Lone Star Redemption. Colleen Thompson
Having grown up in Dallas’s upscale Highland Park neighborhood, Jessie had long since gotten past the notion that privilege necessarily deserved protection. It was part of what made her fearless when confronting those who considered themselves untouchable, from a beloved sports legend who was systematically cheating customers at the car dealership he’d purchased, to the mayor of Dallas, who would very soon be facing his own reckoning over his crooked reelection campaign.
The lady of the house would find herself no more immune, especially if the woman kept doing everything in her power to frustrate Jessie’s search.
“Mrs. Rayford? Nancy Rayford?” She blinked at an attractive older woman with a silvered pixie cut and blue eyes a shade darker than her soft cabled sweater. It was hard to imagine this was the same woman who had answered her questions on the phone so brusquely before repeatedly hanging up on her. She was a tiny, mousy-looking thing, so frail and insubstantial that Jessie quickly closed the door behind her, half-afraid that a stray gust could waft her up into the shadow of the elegant curved staircase just behind her.
“Yes, why—” Voice faltering, Mrs. Rayford took a step back before reaching for a candle with one trembling hand. Lifting its light toward Jessie, she gasped and spread her hand over her chest. “Haley? Oh, my— I thought you weren’t—”
Jessie shook her head. “My sister. Remember? I tried to tell you on the phone.” Her heart fell with a realization. “Then, Haley really isn’t here?”
She’d been banking on finding her sister hiding out here, after having talked her way into some menial job with some sob story about being pursued by an abusive stalker. It was Haley’s time-honored method for avoiding creditors, former lovers and, Jessie suspected, her family, as well.
Mrs. Rayford’s blue eyes widened before she flicked a fearful glance behind her, toward the stairwell. “You’re— Then you’re really not her? Truly?”
“We’re identical twins,” Jessie explained, offering a smile in an attempt to reassure the frightened woman. And more important, to gain her trust. “Our own father couldn’t tell us apart.”
Not that he’d ever made much effort. But Nancy Rayford didn’t need to know that.
From outside came a low hum, and a moment later, the chandelier above them flickered on. The sudden illumination revealed the older woman’s pallor, painting gaunt shadows in her hollowed cheeks.
Reminded of her own mother’s illness, Jessie said, “I’m sorry I’ve upset you. Do you need to sit down?”
Taking the woman by the arm, Jessie led her to a bench seat and squatted before her when Mrs. Rayford sank down to it.
“Are you all right?” Jessie asked, thinking of heart attacks and aneurysms, and the sudden, fatal stroke that had taken her father over one of her family’s mandatory Sunday dinners. “Is there something I can get you? Someone I can call?”
No sooner had she asked the questions than she heard the sounds of approaching boot heels on the marble. As Henry faded back, turning to hide the mini-cam still perched on his shoulder, a deep voice boomed, “Generator’s back online, Mama. Should keep us up and running for a while, anyway—”
A tall man holding a broad-brimmed gray hat came striding through the archway and stopped short, looking in confusion from Henry to Jessie before finding Mrs. Rayford. She had leaned forward, holding her bowed head in her shaking hands.
“What’s going on here? Mama? Is something wrong?” He rushed toward her so quickly that Jessie rose and stepped out of his way. “These people—are they bothering you?”
Blinking back tears, his mother waved off his concern. “No, no, Zach. They’re just—” She looked to Jessie. “They took a wrong turn in the storm, but they saw our gate and stopped to ask directions to town.”
Jessie stared in surprise. Why on earth would you lie to your own son?
“I was just helping them when all of a sudden, one of my headaches came on,” Mrs. Rayford continued. “They’ve been very kind, but I’ll need my prescription. You remember where I keep it, don’t you? And some water, too, please.”
Clearly uneasy, he looked from Jessie to Henry.
“I’ll be fine,” his mother said, tenting her fingers over one side of her forehead. “Maybe it’s the wind, but this migraine’s getting worse. If you could get my pill right away...”
“Sure, Mama. I’ll be right back,” he said, his concerned eyes as vibrant a blue as his mother’s. But that was where their resemblance ended.
Where Mrs. Rayford was petite and frail, her rancher son was broad-shouldered and long-limbed—a trim six-three, at least, and only a few years older than Jessie’s twenty-nine. The wind, or maybe the hat, had mussed his short jet-black hair, but it was his strong jaw that caught her attention—that and the high cheekbones, deep tan and dark brows that hinted he had Native blood, despite the color of his eyes. To her surprise, there was no ring on his finger, she noticed, sneaking a glance at his strong, work-roughened hands as he rushed back in the direction he had come.
He might be wearing a barn jacket, boots and worn jeans—well fitted to the contours of his body—rather than Armani, but she knew instinctively that if a gorgeous specimen like him showed up in Highland Park, he’d have half the women in that ZIP code lined up, hoping for a ride. And if they had any idea how much land and livestock his family owned—and how much oil had been found here, according to her research—a good number would be out to permanently corral him. She couldn’t imagine herself among them, though, for if she’d learned anything from her last boyfriend, it was that guys who looked that good and had the money to back it up tended to have a lot more ego than she cared to deal with.
“You’ll need to leave now,” Mrs. Rayford told them. “Before my son gets back. Please.”
Jessie squeezed Mrs. Rayford’s ice-cold hand and said, “I’m very sorry you’re not feeling well, but I’m not going anywhere until I find my sister. My own mother— My mother’s seriously ill and needs to see her. And every lead I’ve uncovered stops right here at this ranch.”
Mrs. Rayford straightened to look her in the eye, her otherwise pale face marked by two splashes of bright color. “I told you on the phone, Haley Layton moved on six months back,” she said, her voice going cold and brittle. “She and that good-for-nothing boyfriend of hers sneaked out of the old bunkhouse they were renting without a single word—or a penny of the three months’ rent they owed me.”
The part about the money didn’t surprise Jessie. Haley had a long history of abusing the trust of everyone with whom she came in contact. Jessie herself had fallen for a couple of Haley’s hard-luck stories—the last time to the tune of nearly five thousand dollars—all the savings she’d had at the time.
The very last time, she’d sworn, cutting off all contact once her sister had skipped out of a battered women’s shelter and disappeared almost four years before. It had hurt Jessie, too, turning her back on someone so close. She felt almost like a part of Jessie’s own body, but she knew, too, that if she kept enabling her twin, Haley would never learn to stand alone—and would never stop resenting Jessie for the accomplishments that set them apart.
“I’ll write you a check right now for the back rent,” she offered, now more intent on offering her mother peace than in fixing her sister’s life, “if you can only tell me where she went or even this boyfriend’s name. Then I’ll be on my way.”
The woman moaned. “I don’t care about the money. As I told you before, I have no idea where your sister’s gone.”
“Then why act so evasive on the phone, and why hang up on me every time I tried to call back?” Jessie demanded. “When you saw my face, too, I saw how you—”
From behind her, Zach Rayford returned to interrupt them. “What’s really going on here? Who the hell are you people, and what do you think you’re