Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (36 page)

His farmhouse came up, the front porch and door her target. She slammed on the brakes, prepared for the hard stop, and jammed it into Park, reaching for the door the second the vehicle lurched to a halt.

Rafe's arm clamped around her waist, and he pulled her roughly against his chest. He was breathing hard, as was she. He yanked her hand off the door handle and forced it down to her side. "Damn it! Don't make me restrain you." The edge to his voice frightened her. Every tendon in his neck flexed, a single vein bulged along the side of his forehead.

Bren stilled. Twice her size, his fingers long enough to encircle her neck with ease, he could squeeze, and there would be no way she could call for help or sustain a fight long enough to tire or weaken him. Everything she had believed about him, about Tom, swam menacingly toward her like a shark's fin, and she could only thrash about waiting for the attack that would end her life.

D
amn it-she was afraid of him! That was the last thing Rafe would have ever expected from Bren. And it ate at him to know he was the cause. He wanted to tell her. He should have told her the moment he'd sent her to the ground in the sale barn. But he never intended to actually meet his brother's wife.

Hell, he didn't even know he had a biological brother until recently. He'd been adopted. His parents had never hid that from him. For the longest time he never gave his biological parents a thought. He just assumed they had a really good reason for giving him up.

Maybe his recent curiosity had come with age. He was ready to settle down, have children, and had no idea the genetics he'd inherited, except for what he could see in himself.

So he'd approached his father. And Rafe almost shit bricks when he pulled out a file. Said he didn't like surprises in business or family.

That was Sawyer Langston—cover your ass, which included the adoption of a male infant from Maryland.

Rafe had let that folder sit on his desk for over a year without so much as lifting the flap. But when he did, he couldn't breathe. The more he thought of it, the angrier he got. He believed he was the only one.
That
he could handle. He just assumed his biological parents were dead. Well, maybe part of that was true.

The son of a bitch. His real father had thrown him away. But not his brother Tom. Why? At the time he was content to remain in Texas and stew over the lot he'd been handed. It was pure selfishness at its best. He had a wonderful set of parents and a brother. He needed to get over it. But the knowledge that Patrick Ryan existed tore at his insides. He would have left it alone if not for Tom Ryan. Rafe was curious about him. So he hopped a flight to Baltimore, took up residence in the Holiday Inn in Hagerstown, and went to find his brother. Except the last thing he expected was to find the man had been dead for almost a year—thanks to the "Wanted" poster his widow had posted in the local paper he'd bought at the diner the next morning.

It ate at him for days. Had he not been so stubborn and opened the file sooner, maybe he could have prevented his brother's death. But just like Tom's widow, he wanted answers. It didn't take long to figure out who the kill buyer was. And he knew where to find him—the sale barn.

Only he hadn't counted on one red-headed, undisciplined hellion stealing his heart. And she had. Now if he didn't explain himself and take his comeuppance, she was going to eliminate him from her life.

He met her blistering gaze and shook her. "I didn't kill Tom. I only found out about him recently. I didn't know he was dead until I got here."

Bren twisted her hand between them. Pulling it up, she flattened it on his chest. Her body relaxed a fraction and her expression began to soften with understanding. "You're still a liar." She pushed harder against him. "I'm asking you to kindly move your ass to your seat. I apologize for jumping to conclusions. But all this could have been avoided had you just told me up front who the hell you were from the beginning."

He tilted her chin up. "I never meant to get close to you. I tried like hell to stay away. The thing is, Bren, your fight has always been my fight. I never planned to cross paths with you that day in the sale barn. But I didn't see any way around it."

Her soft, pink cheeks stiffened. "I could have handled the horse."

He shrugged. "Just like your finances."

"I didn't ask you to buy half my farm. I didn't need you to meddle in my life." She struggled to free herself, and Rafe tamped down the smile threatening the corners of his mouth. She was a damn fighter, and he loved her. He wouldn't be forced into letting go for nothing. And this thing—choosing to not tell her about his true identity—he'd done to protect her. Well, he wasn't the bad guy here. Patrick Ryan was, and Rafe didn't much care for him. But Bren did. She loved him equally as her own father. He couldn't bear ruining all she believed to be true and upstanding about Patrick Ryan.

