Then her next words wiped out all thoughts of silky dark hair and husky voices.

“Your father left the house to me.”

“He…what?” But even as he waited for her reply, he believed her, this stranger in too-bright gypsy colors who didn’t belong here. He’d been crazy to hope that anything might have changed between him and his father, that Sam had regretted abandoning his sons.

“I’m sorry. I—I thought you would already know.”

Her regrets didn’t help. At that moment, he knew only one thing. He wasn’t through losing things that mattered. He’d been a fool to think otherwise.

Even in death, the man who’d been barely a father still denied him the only place he’d ever thought of as home.

FROM TEXAS LONELY:

Wind River Range, Wyoming

A broken cry drifted on the wind, slicing into the silence that was his trusted companion.

Inside the cabin, Mitch Gallagher’s hands stilled on the tent he was mending. He frowned and turned his head slightly, listening.

Nothing.

No—wait. There it was again, choppy but getting stronger. No animal he’d ever heard sounded like that. It almost sounded like a child, but camping season was over, and no children lived within miles of this very isolated cabin.

He dropped the tent and touched the scabbard at his waist. The knife he’d always carried had been replaced by the one Cy had left him. He missed the old man still.

Just then he heard footsteps, too light to be adult. Broken sobs hit a counterpoint, then a thin, high wail.

He had the door open in seconds.

“My mommy’s hurt! Help her!”

For one single instant, a sharp pain sliced through his heart. The boy looked so much like—

No. Of course it wasn’t Boone. His brother wasn’t a child anymore, hadn’t been in years.

But his hands clenched briefly on the doorknob. He charged down the porch steps. “What happened? Where’s your mother? Are you alone?”

The boy’s eyes went wide, and he backed away, his lower lip trembling. Mitch realized he must seem huge to someone so small, so he dropped to one knee on the ground in front of the boy and gentled his voice. “Are you all right?”

The boy’s cheeks were scratched, his shirt torn at the shoulder. Still frozen in place, his face white and bloodless, the boy breathed in harsh, sharp gasps.

Mitch clasped the child’s shoulders. A shudder ran through the boy, then his teeth began to chatter.

“Son, are you hurt? Tell me where your mother is, so I can help her.”

No response, just the raspy sobs of a child approaching hysteria.

Mitch felt the child’s limbs and ran his hands over the boy’s hair, finding nothing but scratches and bruises beginning to form. But the boy continued to stare at him as though he was some sort of monster.

“Hey, it’s all right—” Mitch pulled the boy close, intending to comfort him.

The motion galvanized the child into action. “No! Don’t hurt me!”

Mitch’s hands dropped away instantly. “All right. Calm down. Take a deep breath. Tell me where your mother is.”

The little body visibly trembled. The boy’s eyes filled with tears again. “I—I don’t know.”

“Son, look at me.” Mitch kept his voice pitched softly, the way he would with a wounded animal.

The boy watched him with suspicion too old for his tender years.

“We’re going to find your mother. Don’t worry. I can track anything that moves, but it’s going to be dark soon. I could use your help.”

“Me?” The blue eyes widened. “I’m too little.”

“No, you’re not. Tell me which direction you came from.”

“Over there,” the boy pointed. “My grandpa’s cabin was supposed to be this way.” His lower lip quivered. “My mom said it wasn’t far, right before she fell down.” Tears filled his eyes again. “She won’t talk to me. Is she dead?” He rushed on without an answer, his words tumbling over one another. “Where’s Grandpa Cy? He was gonna help us.”

Grandpa Cy? Dear God, it couldn’t be— Mitch clasped the boy’s shoulders. “What’s your mom’s name, son?” Surely she wouldn’t— Mitch almost missed the name in the confusion of his thoughts.

“What?”

“Perrie. Perrie Matheson, that’s my mom’s name.”

It was her—Cy’s granddaughter from Boston. The callous socialite who had broken his only friend’s heart. Who hadn’t cared enough to visit or write, wouldn’t even take Mitch’s call when he’d left Cy’s side for the three-hour trip to a phone, scared to his bones that Cy would die while he was gone. He’d been prepared to beg, and she’d been too busy to answer a damn phone. Mitch rose to pace.

“What’s wrong, mister?”

Mitch shot the boy a quick frown and saw him take a step back. Looking down, Mitch saw that his hands were clenched into fists. He was probably scaring the kid to death. He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to calm. Emotions were useless. Nothing good came of feeling too much. And sometimes you lost more than you could bear.

