The Heart of Brody McQuade. Mallory Kane
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The Heart of
Brody McQuade
Mallory Kane
Table of Contents
Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the southern tradition of oral history, and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.
She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and often uses her medical background to add an extra dose of intrigue to her books. Another fascination that she enjoys exploring in her reading and writing is the infinite capacity of the brain to adapt and develop higher skills.
Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats, and, at current count, seven computers.
She loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at [email protected]
To Delores and Rita – here we go again.
Prologue
Christmas Ev e
Lieutenant Brody McQuade, Texas Ranger, looked at the ornate casket for the first time since he’d walked into the quiet chapel. His heart twisted with pain so severe he couldn’t breathe. That was his baby sister beneath that blanket of pink and white poinsettias. Kimmie.
Ever since he could remember, his mom had drilled into him that Kimberly was his responsibility.
If anything ever happens to us… Those words weren’t just empty motherisms. His parents had been thrill-seekers, and wealthy enough to pursue their dangerous hobbies.
A pipe organ’s dulcet tones swelled. Brody’s throat closed and his shoulders bowed as if they could shield his heart from deeper pain. Out of habit he straightened them. He was a Texas Ranger and Rangers were always strong and straight—dependable and responsible.
Next to him, Sergeant Hayes Keller turned his head slightly. “You all right?” he whispered.
Brody lifted his chin. No way could he let Hayes or the third Ranger on the pew, Egan Caldwell, know the shape he was in. He was their superior officer. His responsibility to them and to the Rangers went beyond personal feelings.
Ah, dammit, Kimmie. What were you doing in that car without your seat belt on? He stared at his hands and pretended the blurriness in his eyes wasn’t tears.
Hayes nudged him.
“The service is over, Brody. Let’s go.”
He raised his head. The music had stopped. In the silence he heard clothes rustle and a few quiet coughs. Everyone was waiting for him to make the first move.
He stood, bitter nausea clogging his throat. Why the hell hadn’t he insisted on a private service? He felt the stares from the people in the chapel—most of whom could have prevented this tragedy if they’d paused in their partying and drinking for one second.
He approached the casket. He reached out a hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually touch the polished surface.
“Bye, Kimmie,” he whispered hoarsely. “I swear I’ll put the bastard who did this away for the rest of his worthless life.”
He felt a touch on his shoulder.
He looked up. It was Caroline Stallings, the socialite who’d let Kimmie die. What kind of woman drove with the top down three days before Christmas? And let a passenger ride with no seat belt?
“Lieutenant McQuade, please accept my condolences. I feel so bad about what happened.”
He took in her pale face and bruised forehead. It was all he could do to rein in the anger that churned in his gut. He met her gaze, gleaning a grim satisfaction when her eyes widened with apprehension. “Thanks,” was all he could manage.
With Egan and Hayes behind him, he navigated through the crush of attendees, most of whom he’d only met in the past three days as he’d interrogated them about Kimberly’s death.
He’d had no idea that interning on the San Antonio City Board would throw Kimberly into the middle of the city’s wealthiest inner circle. Caroline Stallings was on the board, and maybe that explained it. Kimberly had admired Caroline, had in fact raved about her.
But there was something fishy about the hit-and-run crash that had taken his sister’s life, and before he got through with them, he planned to unearth all these Cantara Hills trust-fund babies’ dirty little secrets.
Just as he reached the rear door he saw a familiar, squirrelly face. Gary Zelke, the SOB who had drunkenly slammed into Caroline Stallings’s vintage Corvette.
Frustration,