âFrom the first moment we met, Iâve been wondering something about you.â
Ileana tried not to shiver as his gaze trailed over her face. âWhat is that?â she asked, unaware that her own voice had dropped to a husky whisper.
âHow you would lookâlike this.â
With one smooth movement, Macâs 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 Bagwell has 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 sheâs not ropinâ and ridinâ, youâll find her at her desk, creating her next tale of love.
The couple have a son, who is a maths teacher and athletic coach.
The worn, yellowed envelopes bound with twine had been placed on Phineas McCleodâs kitchen table more than an hour ago; yet heâd 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, whoâd 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 Rippâs 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, heâd done little more than stare out the window. Obviously, learning about the existence of Frankieâs letters had shaken him. Hell, it had done more than shake Mac; it had practically knocked him to his knees. Two deputy sheriffs, whoâd 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.
âOne of us has to go to this ranch and meet with her, Ripp, and it should be me,â Mac said. âYou have a family now. A wife, a son and a baby daughter. They need you at home. I donât have anything to hold me here, except my job. And Sheriff Nichols will give me time off. Hell, Iâve got so much sick leave coming to me I could take off a year and still not use it all up.â
Rippâs snort was meant to sound humorous, but it fell a bit short. âThatâs because youâre too mean to get sick.â His expression dry, he looked over his shoulder at Mac. âBut who knowsâafter this you just might need a good doctor.â
Ripp didnât have to explain that âthisâ meant finding Frankie McCleod. After all this time without her, Mac couldnât think of the woman as their mother. Not in the regular sense of the word.
Mac said, âWell, 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?â
Groaning, Ripp turned away from the window. âHell yes! I keep thinking that maybe not knowing about her is better than learning that she really didnât want us.â
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, whoâd lived in Goliad County all her life until sheâd died three months ago from a massive stroke. Her son, Oscar, had been going through her things, getting her estate in order, when heâd discovered the letters in an old cedar chest. Frankieâs last name had changed from McCleod to Cantrell, but Oscar had glanced through one of the letters and spotted Macâs and Rippâs names. As a result, heâd 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, theyâd not disclosed it to Mac or Ripp.