The kid wasn’t at fault for his mother’s sins. And Mitch had promised. He didn’t renege on a promise. For the boy, not for her, he would do this.

“Okay. Stay behind me and stay quiet unless you see something familiar. Don’t get in front of me, whatever you do, because you’ll trample the tracks I’m looking for. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy ducked his head, and Mitch could still see tears sparkle on his lashes.

Gingerly, Mitch reached out one hand and laid it on the boy’s head, surprised by the softness of the golden hair. Immediately he pulled it back.

“We’ll find her, son.”

“Yes, sir.” Like a tiny soldier, the boy drew himself up straight. “I’ll be quiet.” He looked ahead to the way he’d pointed, and Mitch could almost see the resolve of the man the boy would become.

How had a pampered, selfish woman produced this child?

It didn’t matter. She was probably fine, just didn’t have the stamina to make the two-mile hike up the mountain. Instead, she’d sent this poor little guy for help. Mitch would find her, tell her what he thought of her, and send them on their way. Cy had given Mitch this cabin after he’d given up on his granddaughter caring whether he lived or died. Though home was a luxury Mitch never expected to know again, he would be damned if that woman would spend a single hour inside the only place that had welcomed him in the last twenty years.

“Come on, son. Let’s get going.”

*

It didn’t take long to spot the figure lying beneath a tree. Mother and child had gotten pretty close to the cabin. Still, a quarter of a mile through a dark, unfamiliar forest had to be scary for someone so small.

“Mom!” The boy ran past him, dropping down beside her.

Mitch followed.

Like Sleeping Beauty, she lay there as if under a spell. Wisps of golden hair escaped from a long braid that would extend almost to her waist. He knelt beside her and felt for a pulse, the boy’s eyes following his every move.

“Is she dead?”

Strong and steady. “No. She’s not dead.” He felt her forehead and quickly pulled his fingers away. Damn. She was burning up with fever. He looked at the boy. “Did she say she was feeling bad?”

“She said her throat hurt, so she couldn’t talk to me much. She had to stop a lot after we left the car.”

The cabin lay two miles inside a designated wilderness area, on one of the few private tracts enclosed by government land. All motorized objects were prohibited—even bicycles were not allowed. There were no phones and no electric lines. The mountains were so rugged that cell phones weren’t reliable and two-way radios required a repeater, which only the ranger station had. The isolation had suited Cy just fine, and Mitch as well. But right now, he cursed the lack of resources. He could carry her two miles to his truck, but he doubted the boy could walk that far again and carrying both would be tricky. The nearest medical facility was eight hours away.

Mitch swore silently. She looked exhausted and painfully thin. The boy’s own exhaustion was showing.

Sore throat and fever—maybe it was just the flu. If she were anyone else, it would make sense to take her to the cabin and check her temperature before taking any more radical action.

But she wasn’t anyone else. She was callous and uncaring and had let Cy die alone except for a man who was no blood relation.

Mitch looked at the boy, saw his fear and fatigue. Then he looked back at the woman.

Even like this, she was beautiful. Delicate, so small she could have been a child herself, her figure hidden beneath layers of clothing. A backpack cut into her shoulders, its bulk twisting her body to one side. Another one, smaller and brightly colored, lay beside her. He reached out to remove the big one, surprised at its heft.

“You won’t hurt her, will you?” Like a tiny warrior, the boy moved closer to his mother.

Mitch frowned. “Of course not.” Despite what she’d done to Cy, he would never hurt her. “She’s got a fever. When’s the last time she drank anything?”

“This morning, I think.”

“Did you carry any water?”

“Just my lunchbox thermos.”

“Your mom carry any?”

He shook his head. “Her water bottle fell and broke, but she said she would drink some when we got to Grandpa Cy’s cabin. Do you know my Grandpa Cy?”

Mitch was too angry to discuss Cy right now. What was she thinking of, putting the boy in a vulnerable position like this? Couldn’t she tell she was sick? What if Mitch had been out guiding, as was normal this time of year? They both could have died out here.

He made up his mind. The boy needed rest and food. “Come on, son. Let’s get you back to the cabin.”

He picked her up easily, draping the backpack over his shoulder. “Can you carry that one or do you need me to do it?”

The boy lifted the bright green and yellow pack and squared his shoulders again. “I can do it. Just make my mom better, please, mister.”

