A Texan on Her Doorstep. Stella Bagwell
as well come home, Mac. There’s no use in you hanging around Ruidoso for that long. Or do you think you ought to see her children?”
“And say what?” Mac asked sarcastically. “Hi, y’ all, I’m your half brother?”
Ripp growled back at him. “What the hell is the matter with you, Mac? You’re nearly forty years old! It’s not like you’re that ten-year-old little boy, staring out the window with tears on your cheeks. We’re not going to let the woman keep hurting us, are we?”
Mac shoved out a heavy breath. His brother was right. He had to get a grip on his emotions and view this whole thing as a man, not that little boy who’d had his heart ripped out so long ago.
“I tell you, Ripp. The news that she had a son and daughter knocked my boots out from under me. I just never imagined her having other babies. Did you? I mean, if she didn’t want us, why the heck would she have had more children? Doesn’t make a lick of sense to me.”
“We don’t know that she didn’t want us, Mac. Dad told Rye that she wanted us.”
“Hell,” Mac muttered. “Rye was probably just trying to make you feel better. You’d been stabbed with a butcher knife at the time, remember? He probably thought you couldn’t handle any more pain.”
Ripp chuckled under his breath. “I can handle anything you can take and more, big brother.”
In spite of his frustration, a smile tugged at Mac’s lips. If anyone could make him forget his troubles, it was his brother. And even though they were sometimes as different as night and day, there was a bond between them tougher than barbed wire.
“Yeah, you probably can,” he told him as he glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. He was getting hungry. Besides that, the small hotel room was beginning to close in on him. “Look, Ripp, I’m gonna go out and find something to eat. It’s been a hell of a day, and I’m beat. I’ll call you tomorrow—after I find out more.”
“So you’re not coming home?”
“No way. I’ve started on this journey and I don’t mean to cut it short. I’m going to camp in the hospital until Dr. Sanders gets her belly full of me. She’ll have to give in sooner or later.”
“Poor woman. She’s not going to know what hit her,” Ripp murmured more to himself than to Mac. “Just try to be your charming self, Mac. We don’t want anyone out there thinking we’re a pair of arrogant Texans.”
Mac chuckled. “Why not—we are, aren’t we?”
“Go eat. I’ve got to go help Lucita. Elizabeth is having a squalling fit about something. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
His brother cut the call, and Mac closed the instrument in his hand. Ripp had a beautiful wife, a twelve-year-old son and a baby daughter. His family adored him. He had something to live for, something to come home to at night. He was blessed. And Mac was happy for him.
Yet there were times that Mac looked at his brother and wondered what it would feel like to have those same things. Oh, yeah, he’d had a wife once. But Brenna hadn’t been a wife in the real sense of the word. She’d been more like a permanent date. Someone to go out with for a night of fun. Someone to have sex with. Giving him children had not been in her plans. And giving him love, the sort that came from deep within a person, was something she’d been incapable of. But then, Mac couldn’t put all the blame on Brenna for their failed marriage. At first he’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted—a party girl. And for a while he’d been perfectly content with their life together. Then as time went by, the partying had begun to wear thin, and his life and marriage started to look more and more shallow. He’d begun to yearn for something more lasting and meaningful. Like raising kids in a real home. Brenna hadn’t married him under those terms, and when he’d asked her to change, she’d laughed all the way to the office of a divorce lawyer.
Now, after that humiliating lesson, he felt like a fool for ever thinking a good timin’ guy like him had once dreamed he could be a father to a house full of kids. Now he told himself it was better to simply enjoy women on brief, but frequent, occasions and forget about ever having a family.
Several miles east of Ruidoso, smack in the middle of the Hondo Valley, Ileana shifted down her pickup truck as it rattled across the low wooden bridge that crossed the Hondo River. The truck was old, and the speedometer had rolled over so many times that she’d lost count. For the past two years her father, Wyatt, had pestered her to buy a new one. After all, she had heaps of money and not a lot to do with it.
But Ileana didn’t want a new truck. What would be the use of shaking it over a dirt road every day? she’d argued. Besides, why did she need a new vehicle when the only place she ever went was to work and back home? She was a practical person, and when something worked as it should, she didn’t see any point in changing it.
Across the river, the dirt road made a gradual climb into open meadows dotted with ponderosa and piñon pine. On either side of the road, cattle and horses stood at hay mangers, chomping alfalfa in the falling twilight of a late February day.
The Bar M Ranch had been Ileana’s home for all her life and her mother’s before that. Her grandfather, Tomas Murdock, had built the place from the ground up and turned it into one of the most profitable ranches in southern New Mexico.
But the Bar M hadn’t been her grandfather’s only interest. He’d been a gambler and a bit of a womanizer, the result of which had produced illegitimate twins. The babies had been left on the doorstep of the Bar M Ranch house, and for weeks no one had known who’d parented them. It had been a shocking event that had rocked all of Lincoln County.
So Ileana wasn’t a stranger to odd stories, and the one that Mac McCleod had told her this evening—well, it sounded like more than an odd circumstance to her. Could he possibly be a son from Frankie’s past life? And if he hung around like he’d promised, how would the woman react to seeing him again?
The questions had been stewing in Ileana’s head ever since Mac had left the hospital, and now she decided she couldn’t go home to her little place on the mountain until she stopped by the main ranch house and had a talk with her mother. If anyone might know about Frankie’s past, it would be Chloe.
Five minutes later, she parked the truck behind the pink stucco hacienda and entered a gate that opened to a center courtyard. In the summer months, her parents were always having barbecues and other parties. Her brother, Adam, and his wife, Maureen, often brought their family to join in the fun. So did her sister, Anna, and her husband, Miguel. Even Ileana’s aunts, Justine and Rose, made frequent trips to the Bar M with their grand-children. The crowd of family and friends made the oval swimming pool and courtyard a lively place. But this evening, a cold wind was whipping through the bare garden and ruffling the plastic cover over the pool. The lawn chairs were stacked beneath the covered ground-level porch that followed the square shape of the house.
When Ileana stepped inside the kitchen, she found Cesar, her mother’s longtime cook, laying out plates and silverware on a round pine table.
The old cowboy looked up and smiled as he spotted Ileana. “Good evenin’, Doc. You stayin’ for supper?”
Ileana walked over to the tall, wiry man and kissed his leathery cheek. From the time Cesar had been fifteen years old, he’d worked on the Bar M. After forty years of dealing with fractious horses and several broken bones to show for it, Chloe had relegated him to the kitchen. Now after twenty years of stirring up ranch grub, he could safely be called a hell of a good cook.
“I hadn’t planned on it, Cesar, but if you have plenty, I will. Where’s Mother? Is she in from the barn yet?”
“She came in a few minutes ago. You might find her in the den.”
“Thanks,” Ileana told him, then quickly left the kitchen.
The den was quiet and so was the living room. Ileana eventually found Chloe in her bedroom changing into clean clothes.
“Hi, honey!”