THE TRIPLETS' RODEO MAN EXCERPT Chapter One Jack Morgan stood at his father's bedside in the Union Junction, Texas, hospital, staring down at the sleeping man. A large man, Josiah Morgan had the power to impress even in his sleep. Jack couldn't believe the old lion was ill. He didn't think Pop ever had a cold in his life. But if his brother, Pete, said Pop was weak and in need of a kidney transplant, then those were the facts. Jack took no joy in his father's dilemma, even though he'd run away from home at a young age and had never looked back. The scars were simply too deep, too painful. He hadn't seen Pop in over ten years, not since the night of his rodeo accident, his brothers' car accident, and the all-out battle he and Pop had finally waged against each other. It had been a terrible night, one still etched in the deepest memories he held. And then there was the letter he'd received through Pete from his father just last month. Jack, I tried to be a good father. I tried to save you from yourself. In the end, I realized you are too different from me. But I was always proud of my firstborn son. Pop As patriarchal letters went, it stunk. Jack figured Pop wouldn't have sent a letter at all if he wasn't sick, so he'd decided to come see for himself. He hadn't expected to care what happened to the miserly old man; Josiah was miserly with his affection, miserly with his money, time, whatever. At least that was the father Jack remembered. Still, Jack preferred his father fighting. "All right, Pop, you old jackass," Jack said, "you can lie in that bed, or you can fight." One eye in the craggy, lined face opened to stare at him as he spoke, then the other opened in disbelief. "Jack," Josiah murmured. A thousand emotions tore through Jack. "Yeah. Get up out of that bed, old man." "I can't. Not today. Maybe tomorrow," Josiah said gamely. "Damn right," Jack said, "because if I'm giving you one of my kidneys, I expect you to be jumping around like a lively young pup." Josiah squinted at him. "Kidney?" "Hell, yeah," Jack said, "you and I might as well be tied together for a few more years of agony—don't you think? It's the one thing we have in common. We're apparently the perfect match for a kidney swap, which I find amusing in a strange sort of way. Not any of my brothers—me, the perfect donor match for you. It's almost Shakespearean." His father shook his head and closed his eyes. "I don't want any favors, thanks." Jack pulled over a chair, sat down close to his father. "No one's trying to do you a favor, you old jackass, least of all me. Quit feeling sorry for yourself because I sure as hell don't." Josiah's eyes snapped open, sparks of fire shooting at his son. "No one has ever felt sorry for Josiah Morgan." Jack nodded. "Glad we got that settled. You'll need to be in the right frame of mind to get healthy for all those brats you thought you needed." "Brats?" "You've been bringing children into the family faster than popcorn popping. Pretty selfish of you to drag all those kids in here and then send up the white flag of surrender, don't you think, Pop?" "I didn't ask to have kidney disease!" Josiah barked. Jack stretched his legs out in front of him, legs that had seen a few breaks and sprains from bulls that had taken their own bounty out on him. "We all make our choices." "I did not choose this." "You've been 'self-medicating' for years. It's one of the reasons I don't touch a drop of liquor. I decided long ago not to live by your example." "Alcohol didn't give me kidney disease." Josiah pulled a whiskey bottle from under the sheet and took a sip he would have deemed "just a drop." "Sure didn't help it, either." Jack stared at his father. "Pitiful, if you ask me." "Well, I didn't ask," Josiah snapped, secreting the bottle again. "It's nice to be able to tell you exactly what I want to while you lie there captive to the truth. I've waited years for this moment." Josiah looked at his son. "I guess you think paybacks are hell." "I guess that's what I do think, Pop." Jack wasn't about to give his father an inch of pity. The old man was mean as a snake. All the charity and benevolence he'd been throwing around in the past few years didn't fool Jack. Josiah Morgan didn't do anything without a clear motive; there was no true generosity in his soul. Josiah shook his head. "So many years have passed, and you didn't even let me know you were all right. You chased the one thing you cared about all your life—rodeo—and at thirty-two, you decide you're going to give up the one thing that matters to you? You can't ride with one kidney. It'd be a fool's mission." "I'll take the risks I want, Pop." Jack stood, staring down at his father. He didn't like the old man, would never forgive him for the harsh words over the