Stella Bagwell - A Texan on Her Doorstep

“From the first moment we met, I’ve been wondering something about you.”

Ileana tried not to shiver as his gaze trailed over her face. “What is that?” she asked, unaware that her own voice had dropped to a husky whisper.

“How you would look—like this.”

With one smooth movement, Mac’s hand moved to the back of her head and released the barrette holding her hair. The silky tresses spilled onto her shoulders and tumbled against her cheeks.

She tried to make herself step back, to admonish him for being so forward and impertinent, but all she managed to do was stand paralysed and breathless as his long fingers pushed into her hair.

Stella Bagwellhas written close to seventy novels. She credits her longevity in the business to her loyal readers and hopes her stories have brightened their lives in some small way.

A cowgirl through and through, she loves to watch old Westerns, and has recently learned how to rope a steer by the horns and the feet. Her days begin and end helping her husband care for a beloved herd of horses on their little ranch located on the South Texas coast. When she’s not ropin’ and ridin’, you’ll find her at her desk, creating her next tale of love.

The couple have a son, who is a maths teacher and athletic coach.

By

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my brother Lloyd Henry Cook, who always insisted I could be anything I wanted to be. And to my brother Charles Cook, who pushed me to send off my first manuscript. Without either of you, I wouldn’t be a writer today. I love you guys and thank you for believing in your sister.

The worn, yellowed envelopes bound with twine had been placed on Phineas McCleod’s kitchen table more than an hour ago; yet he’d not touched them. Nor had his brother, Ripp. Both men had skirted around the stack of papers as though they were a coiled rattlesnake.

For the past several months, Mac, the nickname everyone called Phineas, and Ripp had searched for any trail of their mother, Frankie, who’d walked out on the family nearly thirty years ago. And up until yesterday, when Oscar Andrews, an old family acquaintance of the McCleods, had appeared on Ripp’s doorstep with letters addressed to his late mother, Betty Jo, their searching had gone in vain.

Now, because of the letters exchanged between Betty Jo and Frankie, the brothers had more than clues. They had an address, a definite place to look for Frankie McCleod. Yet strangely neither of them was eager to race to the spot or even read the letters. Doubts about the search for her had settled like silt in the bottom of a wash pan.

Now, as Mac roamed aimlessly around his modest kitchen, he glanced over at his younger brother. Since Ripp had arrived an hour ago, he’d done little more than stare out the window. Obviously, learning about the existence of Frankie’s letters had shaken him. Hell, it had done more than shake Mac; it had practically knocked him to his knees. Two deputy sheriffs, who’d faced all sorts of danger, were now jolted by the idea of seeing a woman who had been out of their lives for twenty-nine years.

“One of us has to go to this ranch and meet with her, Ripp, and it should be me,” Mac said. “You have a family now. A wife, a son and a baby daughter. They need you at home. I don’t have anything to hold me here, except my job. And Sheriff Nichols will give me time off. Hell, I’ve got so much sick leave coming to me I could take off a year and still not use it all up.”

Ripp’s snort was meant to sound humorous, but it fell a bit short. “That’s because you’re too mean to get sick.” His expression dry, he looked over his shoulder at Mac. “But who knows—after this you just might need a good doctor.”

Ripp didn’t have to explain that “this” meant finding Frankie McCleod. After all this time without her, Mac couldn’t think of the woman as their mother. Not in the regular sense of the word.

Mac said, “Well, we both decided after Sheriff Travers told you that story about Frankie calling Dad, asking to come home, that maybe we should try to find her. See if his story was true and what really happened back then. Are you having second thoughts?”

Groaning, Ripp turned away from the window. “Hell yes! I keep thinking that maybe not knowing about her is better than learning that she really didn’t want us.”

Mac thrust a hand through his dark hair as he stared at the stack of letters. Each one had been written by Frankie Cantrell and mailed to Betty Jo Andrews, who’d lived in Goliad County all her life until she’d died three months ago from a massive stroke. Her son, Oscar, had been going through her things, getting her estate in order, when he’d discovered the letters in an old cedar chest. Frankie’s last name had changed from McCleod to Cantrell, but Oscar had glanced through one of the letters and spotted Mac’s and Ripp’s names. As a result, he’d thought the brothers would be interested to see them.

Interested? The existence of the letters had stunned them. Betty Jo had certainly kept her correspondence with Frankie a deep secret. If anyone else had known about it, they’d not disclosed it to Mac or Ripp.

“I don’t agree,” Mac finally replied. “The not knowing is bad, Ripp. Besides, if it turns out she didn’t want us, then it will be easy for me to say good riddance and put the matter out of my mind once and for all.”

“That’s cold.”

Mac let out a long breath. “I can’t help it, Ripp. I remember watching her pack up and drive away. That does something to a ten-year-old kid.”

Walking across the room, Ripp placed a comforting hand on his brother’s strong shoulder. “We don’t have to do this, Mac. We’ll always have each other. If that’s enough for you, then it’s enough for me.”

Mac’s throat tightened as he looked in his brother’s eyes. While growing up, the two had clung to each other more than most siblings. And down through the years that closeness hadn’t wavered. Mac didn’t have to think twice about his brother’s love. Ripp would always be there for him, no matter who or what came and went in their lives.

“We both deserve to know the truth, Ripp. And I’m gonna find it.” Mac gestured to the letters. “I’ll take one of those with me for evidence. You can read the rest while I’m gone.”

Ripp shook his head. “We’ll read them together. Once you get back.”

“We might not want to read them then,” Mac countered soberly.

“Find the woman first, Mac. And then we’ll make a decision about her.”

“Dr. Sanders, if you have a moment could you come to the nurse’s station? There’s—someone here who I think you need to see.”

Ileana Sanders frowned slightly. It wasn’t like Renae to sound evasive. In the few years that Ileana had known her, she’d been an excellent nurse who didn’t waste time playing guessing games.

“I’m working on a chart, Renae. Who is it? Do they need medical attention?”

“No. He—looks pretty healthy to me.” There was a pause on the phone, and when Renae’s voice returned, Ileana could barely hear her whisper. “Get down here now, Doc. If you don’t, I’m not sure I can keep him out of Ms. Cantrell’s room!”

“I’ll be right there.”

Dropping the phone back in its cradle, Ileana grabbed a white lab coat from the back of her chair and left the little cubicle she used as an office while making her hospital rounds.