He picked up on the first ring

“Hello?” Even in that one word, a west Texas drawl, the quality of Justin’s voice echoed. It was the same resonant public speaking voice that had made Brandon’s grandfather stand out in the halls of Congress.

She swallowed, then started again. “May I speak to Brandon Smith, please?”

“This is Brandon.”

Markie closed her eyes. She was talking to her very own son again. Just like the first time, it was scary, but also strangely intoxicating. It took all her will to suppress tears as her mind flashed back to the pages of her journal where she had made those promises to him so long ago. Would she keep them now? Or would she injure her child? Would she hold him back?

Or let him go?

Dear Reader,

People often ask me where I get my story ideas. THE BABY DIARIES were first “conceived” when I was reminiscing with a friend about the birth of my middle daughter, who was born when my husband was a candidate in a statewide political race. It occurred to me then that babies seldom arrive when it is convenient.

THE BABY DIARIES are three stories of three sisters, each having a baby under most inconvenient circumstances, each falling in love under equally inconvenient circumstances.

For these stories I returned to my beloved Texas Hill Country. My brother and sister-in-law, her mother, Jean, and Jean’s longtime friend Helen were perfect traveling companions as we hit the trail in the minivan and explored the colorful towns and rural areas that eventually melded into the setting I have named Five Points.

One final note: authors are also often asked if their work is autobiographical. Yes and no. While my own impressions and experiences are always unconsciously woven into any story, this town and these characters are pure fiction. For example, unlike the conniving Marynell McBride, my own mother was honest to a fault and would never, ever have touched someone else’s diary!

As always, my best to you,

Darlene Graham

P.S. I love to hear from you! Drop me a line at

P.O. Box 720224, Norman, OK 73070 or visit

www.darlenegraham.com. While you’re there, take a peek at the next book in THE BABY DIARIES series, Lone Star Rising.

Born Under the Lone Star
Darlene Graham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This first book in my new Texas series is dedicated to

Rick and Jody, my precious brother and dear sister-in-law.

Despite six-shooters, snakes and donkeys that bite,

I will go back to the Hill Country with you two anytime!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

If you are reading this diary without my permission, stop right now. I mean it. I want you to put this diary down. Immediately. For your information, this means you, Mother.

I’m warning you, if you keep going you’ll find out things you don’t want to know.

Okay, I know you’re still reading, you snoopy old thing, so you asked for it. Don’t blame me if you have a horse heart attack.

I am pregnant.

There.

And Justin Kilgore is the father. How do you like that? Me and Justin. We’re in love. And don’t you dare try to interfere with that. Don’t you dare go and ruin the one beautiful thing—

“WHAT ARE YOU reading there, Sissy?”

Markie McBride jumped at the sound of her middle sister’s words, even though Robbie always spoke with the soothing lilt of a low violin. Not even the antics of her three little boys could make Robbie McBride Tellchick raise her voice.

“Nothing.” Markie closed the cover and tried to stuff the book back down in the dusty old cardboard box where she’d found it moments ago. It had been a physical shock to look down and see, wedged in between her yellowed first communion dress and her high school letter jacket, next to a flank of musty yearbooks, the faded mauve cover that was her Baby Diary, as she had come to call it many years ago. Eighteen years ago, to be exact. Her son would be eighteen by now. Correction. Her son was eighteen now—a bright, exceptional, eighteen-year-old young man. Only a few days ago, she had talked to him herself, in a phone conversation that had haunted her ever since.

As her hand struggled in the tangle of dry-cleaner bags encasing the cloth items in the box, she realized, not for the first time, that her mother was a totally conflicted human being.

Hot and cold. Love and hate. That was Marynell McBride. Mostly cold and mostly hate, Markie decided sadly, as her mind absorbed this latest in a long line of betrayals. Where was the photograph? Markie couldn’t risk looking for it now.

The box had been tightly packed and the diary refused to fit back into its appointed slot. Markie pushed harder. So weird. So, so weird that she’d stumbled on the thing now, when she’d been compelled to return to Five Points to attend her brother-in-law’s funeral. Now, at the very time that her son, Justin’s son, was actually preparing to come here, as well. It was almost like some kind of…eerie convergence. Like fate or something.

