hardcover book in his hands, the bedside lamp glowing yellow against his natural wood walls.
“Hey.” He smiled, letting the book fall to his lap.
“Hi.” She clicked the door shut behind her.
“Something wrong?”
She nodded.
His smile immediately faded. “Katie?”
“Kind of.” Amber moved across the room.
His eyes cooled. “News from…home?”
Amber sat down on the bed. “We have a problem.”
He tossed the book aside. “You’re reconciling with Hargrove.”
“What?
Royce didn’t answer.
“This has nothing to do with Hargrove.” She wanted to be annoyed with Royce for even thinking that it might have been Hargrove, but there wasn’t time for that. Instead, she covered his hand, trying to prepare him. “I have pictures of the Stantons. And it’s not what we think.”
“What do we think?”
She slipped the pictures out of the envelope and spread them on the bed. “Look.”
Royce clenched his jaw as he leafed through them. “I’ve seen Frank Stanton before. He lived on the ranch for a while. Worked with the horses. That’s how they met.”
“Look at the sister,” Amber whispered.
Royce shifted his gaze. “She was into horses, too,” he surmised. The trophy was obviously equestrian.
“Look at her chin,” said Amber. “Her eyes, the hairline.”
Royce glanced from the picture to Amber, brows furrowing.
“Stephanie, Royce.”
“What about Stephanie?”
“Stephanie is the spitting image of…” Amber flipped the picture over to read the handwriting on the back. “Clara Stanton, Frank and Norman’s sister.”
“No.” He glanced back down. “She doesn’t look anything like…” Royce’s breathing went deep.
“He’s not blackmailing you over murder.”
“Son of a bitch.”
She didn’t want to say it out loud.
“Shh.”
Royce turned to her with haunted eyes. “This can’t be right.”
There was nothing she could say to cushion the blow.
“It can’t be real.”
It was real all right. Stephanie was Frank Stanton’s daughter.
“Who else knows?” he demanded.
“No one.”
“Katie?”
Amber shook her head. “Not even Katie. I only figured it out in the hallway thirty seconds ago.”
He glanced back down at the picture. “We can’t tell Stephanie. It’ll kill her. She was two years old when they died. She doesn’t even know about the affair.”
“I won’t tell Stephanie.” But Amber realized that meant paying off Norman again.
Royce rolled out of bed, pacing across the floor, photo still gripped in his hand. He was stark naked, but the fact didn’t seem to register.
He strode past the bay window, raking a hand through his hair. “We…”
Then he turned at the wall, glanced at the picture and threw it down on a dresser. “I…”
He stopped dead, fisted both hands and glared at Amber. “There’s got to be a way out.”
“I’m sure there is,” she agreed in the most soothing voice she could muster.
He crossed back over to the bed, sat down and uttered a crude cuss. “That bastard’s got us by the balls.”
Amber didn’t know how to answer. It was true, but agreeing seemed counterproductive.
“We can’t tell Stephanie,” he reaffirmed.
Amber nodded.
Royce snagged his phone from the table. He punched a couple of numbers and put it to his ear.
“Who-” Amber stopped herself.
“Jared.”
She knew Jared had been out of touch for several days now.
It appeared he still was.
Royce’s voice was terse as he left the voice-mail message. “Jared. Royce. Call me now. Right now.” He punched the off button then leaned back against the headboard.
She dared to reach out and touch his bare shoulder. It was hot, hard as a rock. “Anything I can do?”
“Short of fixing a deal with the Chinese, finding a sailboat in the middle of the South Pacific or giving Norman Stanton a fatal disease? Not really.”
“Right.” She slipped across the bed to sit close beside him, curling her arm around his tense back. “Moral support doesn’t really cut it at the moment, does it?”
He wrapped one of his arms around her and then the other. Then he bent to kiss the top of her head. “Moral support is better than nothing.”
She struggled to find a smile. “That’s always been a dream of mine. To be better than nothing.”
He gave her a gentle squeeze and whispered above her head. “Will you stay?”
She nodded against his neck, knowing she was falling fast and hard. His troubles were her troubles, and she’d be by his side just as long as he needed her.
In the morning, when Katie asked for a tour of Stephanie’s jumping ranch, Royce resisted the temptation to tag along. Much as he’d love to spend the time with Amber, he was afraid he’d end up studying his sister’s expressions, movements and mannerisms for traces of the man he’d hated for twenty long years.
She was still his baby sister. He loved her, and he’d move heaven and earth to protect her. But he needed some time to come to terms with the knowledge she was also Frank Stanton’s daughter.
What the hell had his mother been thinking?
Had she known which man fathered Stephanie? What was her plan? Was she going to take Stephanie with her and Stanton? Would she have destroyed that many lives for her own selfish happiness?
The knowledge crept like a cold snake into his belly.
He smacked open the front door, marching onto the porch to take a deep breath of fresh air. He didn’t wish anybody dead, not even Frank Stanton. But he wasn’t sorry his mother’s plan had failed. He couldn’t imagine his life without Stephanie.
An engine roared in the distance, dust wafting up at the crest of the drive. Royce squinted against the midmorning sunshine. He knew it was too early for Amber and Katie to return, but he couldn’t help hoping.
Amber had been amazing last night. First she’d let him rail in anger. Then she’d offered practical advice. She seemed to have an uncanny knack for knowing when to stay quiet and when to talk. Finally, against all odds, she helped him find a touch of humor in the face of catastrophe.
Afterward, he’d stayed awake for hours, simply holding her in his arms, letting the feel of her body make his troubles seem less daunting.
It was a car that appeared over the rise. A dark sedan, dusty from the long road in, but unmistakably new, and undeniably expensive. The windows were tinted, and the driver moved tentatively around the potholes dotting dirt and sparse gravel.
Not a local, that was for sure.
Royce made his way down the front stairs, wondering if this could be the mysterious Alec Creighton, or perhaps someone from the Ryder Chicago office.
The car eased to a halt. The engine went silent. And the driver’s door swung open wide.
