happened to your sister?”
“I take it you’re not here doing routine security checks. And the gun you had out a few minutes ago didn’t indicate you’re here as a friend.” She threw her hands up, clearly exasperated. “Look, I know something’s up. You can tell me what it is. I just want to know that Kate’s all right.”
“My turn to see ID,” he said. “Do you have any on you?”
Her lips twisted into a defeated scowl. “Afraid not. The only thing I have with me is my beeper.” She ran her hands along her hips, smoothing the shiny fabric so that it hugged her curves. “No pockets on these dresses. Of course, you could call Mr. Charles Castile and ask him to identify his missing bride. I’m sure he’d accommodate you.”
“I don’t believe I know the man, so I don’t know why I’d believe him any quicker than I do you.” Actually, he had heard of Castile. Nothing good. He was a rich attorney tied to the coattails of Joshua Kincaid. Sleep with a snake, and you probably were a snake. At least that’s how Branson saw it. “So, about that ID…”
The woman propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a very unfriendly cop?”
“All the time. But I thank you for the compliment just the same. Now, let’s start again. Where would you have to go to get some identification that shows you’re Kate Gilbraith’s sister?”
“Look, mister. Being Kate’s sister is not something you’d want to lie about. At least not unless you were denying it. But it’s easy enough to prove I’m who I say I am.” She walked to a bookshelf on the far side of the room and stretched to her tiptoes. She was a couple of inches short of reaching the top shelf.
“Let me help you.” He stepped behind her and retrieved the photo album she was reaching for. He blew a layer of dust off of it before handing it to her.
She tore into it, turning a few pages and then tapping her finger on a picture of two girls mounted on a painted carousel pony. The younger of the two was skinny with an abundance of reddish-brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. The image in the snapshot wasn’t nearly as fetching as the woman standing in front of him, but it was obvious they were one and the same.
The older girl in the picture was somewhere in her mid-teens. There was no mistaking her either. It was the same woman who had come calling at the Burning Pear a few nights ago.
She tapped her finger on the picture. “That’s us. Me and Kate. See. It says so right under the picture. Kate and Lacy at the county fair.”
She turned a couple more pages. “And this was us last year, taken at my apartment.” She ran her finger along the edges of the snapshot. “Me and Kate. See. We’re sisters. Satisfied?”
But the picture was of a threesome. “Who’s the guy?”
“Adam Pascal, my boyfriend at the time. I have extremely poor taste in men.” Lacy let the cover slip from her fingers, and the photo album slammed shut.
She looked up at him, concern etched into the fine lines around her eyes and pulled at the corners of her full lips. “I’m Lacy Gilbraith, just like I told you. Now, please, tell me what’s happened to Kate.”
Branson swallowed hard. He’d bet his best pair of boots the woman wasn’t telling the whole truth. But judging from the snapshots in the photo album, she was Kate’s sister. Now he wished he had better news to deliver.
“What makes you think anything happened to your sister?”
“She didn’t show for my wedding. She would have unless something was terribly wrong.”
“Why don’t you sit down,” he said, motioning to the only chair in the room not draped in articles of clothing.
“No. I’m fine. Just tell me about Kate.”
The tremor in her voice and her suddenly drooping shoulders assured him that his words and changed attitude had sucked the fight right out of her, that she sensed something was seriously wrong. In her new state, she looked incredibly fragile. For the first time in a long time, he felt the urge to open his arms to a woman.
Instead, he plunged ahead, explaining how Kate Gilbraith had crashed his mother’s birthday party at the Burning Pear with a most unexpected guest. Explaining that she’d been shot, and that she’d dropped to the floor and into a semicoma state that the doctors couldn’t penetrate even though her physical condition had improved significantly.
“I’d like to see my sister.”
“I can drive you to the hospital.”
She nodded, accepting his offer. “But not in this.” She held up the skirt of the bridal dress, looping one finger through the unsightly rip. “I can find something of Kate’s to wear, but you’ll have to help me get out of this dress. It is not a one-person operation.” She turned her back to him, her fingers already fiddling with the top button.
Branson’s throat grew scratchy dry. Undressing women was not in his job description. Not that he had anything against the task. He was a man, after all. But he doubted seriously his fingers would fit around anything as delicate and small as that row of pearl buttons that stared back at him.
Lacy’s fingers made quick work of the top few buttons. “I can’t reach much lower, so you’re going to have to help or we’ll be here all night.”
Branson nudged his Stetson back an inch or two to keep it from crashing into Lacy’s head. Bending, he forced his fingers to the task, fiddling endlessly with the first reluctant button. He leaned close, and the mind-numbing fragrance of Lacy’s perfume worked havoc on his senses, making the task at hand even more difficult.
Long minutes later, he was only three buttons down and dozens more to go. He struggled to steady his breath as his rough knuckles collided with the silky flesh of Lacy’s back. Damn. Here he was undressing another man’s bride, and his own libido was acting as though it had a honeymoon coming.
Button by button, inch by inch. The opening grew wider, revealing more flesh, finally dipping below her waist to the top lacy band of her panties. His fingers, and other parts of his body, grew stiff and his chest constricted painfully.
She wiggled and stretched her neck as far as she could, trying to see what was taking him so long. “I hope you’re better at apprehending criminals than you are at undoing buttons.”
“Just hold still. And suck in your breath so I have room to work.” His words came out a little gruffer than he’d intended, in an effort not to reveal the effect this undressing act was having on him.
“Yes sir, Sheriff.” She held her breath for a few seconds then let it out in a resounding whoosh. “So whose baby was this that Kate delivered to your house?”
“It wasn’t mine. I can guarantee you that.”
“Oooou. Touche´.” She wiggled a little more, tugging on the skirt and pulling it lower over her shapely hips. “But I wasn’t accusing. Actually, I meant, who was the mother of the baby?”
He stopped struggling with the contrary pearl dots. “Are you saying this baby wasn’t your sister’s?”
“Absolutely