years. Wouldn't forgive him for never being proud of him. Wouldn't forgive him for blaming him for the car accident his brothers had been in the night Jack had been carted to the hospital. "It's a kidney, Pop, and I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for my brothers, who have families you've saddled them with. You ought to live to reap what you've sown." "I'm proud of what I've sown!" Josiah shouted after him as he departed. Jack kept walking. It was a kidney he was giving up, not rodeo—Pop had that all wrong. *** Cricket Jasper spotted the lean cowboy loping through the hospital exit and knew immediately who it was. There was no one like Jack Morgan, not in looks nor in sheer magnetism as far as Cricket was concerned. Why he'd be at the Union Junction Hospital, she couldn't guess—he'd had little to no contact with his family in the past ten years. She'd only met him a time or two in the past couple of months—and that had been purely by chance. The brief meetings were enough to make her pray for more. Oh, yes, as a deacon, Cricket was fond of prayer, and she also knew that the Lord didn't always grant a person what they wanted, particularly if it wasn't in the best interests of the praying mortal. However, she was drawn to Jack from some deep, emotional part of her soul, and she knew this could be her only opportunity for months—if ever again—to catch him. "Jack!" she called, waving. He hesitated, glanced her way, considered, she knew, retreating in a different direction. But what she knew about the cowboy was that he had that general reaction to anyone connected with his family, so she didn't take it personally. She caught up to him. "Jack Morgan, it's good to see you." He looked at her, his gaze skimming her white dress. "You, too." She smiled. "You weren't visiting Josiah, were you?" She wanted badly to allow her eyes to do their own one-stop shopping up and down Jack's loose-hipped body—she resisted the urge, telling herself to be patient. The hunted never wanted to feel caught, after all, and she was determined to catch Jack Morgan, even if all she caught from him was a kiss. Jack shrugged. "I wouldn't call it a visit." "Oh, I'm sure that meant the world to him." She gave him her most friendly, most innocent smile. "Now all you need to truly make his day is find a wife and kids." He shook his head, not appreciating the joke. Josiah had managed to wrangle three of his four sons to the altar with the promise of a million dollars each—and somehow found them wives and many children to expand the Morgan name, giving Josiah the grandchildren he wanted in his golden years. "It won't happen to me," Jack stated. "I'm giving him a kidney, not another branch for the family tree." Cricket gasped. "A kidney!" He shrugged. "I keep thinking I'll come to my senses and talk myself out of it, but it hasn't happened yet." She couldn't catch her breath. It was a stunning reversal for the man who'd vowed to never even visit his father or speak to him again. "Jack, that's . . . wonderful." His face was impassive. "Glad you think so." It was clear he wanted to move on. Cricket wanted to keep him right where he was, so she said, "When's the surgery?" "They'll prep us tomorrow." Her eyes went wide. "No one told me." "Maybe we don't need prayer, Deacon," Jack said. "I'll be praying anyway, cowboy," she shot back. They stared at each other silently, each assessing the other. A hundred thoughts ran through Cricket's mind. Why was he doing this? Forgiveness. Redemption. What Jack would never admit about himself: he had a kind heart, he loved his father, and his family mattered. "You're a good man, Jack," she murmured, and he instantly replied, "Don't kid yourself, Deacon," and headed off. She watched him go. If he was aware that she had a crush on him, he ignored it steadfastly. She doubted he even knew she was alive, other than she was friends with Suzy and Priscilla and Laura, wives who had married his brothers. It was all wrong; there would never be anything between them. Like roping wind, she didn't have a shot with Jack Morgan. They were opposite points on a compass. But she still had a crush on him, darn her normally practical heart. It would take some thinking. Josiah hadn't bothered to "matchmake" for this son, because he was unmatchable. Gabe had been fixed up with Laura, who had a young son and daughter. Gabe had fallen like a tree. Dane had been determined not to repeat Gabe's surrender to his father's wiles, but Suzy Winterstone had been moved into the Morgan ranch as a housekeeper, bringing with her little twin girls, and Dane had followed his brother to the altar. Pete had wanted to give up his military life for something more homebound but he'd never planned to marry, and certainly not the woman he