“It looked,” Robbie said as she leaned back with a grin and planted a palm on the saggy mattress of the twin bed where she’d been sorting old photographs, “like one of our old diaries.” She craned her neck in Markie’s direction. “Whose is it? Yours? Frankie’s?”

With their father’s encouragement, the three sisters had each faithfully kept journals in their teens.

“It’s in your blood,” P. J. McBride had explained quietly one Christmas as he passed each girl a ribbon-bound stack of blank journals, “like your pioneer grandmother and her mother before her.” Daddy had kept those old leather-bound journals, hardly legible now, but precious as ancient Egyptian scrolls to P.J.

The girls had decorated their plain cloth-bound versions so each could immediately recognize her own elaborate designs. Ever-sensible Robbie had likely disposed of her own foolish ramblings long ago.

Markie had gotten rid of her journals, too. All but this one. She could never bring herself to part with the record of her seventeenth year. The Baby Diary.

The last time she’d moved, the diary hadn’t shown up at her new town house with the rest of her stuff. Its disappearance had distressed her terribly. And, even more distressing was the loss of the photo. Her one picture. That broke her heart more than anything. She’d grieved, alone and in secret, over that loss especially. She should have had copies made instead of sticking it inside the diary cover. Where, she had fretted during many lonely evenings of unpacking, could her precious diary have disappeared to?

Now she knew.

She stared at the back of Marynell McBride’s graying head as her mother’s skinny arm furiously scrubbed at the panes of one of the high dormer windows as if it were the Queen Mother who was coming to stay instead of Marynell’s own three rambunctious grandsons.

She took my diary, Markie thought with a familiar sickness of heart. For heaven’s sake, Mother, what were you going to do? Blackmail me?

“Fess up.” Again, Robbie’s voice made Markie jump. “Whose is it?” Robbie was smiling pleasantly.

“Nobody’s. I mean, it’s nothing. Really.” Markie knew she sounded guilty, probably looked it, too.

Markie could see Marynell’s thin back stiffen high up on the ladder. The woman slowly turned her head and squinted down at her youngest daughter with an expression that was equal parts hostility and suspicion. “Margaret,” she demanded, “where did you get that box?”

Funny. Marynell never called Frankie “Frances,” or Robbie “Roberta.” And although Marynell had coined her daughter’s tomboy nicknames, she reserved the use of Markie’s full name for the times she was working herself into a slow-burning rage at her daughter.

“From under the bed.” Markie fixed challenging eyes on her mother’s face, willing her, daring her, to press the issue, especially here in front of Robbie, especially now.

Robbie, sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere, frowned. As she stood and crossed the room, the taut silence seemed amplified by the scuffing of her house slippers and the measured ticking of their father’s antique mantel clock.

Markie turned her eyes from her mother’s scowl to her sister’s pallid face. Robbie didn’t look like herself these days. Instead of the family’s slender Irish rose, she looked like a puffy, used-up, freckled hag. Her long ginger-colored hair, usually bound in a neat French braid, was shoved behind her ears, limp and unbrushed. At ten o’clock in the morning, she wasn’t dressed, unthinkable for a farm wife. Her frayed pink terry-cloth robe accentuated her pale complexion and the girth of her expanding middle. As she waddled across the bare floorboards of the long attic room, Markie thought how Robbie even moved like an old woman now. So unlike the energetic sprite that had kept pace with a robust husband and three growing boys on their huge farm. But Robbie was doing a lot of uncharacteristic things lately—understandable under the circumstances—like now, for example, poking her nose in where it didn’t belong.

“It is one of the diaries.” Robbie’s teasing smile returned as she advanced, having no idea what she was about to do. “Nothing else could make you blush like that.” Her hand snaked out to grab at Markie’s, still submerged in the box, now sweating on the cloth covering that encased the most damaging secret of her life.