For a woman who had shown little evidence of either character or heart, this little guy had enough for both of them. An odd tightness in his throat, Mitch merely nodded and led the way.

*

Mitch laid her down on the bed in Cy’s room. So tiny. So fragile. So pale.

“You sure she’s not dead?”

Mitch frowned and turned, seeing the boy’s blue eyes swimming with tears.

“Yes.” He had no experience with kids. “She’s just passed out.”

“Is she gonna die?” The boy’s lower lip quivered again, but he stood straight and studied Mitch.

A long-buried arrowhead surfaced. Mitch knew what it was like to watch a mother die. “No.” His jaw tightened. “She won’t die.”

The boy moved a step closer to his mother, standing between her and Mitch. “Can you make her well?”

What are you doing here? Mitch wanted to ask. Go away. Leave me alone. Your mother turned her back on your grandfather and let him die unwanted.

But he was just a kid. Even if she was heartless, she was still his mother.

“I think so. Listen—” He dropped to his heels. “What’s your name?”

The boy hesitated. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. Especially men.”

A little late for that, but Mitch nodded seriously. “That’s good advice. But since your Grandpa Cy was my best friend, I guess that makes us not so much strangers.”

The boy thought it over, then nodded but still didn’t answer.

Mitch held out his hand. “My name is Mitch.”

The boy darted a glance to his mother’s still form and then back. Finally, he placed his much-smaller hand in Mitch’s. “My name is Davey.” Then, as if remembering a lesson in manners, he added, “Pleased to meet you.”

Mitch stifled a grin and shook the boy’s hand. “All right, Davey. First thing we have to do is bring down your mom’s fever.” He rose to his feet. “You can help me.”

“Me?” Blue eyes goggled.

“Yeah, you. Unless you’re too little.”

“I’m not too little.” Davey’s chest puffed out from his sturdy little body. “I can help.”

Mitch nodded. “Good. You stay right here so she’ll see you if she wakes up. I’m going to get a thermometer from my first aid pack.”

When he returned, the boy was watching as though she might vanish if he didn’t. She’s not worth it, kid, he wanted to say. Instead he opened her mouth and put the thermometer under her tongue, then sat on the edge of the mattress and carefully held her slack jaw shut, glancing at his watch to time himself. “You ever run a fever?”

Tousled blond hair bounced as the boy nodded.

“What did she do?”

His brow wrinkled. “She stuck a thermometer in my ear.”

“Your ear?” What kind of mother was she? “Why not under your tongue?” Mitch could still recall having to hold one for what seemed forever, waiting for his mother to get a reading.

“That’s the old way, Mom told me.”

Mitch shook his head. Must be some new kind of thermometer. “What else did she do?”

“She stuck me in a bathtub full of cold water once.” He smiled. “I screamed.”

Mitch had to smile back. “I’ll bet.”

Davey moved closer to his mother. “Mom,” he whispered earnestly. “Wake up.” In his voice, Mitch heard the cracking edge of desperation, but Davey stood between her and Mitch as if to guard her. Something about the boy’s fierceness touched Mitch.

Not all mothers were angels, but he couldn’t tell such a little kid that his mother was a jerk. Worse than a jerk. She’d married some fat cat and turned her back on a damn fine man.

A man who’d saved his life. If not for Cyrus Blackburn, Mitch Gallagher would be in jail—or dead. Cy had seen past the angry young man to the boy who had lost everything. Who’d been banished, accused and convicted without a trial. He’d had to watch his mother’s funeral from a distance and then leave Morning Star, Texas forever.

He’d learned not to feel. Not to need. But he owed Cy more than he could ever repay, and this woman had hurt Cy. Refused contact when the old man needed her most.

The woman stirred and moaned. Mitch edged closer to her, making sure the thermometer stayed put for another fifteen seconds.

“I wish I could find Grandpa Cy,” the boy whispered. “Mom said he could do anything. He’d make Mom wake up, I bet.”

Unwelcome tightness crowded Mitch’s throat. Should he tell the boy? It wasn’t fair to leave him hoping, but what did you say to a little kid at a time like this?

“Listen, Davey…” Mitch swore silently, wishing he were anywhere but here. Anyone would be better than him at doing this. He wasn’t a man with pretty words.

Davey watched him solemnly, those big blue eyes looking so vulnerable. The kid had been stronger than he had any right to expect.