called Miss Manners, Priscilla Perkins. His father had found quadruplet orphans who needed parents and persuaded Priscilla and Pete to the altar. Josiah had nearly completed his family tree, and now Jack was giving him the life he needed. Jack had better watch out. Josiah lived to build his family, and while Jack might give up a kidney, he also might find himself giving up his freedom. That made Cricket frown. She knew Josiah too well. As soon as he could draw a healthy breath—and maybe even before—the man would start hunting a bride for Jack. Oh, it would be very sneaky, very underhanded, but before he knew it, Jack would be roped and tied to the Morgan ranch, no matter how much he thought it wouldn't happen to him. The problem as Cricket saw it was that Josiah had always chosen women with children for his sons—and Cricket had none. Nor could she simply seduce Jack into her bed and catch him that way—not that she would, but the seduction part was worth investigating because she had a feeling it would be a heavenly experience—because as a deacon, she'd look mighty fallen to her congregation if she came up pregnant and unmarried. Cricket mulled her other options. There were none, as far as she could see. Walking into Josiah's hospital room, she found him surrounded by cute, young nurses. Josiah appeared happy to have the beautiful companionship. Josiah had spent much time reviewing the hospital nurseries; he loved looking at the babies. There were certainly plenty of viable female candidates making themselves known to Josiah. She had to make certain he didn't get that babymaking glow in his eyes for Jack. "Hello, Josiah," she said, bending down to give him a kiss on the forehead. The nurses, realizing he had a visitor, left the room one by one. Josiah grinned at Cricket. "What did you bring me?" he demanded. "Cookies," she said, and he said, "Good girl." "I saw Jack as I was coming in." Josiah nodded, pleased. "I always knew he'd come around." The fact was, no one had ever thought Jack would come around, and there wasn't a gambler in the county who would have taken a wager on it. Cricket smiled. "Did you?" "No." Josiah smiled. "Just felt like bragging for a minute." "You're entitled," Cricket said. "So I hear you're getting a new kidney." "That's what he says," Josiah said, "I have no intention of taking his kidney." "Why not?" "Because he'll still ride rodeo." Josiah eased himself up on his pillow. "He just wants to make me crazy. It's his favorite thing to do, payback for the years he thinks I was a bad parent." She looked at the elderly gentleman. "The story I heard was that rodeo was in Jack's blood no matter what." "True," Josiah said, "but he can't ride with one kidney." "That would really make you crazy." "Right." Josiah nodded. "I don't mind heading off into the wild blue yonder, but I do mind sitting around worrying like a durn fool about my durn stubborn son." "You have a lot to live for." "Oh, hell. You're a religious person, Cricket, you're supposed to spout that kind of nonsense. A man has nothing to live for; he lives to do." "So?" Cricket demanded. "What's your point?" "My point is that I'm not taking Jack's kidney just so I can spend a few more years on this earth!" Josiah bellowed. "What good would it do me if he got bucked off and stomped? Do you know how many cowboys get stomped?" "Perhaps some protective gear—" "Bah." Josiah tossed off his covers impatiently. "Have them turn down the heat in here, Cricket. It's nearly April. Why do they have the heat so high like I'm some sissy old man who can't make my own body heat? By heaven, I'm not a corpse yet." She smiled. "It is a bit warm in here." "Hey," Josiah said, "sneak me out of this joint." Her eyes went wide. "I can't do that. Why didn't you ask Jack to? He's the rebel, isn't he?" "Oh, he wouldn't. He's Mr. Giving-My-Kidney-To-Make-Pop-Feel-Guilty." Josiah sniffed, not pleased. "Josiah," Cricket said, "we'd all like to see you gracing the earth a while longer." "Oh?" His brows beetled, white and thick on his strong forehead. "Who are we?" "Me, for one." "Well, that's one." "Okay," Cricket said, "what would make you feel like you have a reason to live? An important enough mission to keep your boots planted firmly on the earth, so that you can be a gracious recipient of the gift your son is trying to give you?" He glowered at her. "I'll tell you, Deacon," Josiah said, "Find a good woman with children who needs a husband and somehow convince her and Jack to make it to the altar. That would be worth hanging around to see." Cricket swallowed. "A woman with children?" He nodded. "A single mom. There's no reason to leave young children with no father when we have plenty of resources in the Morgan family. And if you have a magic wand, wave