Rafe pulled her against him. "I'm in love with you, Red. You make me do things I never do drunk. I've never had to explain myself to a woman, either. And damned if I know why I'm doing it now. Except I meant what I said. You're not like any woman I've ever known, and that scares the hell out of me."

She stopped fighting, her breathing still heavily, her soft breasts pressed against his chest. She stared up at him, pain evident in her brown eyes. God, if looks could wound, he'd be bleeding buckets.

He reached up and hesitated when her eyes veered toward his hand. Startled and looking at him like he was the last man she should trust, he caressed her cheek. "Truce." He nodded toward the old man's house and couldn't help but grit his teeth. "He owes us both an explanation."

She nodded and kept her eyes trained on him. "I can't forgive you."

Damn it,
he knew she meant every word, and he'd accept it for now. But, eventually, when the bits and pieces of his life fell into order, his only mission would be to collect this ready-made family for himself. Technicality or not, they belonged to him now.

Rafe reached over her and grabbed for the door handle and then angled back to Bren. "You're not going to kick me in the balls once I let you go?"

"I guess you'll have to trust me." She wrinkled her face at him.

"Now, that's mature." He opened the door and motioned for her to step out, then placed his boots on the gravel drive and stood. She walked ahead and Rafe followed. For being such a tough guy, his stomach was tied in knots.

They climbed the steps, and Bren knocked on the door. Footsteps shuffled and the door swung open. Rafe concentrated on the old man's face. He'd already deduced from the photograph he'd studied when he was there for dinner that he'd gotten his looks and eye color from Pamela Ryan.

Perhaps the only thing Patrick Ryan shared with Rafe would be the scowl presently tugging at his lips as he witnessed his and Bren's solemn faces staring back at him. He caught himself and chuckled. "Missy, you surprised me." He turned to Rafe. "You over your snit since last I saw you?"

Son of a bitch.
Could he still sense, after all these years, the son he despised lurking beneath the cowboy he'd become? Rafe opened his mouth, prepared to send a zinger his way. Patience he'd long since lost.

"Paddy," Bren said. "We need to talk to you. We'd like to come in."

Paddy stood back, allowing them entrance. "I'm sorry. I just finished taking a catnap. My brain must be half asleep."

They followed him into the family room. "Have a seat." He walked into the kitchen. "Lemonade?" He held up a pitcher. "Freshly squeezed."

"No, thanks," Bren said and picked up the exact photo Rafe had held not even a week ago. Did she see a resemblance as he had? She kept the frame in one hand and motioned with the other. "Paddy, come in. We're not thirsty. We need to ask you a few questions."

Furry white brows rose over his wire-rimmed glasses. "Oh?" He placed the pitcher down and shoved his hands in his pockets and remained glued to the tile floor in the kitchen. Then his shoulders slumped a bit, and he walked steadily toward them. "What's on your mind, Missy?"

Bren held up the photograph. "You must have had some thoughts as to why Rafe left here upset after dinner the other night."

He shook his head. "Nope. I figured he disliked my food or something." He angled his head toward Rafe. "You don't like me much." His brows furrowed, and he shook his head.

Unbelievable.
Either he was delaying the inevitable or he actually had no clue who Rafe was. Bren took a tentative step toward Paddy, her hand sliding up his arm, the expression in her eyes one of sympathy for a man who was seconds away from being blindsided. And Rafe could not feel one ounce of remorse.

She motioned Paddy to his recliner. "I think you need to sit down."

"Why?" His eyes narrowed at Bren and then glanced toward Rafe. "I'm not tired. I don't want to sit. Something happen to the boys?" Alarm rose in his voice, and he frantically looked from one to the other. "What is it?"

Bren eased him toward the chair and gently sat him down. She kneeled down next to him and glanced back at Rafe before giving her father-in-law all of her attention. "You don't recognize him."

"No." He squinted at Rafe. "For heaven's sake. He's
your
friend. I recognize that."

For the first time she smiled at Rafe. "Yes, he is. But, Paddy, he's more than just my friend. He's your son."

The old man's face dropped, the loose skin around his throat jiggled, and he swallowed. "My son is dead." His voice became rough. The words marked with finality.