He’d just have to keep him busy until his mother woke up, then it was her job to figure out how to tell him. “Let’s concentrate on getting your mother well for right now.”

The little voice sank low, almost a whisper. “I don’t know how.” He looked away, as if the failure was his.

What did he know about dealing with kids? “How old are you?”

Blue eyes swam with despair. “Five.”

Five years old. Mitch tried to remember being five. All he could recall was the first day his own grandpa Ben had helped a kid with clumsy fingers learn to bait a hook.

And how it had felt to succeed.

Okay. They’d start small. “Well, first you take hold of the thermometer and hand it to me.”

“What if I break it?”

“I don’t think you will. Do you?”

The boy shot a sideways glance at the thin glass tube, then shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Then hand it to me and let’s see if we need to dunk your mom in cold water.”

Through the boy’s fear, a tiny smile peeked. He handled the thermometer as if it were the finest china, then gave it to Mitch.

Mitch eyeballed the reading. One hundred and two. Keeping his face carefully neutral, he looked back at Davey. He wouldn’t scare the boy, but he wouldn’t coddle him, either. “It’s pretty high, son, but nothing we can’t handle. You watch her and call out if she wakes up. I’m headed for the stream to get cold water.”

“You’re really going to stick her in a tub of cold water?”

Mitch almost smiled at the boy’s horror. “No, but I need to cool her down and we don’t have ice in the cabin. Up this high, the mountain streams are very cold, and I’ll use the water to sponge her down.”

Davey looked dubious. “What if she screams?”

Mitch glanced back on his way out the door. “At least she’ll be awake.”

“Yes, sir.” To the boy’s credit, there was only a tiny tremble in his voice. He stood like a little sentinel, guarding his mother.

Mitch shook his head and turned away, wondering if Davey’s mother knew that she didn’t deserve him.

FROM TEXAS BAD BOY:

Houston, Texas

Nineteen years ago

Moonlight drifted over her skin like the kiss of a lover. Devlin’s hands weren’t quite steady as they traced Lacey’s tender curves. With a reverence he hadn’t expected to feel, he brushed his lips against hers.

When Lacey gasped softly and tightened slender fingers in his hair, every last vestige of Dev’s desire for revenge flew away. Who her father was and how much Dev hated him didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was that after this night, they would be forever changed. Forever bound.

“Dev?” Her voice trembled as his hands had.

“Shh, it’s all right. You’re so beautiful, Lacey.” At eighteen, his experience was not vast, but it was far greater than hers. He smiled, rewarded by the answering curve of hers, that lush, full mouth that drove him crazy.

“You’re the one who’s beautiful.” She trailed her fingers across his chest, and Dev thought he might die of pleasure.

“I’m a guy. I can’t be beautiful,” he protested.

She laughed faintly. “Shows what you know. If you could see yourself the way I see you…”

He wanted to ask what she saw, this girl who had everything, whose father kept Devlin’s family in thrall like a feudal king oppressed his serfs. But he didn’t really want to know—not tonight, when she was heaven in his arms.  All that mattered tonight was that she wanted him—enough to make him her first. Her last, if he had anything to say about it.

“Dev?”

He paused, looking solemnly into her wide, innocent silvery eyes. “Are you sure about this?”

He could see the pulse beating in her throat, feel the tremor of her nerves. His heart sank, but this was too important—she was too important—to rush.

Then she smiled, and the fear vanished. “I’m only afraid because I don’t know what to do. I want it to be you, Dev. Only you.”

His throat tightened. Lacey DeMille, the River Oaks princess, wanted Devlin Marlowe, the bad seed from the wrong side of the tracks. Dev kissed her with all the wonder he felt. Then he sat back on his heels in the moon-silvered gazebo and imprinted her on his memory for eternity—the girl he would never forget.

Lacey reached for him, and he bent to press another kiss as his hands began to unbutton his jeans—

“Lacey, is that you?” her father called out. “Is someone with you?”

The magic shattered under harsh, blinding light.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Charles DeMille’s voice fractured the night, bludgeoning its beauty with jagged, angry blows.

Lacey screamed, shrinking from the flashlight’s glare, wrapping her arms around her body.

Dev grabbed his t-shirt and slipped it over her head. He moved in front of her to protect her.

Her father knocked him to the ground with a roar of rage. “You worthless piece of trash—I told you to stay away from her. Who do you think you are, putting your filthy hands on my daughter?”