it and make it snappy, like in the next twenty-four hours, before I have to do this stupid surgery. I'm too old to be cut on like a piece of beef." "Josiah," Cricket said faintly, "you're asking for a miracle, not a magic wand." "Don't you do miracles? Isn't that your thing?" She blinked. "Certainly I believe in them, but Jack hasn't been . . . I mean, I know nothing of his personal life. He could already have a girlfriend." "That would make your job easy." "If she had children already," Cricket reminded him. "Just getting him to the altar would be an impossibility, but fixing him up with a single mother who would suit him is likely beyond impossible." Cricket tried to ignore her own racing heartbeat. There was no way she could honestly matchmake for Jack Morgan—not with the way her heart jumped every time she saw him. Ever since January, when she'd seen him bullriding, she'd known she had the man in her sights who could undo everything rational she thought about men and marriage. The perfect man for her could never be a rodeo cowboy, and yet, it was as if her heart coupled to the devil-may-care in him. "I can't do it, Josiah. It's not my place to do so." "Hell's bells," Josiah complained. "A family would settle my son down, and that would be best for everyone." "What if he met a woman he fell in love with and then made a family? Wouldn't that be better?" "No," Josiah said stubbornly, "because Jack will never marry unless he has to. It's kind of like visiting his old man—it's costing him a kidney. Whatever woman catches him is going to have to rope, drag, and throw my son to the altar, and he'll yowl like he's trussed on a Fourth Of July grill." That was probably prescient. And she didn't want Jack "yowling" if she was the one tying him down—what woman wanted to catch her man that way? "I'll just design the drapes for your house that you've been wanting, which Suzy and Priscilla and I promised you months ago. How about that? Wouldn't new drapes give you a reason to come home healthy?" He shook his head. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You are no good at negotiating, Cricket Jasper, particularly as I know you have a thing for my son. However, you'll never catch him if you're planning on wrapping yourself in drapes like Scarlett O'Hara, my girl. No, to catch Jack, you'll have to be willing to lay body and soul on the line. He's not exactly the curtains type, more like cots and coyotes, if you get my drift." Cricket did, indeed, get Josiah's drift, and considered herself well warned. Chapter Two Jack hesitated outside his father's door, realizing he was the topic of conversation between the pretty deacon and his father. He heard his father sneakily trying to get Cricket to romance him; he heard Cricket clearly backing away from the idea and offer up her services as Martha Stewart instead. Part of Jack wanted to snicker at his father's failed matchmaking; the other part of him was seriously annoyed that Pop couldn't just give the whole matchmaking/family thing a rest. But that was typical of the old man; he couldn't be happy with a kidney. It had to be the family and kids and happily-ever-after for Pop—like they'd ever had that for one single day in their lives. Thankfully, the good deacon was too angelic for Jack—and too crafty for Pop. Still, it shocked him that Pop thought the deacon had the hots for him. Then again, Pop was entitled to a delusion or two. "Josiah, I'll play cards with you, but only if you quit sipping out of that bottle," he heard Cricket say. "Because if you don't quit, you'll be too relaxed to tell Jack tomorrow that you don't want his silly old kidney." Jack leaned close to the door, amused by Cricket's coddling. "I hadn't thought of that," Josiah said. "And the liquor will skew the blood tests," Cricket said practically, "and it will mess up your medication, and the next thing you know, you'll be at Jack's mercy." "You have a point." There was silence for a long while. "I do not want to be at anyone's mercy." "Of course you don't. Who does?" "Not me, durn it. Toss this bottle into your purse and take it home to the ranch for me, would you? Store it in my liquor cabinet." "I will. It'll be waiting safe and sound for your return. And I'll re-measure for those curtains while I'm there." "I don't care about curtains anymore," Josiah said, "I want you to spring me from this place." "Oh, I think you're getting plenty of attention from the ladies," Cricket said, her tone soothing. "My heart is already taken," Josiah said. "Anyway, I was hunting for a girl for Jack." "When we saw him ride in January, there was a rumor going around that your son has all the female attention he wants," Cricket said. "Let's just focus on you." "Was he any good at rodeo?" Josiah asked. "I've