Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (35 page)

Her stomach twisted. What they'd done to her horse... She couldn't bring herself to imagine. Even the digital photos Rafe had taken, she'd refused to look at. She didn't need a photo when the carnage was burned into her memory.

Kevin had the memory card now, along with the manifest connecting her horse to Sweet Creek Stables. Seemed Wes had never calculated getting caught and never thought to have Smiley shipped from another location not connected to him.

She smiled at that. Dumb-ass had sealed his own fate. So she relaxed, knowing his bail had been denied and no amount of friendship or good-old-boy system was going to get him sprung anytime soon.

So now she only needed a distraction to keep her from wishing the time away until Wes could be brought to justice. And work, the clinic in particular, the horses and her rescue operation, fit the prerequisite in keeping her occupied.

Rafe caressed her cheek. "So we're square on the Wes issue?" His brow rose in question.

"Absolutely."

He moved across the seat, his lean, muscled thigh pressed up against her leg. "Good. I'm looking toward the future." He threaded his hand through her hair, the rough pads of his fingertips pressing into her scalp, and he pulled her toward him.

She rolled her lips in and then out, knowing full well his intentions, and heat flooded her insides with longing. Her eyes closed. The warmth of his breath so close to her mouth made her tingle. She loved kissing him. Loved... The thought was lost when his firm lips came down on hers. She kissed him back, parting her mouth to allow his tongue to explore and stroke. He tasted of coffee and the Werther's butterscotch he'd popped in his mouth before they left the farm.

The future... Did he mean with her or in general? Waking up to his long, lean body, his legs wonderfully male and coarse with hair, intertwined with hers, made her face warm with wanting him. But was what they had shared in Mexico one of those things brought on by grief and fatigue, or was it real?

His arm went around her waist, pulling her snug to him, his long fingers slipping inside the waistband of her jeans, and when he cupped her rounded cheek, she moved closer. He deepened the kiss. Their lips moving against one another caused her to moan inside his mouth. Warmth pooled between her thighs. God, she wanted him. But not like two teens in the front seat of his truck in front of the clinic. Cold reality quashed her growing libido, and she groaned, pulling away her lips. "We can't. Not here."

She didn't miss the draw at the corners of his mouth. She pulled away abruptly. "You jerk. You know exactly what you're doing."

His eyes glinted with guilt, but his smile only increased. "I'm horny, Red. Horny for you." He made a move to continue the kiss, and Bren grabbed for the door handle.

The rumble of his phone distracted him. His fingers slid out of her pants, the sensation still a hot brand along her skin.

Rafe snapped the phone open, his eyes never leaving her. "Yeah." He smiled. "As we speak."

Bren's eyebrows rose.

"Trey," he whispered. He motioned to her. "Business. I'll meet you inside."

She nodded and got out of the truck, shutting the door.

At seven thirty in the morning, the clinic parking lot stood empty as she made her way to the entrance. Purple crocuses had begun to peek out from the mulch bed in front of the bay window of the clinic, and Bren smiled. Only a few more weeks until spring.

The doorknob moved smoothly in her hand, and she stepped in and closed it behind her. The old paneling that had since been painted a lemon yellow greeted her, photographs of horses hung strategically around the walls. The desk to the right sat empty. Bren continued down the hall. "Jo."

Originally a country veterinarian practice, it had two examining rooms on either side equipped with stainless steel tables. She peered inside each room. No Jo. Bren made her way back to the front. With her hands on her hips, she decided to make quick work of finding her and grabbed the phone, prepared to hit the intercom button, when the tab of a folder sitting underneath several others caught her attention.

Typed on a neat white label, the name intrigued her: "Rafe Austin Langston." She didn't even know his middle name—Austin as in Texas. Bren's fingers touched the tab. She loved him. She had put Tom's memory to rest in Mexico.

She was alive, and as much as she'd change places with Tom, she couldn't. She had to continue with life, and as she'd found out in Mexico, a ghost—no matter how much she missed the man Tom had been—was incapable of touching her physically. And she very much enjoyed being touched by Rafe. Her cheeks warmed, and her hand automatically flew to her face.

God, I'm embarrassing myself.
What an innocent she really was. Tom was the only man she'd ever... until...