When Robbie’s hand tugged on her wrist, Markie pushed her sister away. “Stop it!” she snapped. “I said it’s nothing!”

“Ah, now,” Robbie wheedled, “we could use a little entertainment. Couldn’t we, Mother?”

“That box wasn’t supposed to go in this room.” Marynell acted as if Robbie hadn’t even spoken. Her brow was creased and her voice grew vehement as she started to descend the ladder. “I told P.J. to put it across the hall with my things. I swear, that man never does anything right.”

The McBride farmhouse had a high converted attic, cleaved in two by a dark hallway illuminated by a single bare bulb at one end and a tiny window at the other. Right now, at midmorning, a thin shaft of light poured down the steep-pitched stairs that led to the kitchen. On either side of the hall, two enormous rooms stretched the length of the Victorian-era frame structure, with dormers poking out along the front and back planes of the roof.

Those two rooms had been rigidly appointed when the sisters were growing up. Their bedroom was at the front of the house, arranged like a dormitory with three twin beds evenly spaced between the two dormers and three scratched and dented dressers standing at attention on the opposite wall. The mantel clock on top of the center dresser had been the only decoration allowed during their childhoods. The long room on the other side of the hall was the playroom, later the study. Three identical desks, three plain bookshelves, three metal footlockers. No rugs. No curtains. No pictures. Marynell was nothing if not tidy. She despised clutter, her husband P.J.’s most especially.

Both attic rooms had grown fallow and musty since the girls had grown and gone. The one they were cleaning now had devolved into a repository for P.J.’s projects and memorabilia. Tucked in among the three beds were boxes of old photos and papers, childhood keepsakes from his daughters, magazines, sheet music, hunting and fishing equipment, anything that “offended” Marynell’s aseptic sense of order.

The other room, dedicated to Marynell’s sewing and paperwork, remained as bleak and sterile as an operating room. Marynell liked it that way—their belongings strictly divided.

Today the three women had been mucking out this room so Robbie’s three boys could stay here until she could get her life sorted out. The move back to the McBride farm had been Marynell’s idea. She adored her grandsons—the sons she never had.

Marynell was scrambling down the ladder faster than a spider backing down its web. “I’ll take that box across the hall myself.”

“I’d like to look through it first,” Markie said evenly while she kept one hand on the cardboard edge and the other inside…on the diary.

“Those are my things,” Marynell protested.

“Not exactly, Mother. This is my letter jacket, these are my yearbooks, and this is my diary.” Markie flipped her hand.

“Ha! So it is one of yours.” Robbie succeeded in snatching it from Markie’s grip. “Full of dreadful teenage secrets, I bet.” In fact, except for the one hidden in these pages, Markie couldn’t think of a single secret between the sisters. Her heart hammered and her stomach sank as her sister started flipping pages.

“Anything about me and Danny in here?” Robbie flopped on the nearest bed as she skimmed page after page of Markie’s teenage scrawl. In recent days Robbie’s whole world had come down to this obsessive quest—the desire for one more word, one more photograph, one more memory of Danny.

Robbie’s face lit with an expectant smile as she scanned the early pages, the first genuine smile Markie had seen in days. For the moment, her beleaguered sister looked vaguely like a teenager in love, instead of a devastated widow. “Here we go.” She read aloud with obvious delight, “Ohmigosh!!!! Robbie and Danny are getting married. With four exclamation points—isn’t that cute?”

Markie’s heart contracted. This diary contained precious few entries about Robbie’s youthful romance with Danny. In only a few pages Robbie would see the secret Markie was in no mood to reveal, certainly not now.

“There’s nothing else. Now, give it back to me.” Markie grabbed at her sister’s arm, but Robbie swung away saucily as Marynell inserted her tall frame between the girls.

Markie’s mother’s thin face had turned as gray as the cleaning rag compressed in her bony fingers. “This is my house,” she said to Markie quietly, ominously, “and you have no right to go through my things.”

“Your things?” Markie spun to face her mother squarely.

