Joanna Wayne - Midnight Rider

Actually, he’d figured R.J. was already dead by now. Or maybe everything he’d said about the inoperable brain tumor at the bizarre reading of his will had been lies. He wouldn’t put anything past R. J. Dalton.

“I know you have no use for me,” R.J. continued. “I probably deserve that. We still need to talk. And I have someone you should meet.”

“Look, R.J., you had your say at the reading of your will. I wasn’t interested then. I’m still not. I don’t play games.”

“Looks like you were playing a potentially deadly one tonight.”

“That’s work, not a game. And it’s my business.”

“So is what I have to tell you.”

“Then spit it out.”

“Okay. You think I’m a lousy father. I agree. But unless I miss my guess, you’re about to get the chance to prove you’re a hundred times better at it than I ever was.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You will in a minute. Come with me.”

Crazy old fool. Cannon couldn’t even begin to guess what kind of absurd scheme he was working now. He leaned against the wooden railing that separated the contenders from the rest of the arena as R.J. ambled off without looking back.

Every muscle in his body complained silently, aches and pain seeping in like the bitter cold of a West Texas winter morning. He craved a hot shower, a couple of over-the-counter painkillers with a six-pack to wash them down.

Then he’d plop on the lumpy mattress back at the motel. No place like home, and a lonely motel room was as close to home as he’d been since he’d finished his tour of duty with the marines.

But something had brought R.J. clear out to Abilene to talk to Cannon. Doubtful the old coot would just turn around and drive home without saying whatever he’d come to say. Might as well get it over with.

Cannon followed in the direction R.J. had gone. He spotted him a couple of minutes later, standing near the wooden bleachers. A stunning young woman stood next to him, cuddling a baby in her arms.

Surely R.J. didn’t have the testosterone to father another child at his age. And even if he had, why would he think Cannon would give a damn?

The woman turned toward him and attempted a smile that didn’t quite work. Her gaze shifted from him back to the sleeping baby.

R.J.’s words about his getting a chance to prove himself as a father echoed through his mind. If he thought Cannon was going to raise this baby for him he was nuts. So was the infant’s mother.

A more troublesome angle struck him. Surely, R.J. wasn’t insinuating Cannon could have fathered this baby.

He studied the woman. Fiery red hair that cascaded around her shoulders. Deep green eyes. Not a woman a man could easily forget, yet she didn’t stir any memories for him.

“I’m Hadley Dalton,” she said as he approached. “Your half brother Adam’s wife. And this is Kimmie.” She held up the baby for him to get a better look. The infant stretched and rubbed her eyes with her tiny balled fists, but then settled back to sleep.

So this was Adam’s child. Cannon exhaled, releasing the dread and the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Cute baby. You and Adam did well.”

“But that’s just the thing,” R.J. said. “It’s not their baby. You’re her dad, or at least some woman down in Houston claims you are.”

Macabre’s hooves couldn’t have packed a bigger wallop.

Chapter Four

Cannon took a long swig of the cold beer. It did nothing to ease the shock or to relieve the aches in his joints and muscles. R.J. and Hadley sat across the booth from him in the nearby café where they’d gone to finish their discussion. The infant slept in Hadley’s arms.

The confusion he’d felt back at the arena was growing worse instead of better. “I don’t even know anyone named Brittany Garner. I definitely didn’t have a child with her. She evidently has me confused with someone else.”

“She seemed pretty sure about her facts when she dropped Kimmie off with us,” R.J. said.

“She could be just trying to get money out of you,” Cannon said. “If she knows anything at all about me, she knows I’m not worth conning.”

“She’s a detective,” Hadley offered. “Surely she wouldn’t be working a con.”

“Anyone can have business cards printed,” Cannon said. “That doesn’t prove she’s a cop.”

“She’s a cop all right,” R.J. assured him. “Your half brother Travis is a homicide detective himself in Dallas. He had her checked out. She’s legit and apparently good at her job.”

She might be a detective, but Cannon wasn’t convinced he’d slept with her. “How old is this woman?”

“Looks to be in her late twenties,” R.J. said. “’Bout your age. Sky-blue eyes. Tall. Thin. Strawberry-blond hair. Damned good-looking if that helps jog your memory.”

It didn’t. “Awful young for a detective,” Cannon commented, not that it mattered. He was twenty-seven himself and he’d already finished a stint with the marines and made a name for himself on the rodeo circuit.

“How old is Kimmie?” he asked.

“Three months, according to Brit Garner,” R.J. said.

Cannon went over the basics in his mind. Kimmie was three months old. This was the first week in December. If Kimmie was his, she would have been conceived about a year ago. That would have meant he had to be in Houston last December.

The big Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo was always in March. He’d participated in that, but didn’t recall being in Houston any other time. Of course, he might have passed through on his way to somewhere else. He’d have to check his calendar.

He wasn’t into one-night stands, but that didn’t mean he’d never given in to temptation. He definitely hadn’t been in a relationship then, or any time in recent memory. Have a few good times with a woman and she was ready to pick out furniture and run your life.

A one-nighter with a gorgeous Houston detective that he didn’t remember. Extremely unlikely.

“You can get a paternity test,” Hadley said. “That’s the only way you can know for sure if you’re Kimmie’s father.”

“A paternity test.” He sounded like a nervous parrot. But he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around the possibility that the baby sleeping in Hadley’s arms could be his.

“I hear they’re easy to get these days,” R.J. agreed. “If you’re short of cash, I can front you the money.”

“I’m not the father,” Cannon insisted, but his stomach had twisted into a huge, gnarly knot.

Kimmie began to stir. She stretched and yawned and then tried to poke her entire fist into her wide-open mouth. Hadley moved her to her other shoulder, but the baby continued to fuss.

“She’s hungry,” Hadley said. “Would you like to hold her, Cannon, while I get her bottle from the diaper bag?”

Hold that squirming ball of life? Not a chance. A puppy, he could handle. But this was a real live baby.

“I wouldn’t know how,” he said.

“I s’pect you better learn,” R.J. said. “Not only how to hold her, but also how to feed her and change her and even bathe her—that is, if she turns out to be yours.”

R.J. was already a believer. Cannon could tell by that knowing look in his eyes even though his pupils were half-hidden by the bags beneath them and the loose skin that drooped over his lids.

Kimmie started to cry. Cannon’s muscles bunched. The prospect of fatherhood struck him with raw fear, the kind of paralyzing fright he’d never felt when climbing atop a bull.

“Maybe you should stay at the Dry Gulch Ranch while you have the paternity testing done,” Hadley suggested. “There’s plenty of room since R.J. is the only one actually living in the original ranch house now. The rest of us have built our own houses on the Dry Gulch now.