Dev jumped up to defend Lacey, but she scampered away from his touch as though it were poison. He tried to catch her gaze, but she was sobbing hysterically and grasping for her clothes.

“You can’t do this. Lacey and I—we’re in love.” Defiantly, Dev faced his nemesis.

“Love!” Charles DeMille’s laughter was a harsh bark. “You’re not fit to lick her boots.”

Dev waited for Lacey to speak up, to tell her father that it was true, that she loved him as he loved her, but she didn’t look at him, didn’t say a word. “Tell him, Lacey. We’re going to be together. Come with me now, tonight. I’ll take care of you, I swear I will.”

But Lacey only looked frightened.

Her father laughed at Dev as he had for three years, ever since the night Dev’s father had died in disgrace and everything had changed. “You can’t even take care of the family you have, can you, son? You’ll never amount to anything, and you damn sure won’t ever get near my daughter again. I’ll kill you if you try.”

Dev stared at the ground then, his mind roaring with rage at being humiliated in front of Lacey. He’d tried to care for his family, but DeMille held all the cards.

“Get back to the house, Lacey,” her father ordered.

She turned away, a look on her face so wounded that Dev felt her pain himself. “Lacey…” he called out, hating himself for not being able to beat Charles DeMille, almost hating her for denying what was between them.

And then she was gone.

He would not show this man fear. DeMille had savaged his pride too hard, too often.

“First thing tomorrow, you are joining the military. You’ll be on the first bus to basic training.”

“I won’t leave her.”

Clipped tones answered him. “If I’d known she was sneaking around to meet you, you’d already be gone. You’d better thank your lucky stars I caught you when I did.”

Dev wanted to hurt him. “How do you know it was the first time?”

His head snapped from the force of DeMille’s blow, but Dev stood his ground. The man leaned right in Dev’s face, smelling of expensive Scotch and smuggled Cuban cigars.

“You will leave, or you’ll go to jail. Lacey’s underage, or hadn’t you thought about that?”

“My family…” What would they do?
“Maybe you should have thought about them before.” DeMille shoved a finger in his chest. “You aren’t calling the shots here, boy. I am. You won’t be much good to your family if you’re in prison. This way, you’re only gone for two years—unless you get wise and sign up for more.”

Dev refused to drop his stare, but he knew he was defeated. DeMille had the power. Dev was afraid of what another disgrace would do to his mother. She’d been drowning herself in drink for three years. But his sisters and kid brother—what would happen to them without him?

He summoned every ounce of strength within him and met DeMille’s stare with equal force. “I want your promise that my family won’t pay for this. They’ll pay enough, just having me gone.”

Oddly enough, though he hated DeMille, Dev knew his word was good on this one thing. He had never understood why his father’s old boss had stepped in when their world had fallen apart—or why Dev’s mother had let him.

Dev hated being a charity case, despised what they’d become. He resented that his mother had faith in DeMille but not in him. The family was Dev’s responsibility, not his.

DeMille nodded sharply. “You’re the only bad apple in the bunch, Devlin. I’ll take care of them. And if you’re wise, you’ll stay gone a long time. Just write your mother so she doesn’t worry.”

Dev would leave, because he had no choice. But it wouldn’t always be like this.

He had to make certain of one more thing. Though her abandonment cut him to the bone, Dev had to know that Lacey wouldn’t suffer. “What about Lacey?”

DeMille snorted. “I know who’s at fault here. I’ll give her everything you could never provide.”

Dev’s pride demanded its due. “You’re wrong. I love her. I can take care of her.”

Charles DeMille just shook his head. “Your father was headed for prison when he died. You think you’ll ever be good enough for my daughter?” He clapped Dev on the shoulder, smug that he had won. “Son, you’re nothing. You never were.”

Then his face turned harsh again. “Now get out of here before I change my mind and call the cops.”

Chapter One

Present Day

Devlin Marlowe entered the ballroom late, pausing at the entrance to survey the crush of people. Houston glitterati had turned out in force. If the women assembled had merely donated the price of their designer gowns and gleaming jewels, no auction would be needed to raise funds.

He could afford the price of admission now, thanks to a series of shrewd investments, but beneath his skin, he still didn’t belong with these people. He might own his own tux, but inside him still lived the boy who’d barely escaped going on welfare.

This occasion gave him a golden chance to do what he wanted: to observe Lacey DeMille at close range before she saw him.