never seen him ride." "He was average," Cricket said, and Jack straightened. Average! That day he'd placed first with his highest score, the best ride he'd ever had. "Oh," Josiah said, "I was kind of hoping he was good at the one thing he's chased all his life." "Well," Cricket said, "some men are late-bloomers." Jack blinked. The woman was crazy! She didn't know what she was talking about. He hadn't been a late-bloomer at anything. "Later on, Jack mentioned he was giving up rodeo," Cricket said, her tone serene. "Let me see . . . what did he say he was going to do?" Jack strained, listening to the deacon spin her incredible yarn. "Oh," Cricket said, "I remember. He said he'd decided to go into ranching. And do a little math tutoring at the high school. Did you know he got a college degree by correspondence course?" "He did?" Josiah demanded. I did? Jack mouthed. "Yes," Cricket said. "From what I could tell, he's very smart and a huge believer in education." "That makes me very happy," Josiah said, "I wish I'd known all this so that I could have told him how proud I am when he was visiting me. I didn't have a chance," he said sadly, "we always seem to fight right off the bat." "Oh," Cricket said, "fathers and eldest sons do that." "They do?" Josiah said. "Sure. And eldest daughters sometimes scrabble with their mothers. I scrabbled a time or two with mine. And my brother." Jack heard cards being shuffled. "Anyway, you can tell him how proud you are tomorrow." "Yes," Josiah said, sounding happy, "I can. And you know, if he really wants to go into ranching, his brothers have started a new breeding business between them. They'd probably really appreciate the help, and heavens knows, I've got the land. In fact," he said, lowering his voice so that Jack had to really bend an ear to hear, "it's time for me to re-write my will." "Oh, dear," Cricket said, "let's play twenty-one and not think about wills, Josiah." "Are preachers supposed to know how to play cards?" Josiah demanded, and Cricket said, "It's either this or dice. Pick your poison, sir." The sound of cards being played carried to Jack. "I'm going to have to divide the ranch up, you know," Josiah said, "and last month, I realized I was going to have to leave Jack out. But maybe I've just misunderstood him." "Most likely," Cricket said, and Jack frowned. Why was the deacon cozying up to his father on his behalf? She wasn't a deacon; she was a pretty face who told outrageous fibs. Too bad she was such a storytelling wench; she'd almost had him believing all that sweetness she was peddling. Almost. But now he knew Cricket was a woman who would say anything to get what she wanted. He wasn't sure what Cricket wanted—but he'd know soon enough. Everybody had a price, except him, of course. She came out the door suddenly and squashed his toe on purpose. "That's what you get for eavesdropping," she whispered, "you're going to have to think fast on your toes to keep up with your old man, cowboy. Let's see if you can do that, okay?" Then she popped him on the arm like he was no more than a baseball-playing buddy, tossed her enormous handbag over her shoulder—Pop could have fit a case of whiskey in that thing—and headed off, looking like Audrey Hepburn in independent, cute-as-kittens mode. Jack stared after her astonished. That was one pain-in-the-well-worn-butt woman. And unfortunately, she had the asset Jack most appreciated on a female: a very sassy derriere. Somehow that was even more annoying. *** In the night Josiah left the hospital. Jack wasn't really surprised when he got the call. He would have done the same. Jack figured if anybody was like him, it was the old man. Pop wasn't going to be a burden, and like his sons, he knew how to hit the escape hatch. It was up to him to fetch his father back. This would be a battle because Pop didn't want his life extended by taking something from Jack. Pop would consider this sacriligeous, wasteful, and downright wrong. He couldn't blame his father. Since they hadn't spoken in over ten years, Josiah had every right to his feelings. It was bad luck that only Jack was the perfect donor match, something he found out only after being tested—something he did only after Suzy, Dane's nurse wife, left a message for him at a local rodeo that they were running out of options with Pop. It had been a warning, not a solicitation for testing for a match; still, Jack had felt a curiosity and an obligation to find out. Quietly, he'd had the testing done—and bad luck as always, the prodigal son was the "perfect" match. It was the only time in his life he could remember someone using the word "perfect" to describe something about him beyond the occasional female he romanced. He was going to have to go find Pop, somehow reel him