LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Well, honey,” he drawled, amused and irritated by her lofty manner, “I didn’t expect some female”—translation: some ditz—“to be sashaying down the middle of the street.”

      “I am not ‘sashaying’ down the middle of the street. I happen to be crossing it.”

      He studied her, then glanced across the street and back to her. “You might not know it,” he mentioned in a helpful, philosophical tone, “but the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Going straight across the street gets you to the other side faster than ambling across at an oblique angle. It could also save you from getting run over.”

      “And watching where you’re going could save you from killing someone and getting thrown in jail.”

      “A point well taken,” he agreed, unable to kill the grin. In blue slacks and a knit top that outlined her to perfection, she was very easy on the eye. Besides which, he’d always been attracted to women with fire.

      He watched her march on across the street, her head high, her light brown hair swinging about her shoulders. He’d never seen anyone move the way she did, with the grace and dignity of a fairy princess. And the righteous anger of a tent evangelist.

      A name came to him. Susan Wainwright.

      He’d never met her, but he’d seen her a few times onstage. She was a lead ballerina with the Houston Ballet.

      Her sister had recently wed Matt Carson. A surprising affair, considering the Carsons and Wainwrights had been feuding for nearly as long as the Hatfields and McCoys, or so he understood. But Michael recalled hearing a rumor of a truce for the wedding.

      Watching the delectable sway of her hips, he formed a new appreciation for a dancer’s grace of movement. To his surprise, a vision came to mind—him and her in a wide bed, long legs wrapped around him—

      Whoa!

      Shaking his head, he forced those thoughts aside. “Hey,” he called, “you need a ride somewhere?”

      Susan gave him a drop-dead glance. “No, thanks. Someone is picking me up.”

      A fleeting notion indicated he’d like the “someone” to be him. Forget it, he advised. That little gal was a heartbreaker from the get-go. Besides, he wasn’t looking for any lengthy entanglement. His life was fine just as it was.

      Grinning at himself, he eased down on the pedal and left the enticing and oh-so-haughty beauty behind.

      At the Lone Star Country Club, located deep in the heart of Lone Star county, he tossed the keys to the valet and dashed inside. The Yellow Rose Café was dark compared to the bright mid-September sunshine. He paused to let his eyes adjust.

      “Michael, over here,” Flynt Carson called.

      Michael had performed bypass surgery on Flynt’s dad five years ago. He’d visited their family ranch many times since then. He and the two Carson brothers, Flynt and Matt, had become good friends.

      “Hey, man, what’s been happening?” Michael asked, taking a chair. A waiter hurried over with the menu and took his order for a tall glass of iced tea. “Not Texas style,” he added.

      Texas tea could set a man on his rump after one glass of the potent blend of liquors with a smidgen of tea and fruit flavors to round it out.

      Flynt grimaced when they were alone. “I guess you heard the news about Carl Bridges?”

      “Yeah, I saw it on TV. Any more info on it?”

      Flynt nodded. “Spence is keeping his cards close to his chest, but they have arrested someone.”

      Spence Harrison was also a golfing buddy and the local district attorney handling the case.

      “Anyone we know?”

      “No. A member of the mob, I understand, but don’t quote me on that. It’s all rumor and conjecture at present.”

      “Mob” referred to the infamous Texas Mafia that comedians loved to make jokes about, such as: Did ya hear about the Texas mafia bank robbery? When they stood back to back, their spurs got stuck. They would have gotten away, but they couldn’t decide who got to ride face forward on the getaway horse. Ha-ha-ha.

      Murder was never a laughing matter, Michael mused, but this case had been particularly poignant. Only days before Carl Bridges’s murder, his estranged son, Dylan, had come home; days later, he’d been a suspect in the crime. Thankfully, he was cleared.

      A waitress appeared—Daisy, it said on her name tag—a Texas blonde with big hair and a twang so thick it made Michael smile each time he heard her speak. He and Flynt gave their orders for the chef’s Saturday luncheon special.

      Movement caught Michael’s attention. A lithe woman in a blue summer outfit walked into his field of vision. She was with an older woman. Her mother, he assumed, because of the similarities in their facial structure.

      A ping of interest coursed through him, a tiny hum of electricity that warmed him in spite of the fan circling over their table. The two women were seated on the patio overlooking the famous golf course.

      “Susan Wainwright,” Flynt murmured, looking at the women, then back at Michael. “Her mother, Kate Wainwright.”

      “Hmm,” Michael said noncommittally. The Wainwright name reminded him of another event. “How’re the newlyweds?”

      “Who knows? They haven’t come out of their house yet,” Flynt said with a straight face, then laughed.

      Michael chuckled with his friend. “I was sorry to miss the wedding. I heard it was exciting.”

      “Yeah, but the real action was in New York, at Rose’s aunt’s place. It was a standoff, you might say. Justin Wainwright was threatening to shoot Matt after finding Rose had been…compromised. And I was determined to save Matt from himself. Rose’s Aunt Beth distracted the warring parties while Matt and Rose slipped out and got hitched. Justin and I packed up our six-shooters and slunk home.”

      Michael laughed, but he knew the Carsons and Wainwrights had once been great friends. Flynt’s great-grandfather had even started this very country club with his best friend and fellow rancher, J.P. Wainwright, but a falling-out over a family scandal and water rights had started a feud that had lasted three-quarters of a century.

      The things people fought over, Michael reflected in disgust. If people could see the life and death struggles he saw, they’d view things differently.

      No thinking about that, he chided himself. This was his fun time. However, there was one more problem to be discussed that had nothing to do with cardiac surgery in Houston. “Any word on Lena?” he asked.

      The shock of his life had occurred while playing golf back in May. Right here at the posh country club, on the ninth green, in fact, the golfing foursome had found an abandoned baby. The shock had come when all four men had been suspected of being the father. Worse, they’d all admitted it was a possibility. They’d each been involved in a more or less brief liaison the previous year.

      DNA testing had already proved neither Flynt, Spence nor Michael could be the sire. That left the last man of the foursome, Tyler Murdoch, to be tested.

      Since Michael had been filling in for Luke Callaghan, Luke was also a possibility. The note left with the baby had gotten wet, blotting out any name of the father. The only legible part had been, “I’m your baby girl. My name is Lena.”

      Someone, the police had concluded, had been observing them play and had chosen the isolated ninth hole, where bushes screened a maintenance shed. Footprints indicated that someone had hidden there while watching them find the baby.

      Flynt felt he needed to be the one to take care of the baby. The four of them had chipped in and hired a private investigator to find the mother or father or somebody to claim the foundling.

      “I do have some other news,” Flynt

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