And he wanted that, he realized. Wanted time to assess her in the flesh. Wanted to see if there was anything left of the beautiful young girl he had wanted so badly to choose him.

Before he tore her life apart, he wanted to find the right way to handle it. He owed it to the Gallaghers. They had become more than clients—they were friends he didn’t want to see hurt.

But fate must be laughing up its sleeve at him. Dev sure wasn’t.

Even though he’d done all the investigating himself, a part of him still didn’t want to believe what he’d found.

Out of all the women in the world, what kind of loser luck had him turning up the Princess of River Oaks as the missing baby girl a family had hired him to find?

This wasn’t personal. He couldn’t let it be. Nothing he did could regain the lost years, could repair the awful sense of impotence…of teetering on the brink…of being one of the nameless, faceless poor after their precipitous fall from grace when his father suffered a fatal heart attack, one step away from being jailed for fraud.

They’d held onto their dignity with white-knuckled hands, but Dev still remembered all too well the nights the scared boy he’d once been had dug claws into his sides to keep from giving in to unmanly sobs. The angry teenager who had fought Charles DeMille’s disdain, his hold on Dev’s mother. The young lover whose perfect revenge had turned into his worst defeat.

The man he was now knew that he’d been forged in the fire of his family’s needs. He’d served his time in the military and come back to take them away to Dallas. He’d worked hard, two and three jobs, to support them. He’d built a business and made it successful. He’d found his way on his own and was better off for it.

All that was in the past. This was a job, a special duty for valued friends. Reuniting a woman with siblings she didn’t know she had. He would do it as cleanly as possible, and then go to the next case.

Lacey’s adoption had been done by less-than-legal means and covered up in a way only money and power could manage. Charles DeMille had plenty of both.

It was easy now to see why no one had known. Dev was almost certain that even Lacey had no idea she was adopted—the girl who had walked away because he wasn’t good enough for her blue blood. The girl who had betrayed him, who had chosen a life of ease over his love. Who had taught him a lesson so painful he remembered it still.

It was too rich that Devlin Marlowe would be the one to tell her that her blood was no better than his.

What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive…Lacey DeMille’s whole life was defined by her parents’ lies. She stood on quicksand and didn’t even know it.

Sleeping Beauty was about to be awakened, one way or another.

But not with a kiss.

And no one had ever called Devlin Marlowe a prince.

*

Lacey stood with her date, Philip Forrester, and her parents, watching the auction as though she’d had no part in creating it. Her mind drifted to Christina, the little girl for whom she volunteered as a child advocate. To the contrasts between their lives…her own so privileged, so unearned.

The demands of that life sometimes choked Lacey. A part of her wanted badly to care nothing about how she looked or behaved, to run free like a ruffian and just be Lacey, not Lacey of the River Oaks DeMilles.

From her earliest days, she had known she must not. Never said aloud, nonetheless she had always known that she was held to a higher standard. That she had to be very careful not to slip.

But though she sometimes chafed at the propriety required, she loved her parents deeply and knew they loved her. It was bedrock. She was a DeMille.

“Agnes is pleased with your handling of the gala,” her mother Margaret murmured.

Her mother’s friend Agnes was a tyrant, but Lacey merely smiled. “I think things are going well.” It all seemed so superficial, after what she’d seen today—but the funds she raised would go to the Child Advocacy Center.

“You and Philip will drop by our little gathering week after next?”

Little gathering didn’t quite do justice to Margaret’s annual cocktail reception for four hundred, held the night before a hospital fund-raiser. “Certainly,” Lacey responded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“You make a lovely couple.”

Of course they did. Margaret had hand-picked Philip as her latest bid for Lacey to marry and settle down to raise the next generation of DeMilles. A prominent young plastic surgeon with blue blood of his own, suave blond Philip Forrester was considered quite a catch.

Except by her. She couldn’t seem to convince her parents that they wouldn’t marry.

“Lacey, are you all right?” Philip asked.

“What?” She stirred. Around them the crowd buzzed, and Lacey realized that her item had been called as next up for bidding. “Oh—yes. Just fine.”

Philip leaned down and whispered, “So where shall I take this fabulous picnic you’re auctioning? Will you actually prepare it with your own hands?”

Lacey met his smile with one of her own. “You’d like it better if I let Clarise do the cooking.”

“You don’t need to learn to cook. We’ll have our own servants.”