The heat to her cheeks intensified, and she shook her head to clear her brain and concentrated on her find.

Jo must have felt bad after their conversation on Saturday night.

It didn't matter what Jo had come up with, not now. But her hand dug beneath the stack anyway, until she slipped the folder with Rafe's name out. Born in Texas, he was a cowboy who, from Trey's account, was a damn good cattleman. Who had a damn good head on his shoulders for business and knew damn well that dairy farming had tanked years ago.

Yet he'd bought half her farm to build a dynasty on a cow that resembled a domino and could very well fall like one if tipped, sending his hard-earned money down with it.

She knew Rafe was no dairy farmer. Had been pretty sure all along, though she'd been too preoccupied with her own agenda to give the ruse much thought.

Bren glanced through the window. He remained in the truck, leaning against the door, his cell phone pressed to his ear—occupied. Good. She flipped open the file. She scanned the first document, a credit report. She wasn't a banker. The columns with numbers meant nothing to her. But the last column, titled "Balance," she could understand, and the zeroes confirmed what she already knew—he was financially secure.

There were several pages of handwritten notes she recognized as Jo's. The bulleted items: Washington County Hospital; Baldwin and Chase Esq., an attorney firm located in Hagerstown that hadn't been in business for over two decades; and Vital Statistics Administration located in Baltimore.

She set the lined yellow page aside and flipped through the remaining sheets of paper. Her hand stopped. The name, typed in capital letters, she knew better than her own—"Thomas Patrick Ryan"—followed by his birth date and time of birth. Understanding bloomed, and Bren's fingers tightened at the centered, bold type and decorative scrolls highlighting "Certificate of Live Birth."

Why would Tom's birth certificate be in Rafe's file?

"Bren."

Bren's head shot up. Jo stood in the doorway leading from the hall, her black hair tied back in a high ponytail. She leaned on her cane.

"I—I was looking for—" Bren glanced back through the window. Rafe remained in the truck. "Jo?"

Jo frowned and moved toward her, the thump of her cane growing louder and more ominous. "Bren." Jo stood at the corner of the desk. "We need to talk."

Bren held up the copy in her hand. "This is Tom's birth certificate. I don't understand why—"

Jo touched her arm and squeezed it gently. "It's the last thing I expected."

What was she saying? Bren's hand flew to her mouth, and her head swung to the window. He wasn't in the truck. Bren grabbed Jo's arm. "Rafe's with me." Her fingers pressed into Jo's bicep. "Tell me what this means before he comes through that door." Her eyes flew to the door, and she released Jo.

What was taking him so long? The walk from the truck to the front door of the clinic took less than thirty seconds.

The birth certificate slipped from her fingers when Jo pulled it from her and placed it flat on the desk. Jo pointed next to a block that read, "Plurality."

Plurality?

What the hell kind of word was that? The word next to it made her head spin—"Twin." Bren gripped the edge of the desk and reached for the chair. Her butt hit the soft seat with a thud.

"But I've seen Tom's birth certificate. We needed it for our wedding license years ago—for the boys' baptism certificates." She motioned toward the birth certificate. "I've never seen this one."

"It was the original filed by Washington County Hospital. You may have never seen it. The one you're talking about..." Jo flipped open the file and grabbed another piece of paper. "Is this the one you have?"

"Y-yes."

"It's issued through the Division of Vital Records. It doesn't require them to list multiple births."

"Tom had a twin." The words fell off her lips in a whisper. "Why didn't he tell me?"

"Bren, I don't think Tom knew."

Jo grabbed the chair in front of the desk and scooted it around and sat. Those striking blue eyes of hers held Bren's. "There's more." Jo moved papers around in the file and snagged another from the back. "It's not my place to confront Paddy, sweetheart." She squeezed her hand. "But he owes you an explanation."

"Jo." Bren pressed back on her hand. "Tell me why this is in Rafe's file."

She spun the paper around. The words "Adoption" surfaced first, the names "Sawyer and Laura Langston" next. Cold shot through her chest, and then heat warmed her face, and she moaned. "My
God."
Her hands shook and came to her face. "He's—"

The doorknob rattled, and Jo and Bren's eyes widened and locked on each other.