back in to the hospital. Cricket had been right: he was going to have to think hard to keep up with the old man. Pop was sharp from years of being focused, determined, ornery. Fortunately, Jack knew something about determination. He'd find him. Somehow, he'd drag him back. *** Cricket went to the Morgan ranch, pulling in to the driveway in her old Volkswagon that had served her well for many years. The sight of the ranch and the large house which graced the property, out in the middle of nowhere, never failed to take her breath away. She parked, shut off her car, grabbed her tape measure. A promise was a promise, and they'd promised months ago to make new draperies for the house, and if Josiah Morgan was going to be on a first-name basis with the angels—unless he accepted his son's kidney, and if the operation and match was a success, two bigger if's than Cricket wanted to entertain—she was determined he have those new decorations he wanted in his house. Southern living style and comfortable, Josiah had said, something she could do quite easily. She grabbed her tape measure and a writing pad and walked to the front door. No one answered her knock. Cricket decided she could call either Laura, Suzy, or Priscilla and ask them to come let her in . . . or perhaps she could find an open door. If one of the Morgan men were here today working somewhere on the ranch, it was possible they'd left the door open. They wouldn't mind her slipping in to measure, particularly as she'd mentioned her plans to Josiah. Sure enough, the door was unlocked. That meant one of the Morgans was nearby, so she carefully slid the door open and called, "Hello! It's Cricket Jasper!" She waited for a "Hello, Deacon!" or something to that effect, but no one answered. Closing the door behind her, she walked in to the hallway. "Hello! Gabe? Dane? Pete?" All the brothers had moved in to houses with their brides, leaving the ranch house to Josiah. Pete was the most recent to move, needing space for his four new babies and wife. He and Priscilla had bought a house only a few miles down the road once the adoption was final, and Cricket was pretty certain Josiah had been crushed by the departure of the babies. "Anybody home?" she called. Jack appeared in the hall like a ghost, scaring her into the fastest heartbeat she'd ever experienced. "You scared me, Jack!" He grinned at her. "I can't exactly claim that I'm home, to answer your question of anybody being home. But I'm here." He looked around, his gaze returning to the flat stare he almost always wore. "Never thought I'd be here again." "So what are you doing here?" Cricket demanded, her heartbeat still jumping around. "I'm looking for the old man. What are you doing here?" "I'm making curtains." Cricket slid past Jack, keeping an eye on him. After Josiah's warning about his son, Cricket had decided her unhealthy crush was something she needed to put away. The man was sexy, but as a deacon she had no business mooning after a man who had not one good side but two bad. "If you'll excuse me, I'll just measure, draw off some sketches, and be out of your hair." He caught her arm as she went by. Cricket jumped, snatched her arm back. "Hey," he said, "I think you and I got off on the wrong foot." "No," Cricket said, "we're fine. Let's not trouble ourselves about anything except getting your father well." Jack looked at her, his gaze direct, sending a shiver over her. "I heard you telling a bunch of fibs to my father last night." She shrugged. "So? Is it wrong to want him to be happy at the end of his days? Is it sinful to put him in a happy frame of mind before he has a major surgery?" He eyed her. "A fibbing deacon." She raised her chin. "Never you mind what's between me and the Lord, cowboy." He grinned. "Your conscience is your own, my lady." "Good." She started to turn away, but there was that hand again, holding her too close to him. She wished she didn't feel an unsettling sizzle everywhere he touched her. This time, she stood firm, refusing to allow him to unsettle her. "And while we're examining your unusual conscience," Jack said, "You wouldn't help my father escape, would you, Deacon?" Chapter Three "What are you talking about?" Cricket demanded. "Escape what?" "Pop left the hospital in the night. Checked himself out." Cricket seemed to consider his words, doubting him. She finally said, "He was fine when I was visiting him." Jack shrugged. "Guess he changed his mind. Now I need to find him." "Is he here?" Cricket's voice contained a dose of worry. "No. Too obvious, though I was hoping he'd make it easy on me to take him back to the hospital." Cricket held her sketchpad closer to her chest. Perhaps she was afraid he might eat her, a very tempting thought—but he was no big bad wolf, contrary