In these last few days since she’d returned to the farm, she had finally given up hope of even the pretense of a decent relationship with Marynell, even for Robbie’s sake. Truth be told, Markie had given up that hope a long time ago. Truth be told, she was never going to please her mother no matter what she did. And truth be told, if it weren’t for her father and Robbie, she would never have set foot in this house again, not after… It was certainly too late now. Recently, fate—kindly or not, Markie couldn’t decide—had engineered it so that she now knew exactly how much her long-ago decision had cost. It had cost her the beautiful young man who was her son, or rather, the son of a very fortunate family in Dallas.

“I will not be disrespected this way.” Marynell’s crepe-paper cheeks grew mottled, but for once her mother’s distress inspired no mercy in her youngest daughter. “This is my home and I… I…” Marynell stammered before her lips clamped shut and her chin went up, her old defiant gesture.

“Oh, there has never been any question about that.” Markie couldn’t help her sarcasm. “That’s why it’s okay for us to go through Daddy’s stuff like a wrecking crew, but your precious things must not be touched. But that happens to be my diary.” She pointed at the volume still in Robbie’s hands. “And you took it, didn’t you, Mother?” The accusation made tears spring to her eyes. “Back when you and Daddy were helping me move from Dallas to Austin.” Markie had moved a few times early in her career, but since the move to Austin a few years ago she felt settled at last. High time. She was thirty-five.

“I did it for your own good.” Marynell’s compressed lips were turning white.

Robbie’s head came up. The sappy smile was gone, replaced by a worried frown. “Hey, you two,” she chided in her musical voice. “What’s this all about?”

“Your sister’s husband,” Marynell hissed, “has just been killed in a tragic accident.” She emphasized each word as if Markie had somehow forgotten why they were all assembled here. “And she does not need any of your foolish drama.”

“This isn’t about me, mother. It’s about you, stealing my diary. And not just any diary. This diary.” Markie jabbed a finger at it.

“What in the world is going on here?” Robbie looked puzzled…and deeply disturbed.

“I was trying to protect you.” Marynell ignored Robbie’s question. “You were a very foolish teenage girl who had no idea what you were writing in those pages. You still have no idea.”

“Well, you certainly shouldn’t have had any idea what I was writing in those pages!” Markie was practically shouting now.

“Hey, now, Miss Marker.” Robbie’s use of Markie’s old childhood nickname did not mollify her. After years of heartache she was determined to have it out with the old biddy, right here. Right now.

“Nothing is sacred with you, is it, Mother?”

“Sis.” Robbie touched Markie’s sleeve. “Stop it. It’s just an old diary. Here.” She held out the volume.

Robbie, the peacemaker, Markie thought. Robbie, Marynell’s whipped little pet.

Marynell’s eyes flitted to the diary, then to the pained expression on her bereaved middle daughter’s face. Glaring back into Markie’s eyes, she said, “You can take the thing and publish it in the Dallas Morning News for all I care. Whatever happens now, it’s not on my head.” She turned on her heel and stomped from the room.

“What on earth was that all about?” Robbie said after they heard the stairway door slam.

“That diary.” Markie was unable to keep the creeping sorrow and resignation out of her voice, out of her heart. She sighed. “Or rather, what’s in it. Read. You’ll see.”

“I’m not sure I want to now. Here.” Robbie flapped the volume at Markie. “Take it.”

Markie pushed the diary back. “No. I’m sick of secrets. Go on. Read it. I want you to. Honest.” Even though she meant what she said, she couldn’t help crossing her arms protectively around her middle.

To hide her pain, she turned to look out the dormer window. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her sister hesitating, then unsteadily lowering herself to perch on the edge of the bed.

Just beyond the bare yard Markie could see the windmill, like a huge leaden sunflower, fanning above the leafy tops of twin live oaks. The holding tank to the side was the same dull silver color, the color of all things utilitarian on the farm. In the foreground a rickety post-and-barbed-wire fence demarcated her father’s garden, already bursting with spring foliage. An overalls-and-Stetson bedecked scarecrow, twice the size of a real man, stood over the rows with a toy gun lashed to one stuffed glove and a lurid smile painted on his pale muslin face. Markie smiled. One year her father had actually won first prize in the scarecrow festival over at Cedarville.