“Philip, we aren’t—” He, like everyone else, assumed.

His glance grazed her. “Please, Lacey. Not tonight.”

There was nothing wrong with Philip. He was well-set financially, with a successful career and family money behind him. Impeccable manners, moved through the upper crust with aplomb, treated Lacey like a princess, but…

But what? What was she waiting for? She’d been through a number of beaux, had received her share of proposals from men her parents considered eminently suitable. She had accepted none. They all wanted what she brought to the table, not who she was.

She wanted something no one had offered. To be loved for herself, not her money or social position. Maybe she was a hopeless romantic, but Lacey had dug in her heels over this one requirement.

She’d been foolish twice, been impetuous and learned hard lessons. She would never again fall for a charming rogue. But she wanted that one great love, that grand passion.

Just then her father winked at her. “Want me to run up the bid, Princess?”

Lacey smiled and shook her head, rousing herself to tune into the bidding. Around her, discreet gestures raised the price by fifty or a hundred dollars.

“Fifteen hundred,” the auctioneer nodded toward Philip’s faint signal. “Do I have sixteen?”

A brief silence.

The auctioneer scanned the crowd. “All right. A gourmet picnic for four provide by Lacey DeMille going once, twice—”

“Two thousand,” came a voice from the back.

Lacey blinked. Who would do that? Around her, the crowd stirred. She couldn’t see over them to find the owner of the voice.

“Well, Ms. DeMille has not only created a marvelous occasion, but it appears that she’ll garner the highest contribution yet. Further bids?”

Philip glanced down at her, eyebrows lifted.

Lacey shook her head. “You don’t need to up the ante.” She was well aware that he was only here for appearances.

“Two thousand going once…going twice…”

Philip glanced across the crowd and frowned. “Twenty-one hundred.”

“Three thousand.” Same voice.

Lacey resisted the urge to stand on tip-toe. Around her, heads were craning to see the persistent bidder.

The auctioneer looked straight at Philip. “Do I have thirty-five hundred?”

She knew that Philip’s sense of thrift was screaming. He could easily afford it, but he considered economy a prime virtue. And this was her cause, not his. He didn’t like her choice of volunteer work. Like her parents, he thought she should be doing something more antiseptic.

After a long pause, he nodded, jaw clenched.

“Thirty-five hundred. Do I hear four thousand?”

The crowd fell silent. Expectation vibrated the air around them. Lacey wanted to slink out of the room as fervid glances darted her way.

“Who is it?” she whispered to Philip.

“I don’t know.” His eyes narrowed. “I can’t see where he is.”

Lacey cast a glance at her mother, whose face had gone stiff. Public spectacles were not part of the family code. Lacey had been on the receiving end of that reproof too often. Old South to the core, Margaret had a rigid code of behavior that her daughter had spent her life trying to meet. In this very modern age, Margaret stood for a way of life that had almost vanished. She’d fight for it with her dying breath.

Lacey rubbed one hand across her stomach and took another deep breath. Part of her wanted to push through the crowd and find the man who didn’t understand that such things weren’t done. Part of her wanted to hide.

The pause went on long enough that she thought she was safe, that Philip would win, though she had no doubt how much he’d hate paying the price for a picnic he could have just by asking.

“Going…going—”

“Five thousand.” Same voice. Same deep, decisive tones.

Around them the buzz rose. Her father was staring at Philip, waiting for him to take the lead.

She could see on his face that though pride was involved, pride would only take him so far.

The auctioneer stared at Philip.

Lacey held her breath.

Finally, Philip shook his head.

“Five thousand it is—a record for this event. Five thousand dollars for a gourmet picnic for four provided by our own Lacey DeMille.”

Around them clapping began, along with curious looks. Missy Delavant leaned across Philip with a stage whisper. “Did you get a look at him, Lacey? Do you have something going that we need to know about?”

Lacey recoiled from the woman who’d give anything to get her hooks into Philip. “I have no idea who it is.” She drew herself up in her best Margaret imitation. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to check on some details.”

She cast Philip a glance, seeing disapproval written on his face. A glance at her mother revealed a mirror image. Her father’s eyebrows lifted in dismayed surprise.

The burning in her stomach returned.

Lacey stood very straight and moved toward the front of the room.

Just shy of her destination, a man stepped out of the crowd and blocked her path.

“Hello, Lacey. Long time no see.”

Texas Hearts Trilogy