to his father's opinion. "If he doesn't want to go back, you can't make him." Jack smiled. "Maybe you could give me your best thoughts on where he might be. My brothers haven't seen him; their wives haven't seen him. The logical conclusion was that he'd had a yen to see the grandchildren one last time. Then we figured he might be here. No dice." She shook her head. "I'm sorry I can't help." Thunder clapped outside and a slice of lightning cracked near the house. "My word," Cricket said, "that sounded close. If you'll excuse me, I'll take my measurements and let you get on with your search. I hope you find him, I really do." Jack let her go. She didn't know where Pop was. Nobody had the faintest idea; no one even knew where all the properties he owned were. He could be anywhere in the United States. Pete had mentioned that he thought Pop had sold the knight's templary in Pzenas, France, but Jack supposed Pop could just as well have left the country. "He is the most difficult man on the planet," he muttered, along with a well-chosen expletive or three. "Did you say something?" Cricket asked, writing down numbers on her notepad like mad. "No," Jack said, "nothing fit for the ears of present company." She turned back to what she was doing. "I can't blame him, you know." "Blame him about what?" "He didn't want your kidney. He didn't want anything from you at all. I polished your resume, tried to make it seem like you were the kind of son who—" "I heard the polishing." Jack threw himself into his father's recliner. "Pop didn't believe any of that crap." Cricket sniffed, went back to ignoring him. "Where'd you stay last night?" "With Pete and Priscilla and the four babies." He watched her stretch to measure the length of the current rod, admiring her lean body as it moved. "Full house?" "Yes," Cricket said, "but I love being there. They can use the extra pair of hands, and I enjoy the fun." She stopped to look at him. "Have you even seen any of your nieces and nephews?" "Deacon, look," Jack said, "I haven't seen my brothers or my father in years. Why on earth would I have seen their offspring, which, by the way, only became part of the family in the past few months?" She stared at him. "Some people like to make up for lost time." Her words needled him. She knew nothing about his family; knew nothing about him. He really didn't feel like he needed judgement from someone who was supposed to be fairly non-judgmental. "Nothing short of a wedding will bring your father back here," Cricket said, and Jack blinked. "You don't have any children?" he asked. "I most certainly do not." She bent down to examine the fall of the current rather plain drapes and he didn't bother to avert his gaze from taking in a scrumptious eyeful of forbidden booty. "Anyway, what matters is whether you have any children. Your father was living for family." "Jeez, don't rub it in." Darn Pop for being so difficult. He was almost tired of being lectured by Cricket, yet the instrument of his conscience-picking was at least attractive. Rain slashed the windows, pelting them furiously. "When you plan for drapes, maybe something heavy enough to keep out the cold in winter and the heat in summer would be nice," he said, watching the rain run in rivulets down the wall of windows. "No sheer lacy things that just look pretty and serve little purpose." "Oh?" Cricket straightened, much to his disappointment. "Planning on living here?" "I don't think so," he said softly. "I haven't stayed in the same place for more than three nights in many, many years. That's not likely to ever change for me." She looked at him, her gaze widening. It seemed to Jack that she reconsidered whatever she was about to say. Then she put away her things, allowing them to be swallowed by the enormous gypsy bag she carried, and said, "I'll be going now. It was good to see you again." He laughed. "You are a gifted fibber." "Just because I have good manners does not make me a liar." "Whatever." "I'll see myself to the front door." He nodded amiably. "You do that." She slipped past him, her carriage straight as a schoolteacher's. Because she was tall and lean, she moved gracefully, a sight he'd probably always enjoy watching. He really liked the way her dark hair fell around her shoulders, lustrous and probably softer than . . . hell, he didn't know what would be as soft as that woman's hair must be. It just looked silky, and like it probably smelled good, too. This train of thought was taking him nowhere fast. He was being a pain in the ass to Cricket, and Pop's disappearance wasn't her fault. Jack got up and followed her to the door, which she'd opened as she stood staring out at the rain-whipped blackness. "You probably don't have a raincoat in that purse of yours." "I'll be