"Tell me." Bren stood and begged, pulling on her arm. "Now before—"

The door swung open. "Ladies." A lazy smile tugged at the corners of Rafe's mouth. "Jo, you having trouble with varmints? Raccoons, maybe? Your trash cans were knocked over. Made a big mess—bags ripped, trash..." He stopped and frowned. "I grow horns?"

Oh yeah, and a long pointy tail to go with it.

Bren grabbed the birth certificate off the desk. She walked with measured steps toward him. "You son of a bitch." She raised her hand and connected with his cheek.

"Ow!" Rafe's hand flew to his face. Green eyes simmering with anger turned confused. "What the hell?"

Fingers stinging, Bren grabbed the keys from Rafe's hand. Shock, on his part, made the retrieval easy. She pushed past him and slammed the door.
This could not be happening.
Bren couldn't even say the words. She swung open the truck door, the copy of the birth certificate now crumpled in her hand, and tossed it on the seat. She hopped in and slammed the door.

Mr. Patrick Michael Ryan would receive her, and he had better not lie to her this time—like he didn't recognize his own son scowling at him across the dinner table that night. No wonder Rafe had been intrigued by the photo of Patrick and Pam Ryan—they were his parents. God, now she knew why Rafe had felt familiar to her. Then she remembered what they'd shared—had been sharing since his timely arrival into her life—and she felt sick.

The click of cowboy boots alerted Bren that Rafe had regrouped. She struggled with the keys in the ignition and reached up frantically to lock the doors. She cursed when she pulled instead of pushed the door lock. The passenger door flung open, and Rafe jumped in as she reached for the shifter.

"Damn it, Bren. Talk to me. Where are you going?" Still rubbing his cheek, he gave her a confused look. "Why are you so damn angry?"

She put the truck in gear and tossed the paper between them on his lap. "You figure it out, cowboy."

He didn't bother looking at it—his attention all for her. "You didn't answer me. Where are you going?"

The truck lurched, the paper sliding between them as she took the turn and headed toward Paddy's.

His face twisted with anger. "Darlin', you're starting to piss me off."

She glanced over at him, her fingers a stranglehold on the steering wheel. "Go to hell, Rafe Langston." She smiled viciously. "But before you do,
darlin',
why don't you explain to me how it feels to screw your brother's wife."

She hit a bump, and Tom's birth certificate, that she'd flung at him earlier, began to slide off the seat. He grabbed it and took a momentary glance before his fingers gripped the paper that had effectively reduced him to what he truly was—a liar.

"Shit," he said and looked at her, a flush growing beneath his bristly cheeks. "Bren." He reached out and stroked her arm. "I can—"

She shrugged his arm off. "Don't touch me. You disgust me."

Her eyes burned, and hot tears ran down her cheeks. "You're a damn liar. Just like your old man." She wiped her face on her sleeve, and the truck swerved.

Rafe sucked in air. "Jesus." His hand came down hard on the steering wheel, and he steered her out of the curve. "You're going to kill us both."

She gave him a menacing lift of her chin, the tears refusing to stop. "I hate you."

"Fine, hate me. But stay the hell on the road." His expression hardened. "You think this is all about you? Not everything is about Bren Ryan." His eyes glinted with anger. "I was the one given away. Why did he choose Tom over me? What did he have that I didn't? I lost my life, Bren, when Patrick Ryan chose to throw me away. I lost my brother long before you lost a husband."

She took her eyes off the road. It was impossible not to. How dare he take this out on her.

His stubborn jaw remained level, his green eyes pinning her with accusation. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, his lips a tight line. Did she even know this man? She trembled. Had his anger for the slight done to him over thirty years ago been enough for him to exact
his
revenge—starting with Tom?

Her stomach lurched. "You sick bastard.
You
killed, Tom." Her hands clenched the steering wheel. Oh, how she wanted to slap his face again. But reality reduced that fireball burning in her stomach to an ember smoldering with what he would do to her next, now that she knew.

Paddy's property came up quickly, and she pulled down the winding gravel road. She wouldn't think about it. All she had to do was get to the house, slam the truck into Park, and run like Godzilla himself was breathing fire at her heels. Regardless of what Paddy had done or knew, he'd offer her refuge from Rafe.