Bren moved closer, her face growing more serious. "Yes. Tom is dead. And I know you miss him. But you had another son, Paddy. I know you did. You don't have to deny it." Bren pulled the birth certificate she'd snagged from the floor of the truck and laid it on his lap. "Tom's birth certificate proves it." She turned toward Rafe. "Rafe is your son. He knows Paddy, and he wants to know why you gave him away."

Paddy shook his head, his hands coming up to shield his face, and he cried out, "He can't be! God forgive me. My son... my son was..."

Bren squeezed his knee. "Tell us the truth. Rafe deserves to know the truth, Paddy."

His hands came down, and tears ran down his puffy, wrinkled cheeks. "He can't be my son." He motioned with his hands. "My son was crippled." He eyed Rafe through his fogged-up, wet glasses. "You can't be Patrick. They said my Patrick would never walk."

He sobbed and reached for the front pocket of his slacks and pulled out a hankie. He blew his nose hard and wiped his face with vigor. "I was twenty-two, married with a child on the way. One child—until the delivery doctor informed Pam and me she was carrying twins. I couldn't believe it, but our happiness turned quickly when Pam lost consciousness. The babies were breech. Patrick came out first with forceps and Thomas, they were able to right him, followed next." He removed his glasses and wiped them with his hankie. A new sob, heavy with burden, escaped. "God, it happened so fast. Pam's heart rate dropped, and they pushed me out the doors. They worked on her for a long time. But they couldn't bring her back."

His hands fell to his sides, and he hung like a rag doll against the cushion of his recliner. "I'd lost my wife. My world. I had two sons I thought were perfectly healthy until they told me Patrick didn't look right. They wouldn't admit they'd done it to him with their damn forceps. They told me he'd never walk. He'd need constant care."

He looked at Rafe, broken and red-faced, his neck soaked and navy-blue knit shirt stained with his tears. "I could hardly think of raising two sons, let alone one who would never walk. To raise a handicapped child was beyond me." His eyes locked on to Bren's. "I had no choice, Bren. I had to give him up."

Patrick Ryan rocked and sobbed, the springs of his old recliner groaning with age.

Rafe didn't give a damn. He was too old to be delivered from his embitterment. Patrick Ryan had lived with his own demons for years—that was some consolation.

There had never been anything wrong with Rafe. If Patrick Ryan hadn't been so quick to write him off and sign the adoption papers, he'd have found out the doctors were wrong.

Rafe nodded to Bren. "I'll be outside."

Bren handed him the keys.

He couldn't bring himself to give the old man an out. Patrick Ryan had thrown him away like damaged goods. And that he could never forgive. The woman he loved had lived in Clear Spring her whole life. Brother or not, he would have won her fairly. He grimaced. Damn, but if Red knew the male chauvinist thoughts running through his head, she'd clobber him. Rafe shut the door behind him and headed for the truck. After about ten minutes, Bren emerged from the house, her gait the only indication she was ready to peel him a new ass.

With no choice but to assume the passenger seat since Rafe had regained control of his truck, she yanked the door open. "You, Rafe Langston, are an asshole. That old man in there is devastated. Even I can't be angry with him. He did what he thought was right at the time. You can't condemn him for something you know nothing about." She squared her shoulders. "You need to grow up."

"Can't help the way I feel. I didn't ask for this. He chose my life for me." A smile tugged at his mouth. "I guess you should follow your own advice and forgive me."

"And you can hold your breath until you turn blue." She turned in her seat and gave him her profile.

Knowing when he'd been beat, he put the truck in Drive and headed for Grace. The cab of the truck remained uncomfortably quiet until Bren's cell phone went off. She fumbled with it and placed it to her ear. "Hey, baby. I'll be home in a few minutes."

Her shapely auburn brows met in the middle of her forehead. "Sorry, sweetie. Rafe has other plans. You can camp behind our house."

Damn, with all this drama, Rafe had forgotten about his promise to take Finn and Aiden, and that poor excuse of a hound, camping in the field behind his house. Red wasn't getting her way on this one. Maybe she enjoyed making him out to be a no-good, uncaring... uncle. He smiled at that. Damn, he was an uncle now, and Uncle Rafe was not going to disappoint his nephews. Rafe snatched the phone from the crook of her neck, her hands busy snapping her seatbelt in place.