fine," Cricket said. "You have enough to worry about without worrying about me." "I didn't say I was worried. But it didn't escape my notice that your tires are fairly bald, and your car is a tad past old, and the roads will be a mess getting up to the highway. In other words, drive safely." She looked up at him. "My, aren't we the gentleman suddenly?" He scratched his head. "Tell me again which church you serve as a deacon?" "I never told you at all." "That's true. I'm just curious what congregation would put up with such a—" "Jack," Cricket said, "the only thing on your mind right now should be Josiah." "I suspect he's not driving in this weather. Nor is he out in it," Jack said. Cricket hesitated. "This isn't going to be a popular theory," Jack said, "but I'm betting that little beetle of yours with the gummy tires doesn't it make it to the main road. You'll be calling me to hitch you out of the mud in less than five minutes. I'm sure my father would suggest you stay put until the rain passes." Cricket closed the door. "I'll accept your father's kind invitation." He nodded. "I bet if we poke around in the kitchen we'll find something to eat." "I'm not hungry, thank you." That was too bad. He'd been hoping she'd be eager to show off some of her culinary skills. "You don't like me very much, do you?" "Let's not make this personal," Cricket said, making herself at home at the kitchen table while Jack checked out the contents of the fridge. "Not me," Jack said. "I'm Mr. Impersonal." "Wonder where he is, anyway?" "You'd know better than me." There was fresh turkey and cheese in the meat drawer, and Jack felt certain his evening was going better. "There's a guesthouse on the ranch, right? A few barns?" "I've searched everywhere." Jack closed the door, leaving the food behind, suddenly lacking an appetite. He felt a confession coming on, and those were never very good for his gut. Cricket watched him. "What are you doing?" Jack took a deep breath, slid into the seat opposite of Cricket's. "See, here's the deal. The old man was rough on us, me in particular. He wasn't the kind of father who'd play ball with you; he wasn't around much, he wore us out with his criticism. If I had a penny for every mean thing he said to me, I'd be a wealthy man, I promise. Me, more than any of my brothers, never measured up. And he hated what I loved most, which probably just made me love rodeo more. I didn't have to measure up to Pop when I was riding—it was just me and the bull and hanging on for dear life." "So what happened?" "He blamed me for a car accident my kid brothers' had when they sneaked out to see me ride one night." He looked at Cricket, the old memories rushing over him, painful in their lingering intensity. "The thing that ticked me off the most was that I was crazy about my brothers. We felt like all we had was each other, and I basically got to be the father, in a way. I loved them. I would never have hurt them. I had no idea they were sneaking out to watch me that night." Still, the painful accusations cut. Remembering the beating his old man tried to give him cut, too, but even more painful was the fact that he'd fought back. The two of them had gone at each other like prizefighters, and Jack wasn't proud of it. "I suppose in the end I let him beat me," Jack said, "but I took skin from him before he did." "I am so sorry," Cricket said, reaching across the table to pat his hands, which he noticed were splayed in front of him as if needing the comfort. He moved his hands to his knees under the table, not wanting to appear as if he needed comforting, like a baby. "I don't even know why I'm here," he murmured, but he did know, he knew he still loved his brothers, and Pop wanted those grandchildren, and if all it cost to make everybody happy—buy forgiveness—was a kidney, then that was cheap. "Maybe you are a good man," Cricket said, "maybe you really want to do the right thing." He looked at her, then slowly shook his head. "I don't think so." He would never be "good" enough to live in her world; there were varying degrees of "good." Repairing the cracks of his relationship with his family would take more than anything he had in his soul. Lightning cracked over the house, snapping the lights off. The refrigerator humming stopped. He thought he heard one of the many pecan trees that bordered the property give a tired groan, a warning that much more wind would drive it to split. "The lights'll come back on," Jack said to comfort Cricket. "I'm not afraid of the dark." Of course she wouldn't be afraid of the dark. She'd probably produce a glow-in-the-dark Bible from her purse, lead a few prayers, invoke the heavenly spirits for safety, and it would never cross her mind that the thing she should be afraid of was him.