Beyond lay the acres and acres of gently rolling land that marked the southern reaches of the Texas Hill Country. Will I ever get away from this beautiful, godforsaken place? Markie was beginning to doubt whether she should stay on here to help her widowed sister. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass, as if her very countenance, her very identity, arose from this land, would always be imprinted here.

Markie’s love-hate relationship with the Hill Country had plagued her even after she’d made a disciplined effort to focus on a new life, a good life. Even her years as a mover and shaker among the power suits in the glass-walled urban canyons of Dallas had not eradicated the strange spell of the Texas Hill Country. Rocky gorges. Remote waterfalls. Wild rivers. Dusty rodeos. Savory barbecues. Old-time German Christmases. The memories, good and bad, always vivid, came back to her too easily as she looked out over the landscape where she had grown up. The Texas Hill Country was not the kind of place one could just leave.

Sometimes it felt as if she was two people. The hearty little girl who grew up running around this rustic landscape regulated by the seasonal rhythms of farming, and the sleek, sophisticated young woman who thrived in a bustling cosmopolitan culture, rushing headlong into the future. Two distinct parts, cleaved by the one event certain to change girl to woman—the birth of a child.

For some moments Robbie had been flipping pages, reading with the diary held close to her face as had been her girlhood habit. Markie noted the exact moment when she stopped. The clock ticked three times before Robbie lowered the open book to her lap, her finger touching one spot on the page, like a devotee lining a particular passage of the Bible in church.

Markie bit her lip as, with head bent, still as a penitent, her sister stared at the open page.

Robbie lifted sad eyes up to look at her sister and asked, “Am I reading this right?”

Markie didn’t answer. She turned back to the view. So peaceful. So beautiful. As if nothing had ever gone wrong in this place. But everything had.

“Markie?” Robbie’s troubled voice insisted from behind. “You…you had a baby?”

Markie stood stock still, closing her eyes, imagining again the scene of Danny’s death. What a horrible way to see one’s husband die. And what a horrible time to find out that your little sister is not even remotely who you thought she was. “Yes,” she said without looking back at Robbie. “When I was seventeen.”

“I… I don’t believe it.” Robbie flared a palm over her swollen bosom, where a perennial gold cross winked on a short chain. A gift from Danny, no doubt. Her sister, always the good girl to the core, would never understand what Markie had gone through, no matter how many diaries explained the pain.

Markie turned upon her sister with that uncompromising steady gaze that had vaulted her to her success in the political arena. “Well, you’ve got to believe it. Because it’s true.”

CHAPTER TWO

The maternity home is not such a bad place. It’s kind of pretty from the street, actually. Quaint. A brick three-story with a big porch and tall white columns. Somebody said it’s an old converted sorority house. Isn’t that weird? It’s a sisterhood of losers now. Girls like me who listened to some guy’s sweet talk until he broke her heart.

The home—and I use that word in the worst sense, sort of like the warehouses where they stick old people—is tucked away at the end of a long, shady street a few blocks from the University of Texas campus. There’s nothing that indicates what’s really going on inside—just a little brass plaque beside the door that reads Edith Phillips Center. For Wayward Girls, I added in my head as I walked through the door.

Frankie insisted on lugging my bags upstairs, acting like she wasn’t in a hurry, but I could tell she was. I could tell she wanted to beat the rush-hour traffic around the capitol. And, of course, the almighty Dr. Kyle mustn’t miss his dinner.

A girl who actually looked more pregnant than me showed us to a tiny office where I met my caseworker, May, who is kind of cool. May looks as if she’s stuck back in the sixties, wearing a loud afghan and a shiny Afro. Really. She even made Frankie laugh. Then we met some of the other girls, who were in the kitchen cooking dinner together like one big happy family.

My room’s on the second floor. Frankie spread the twin comforter set she bought for me across the bed and set up some pictures in pretty frames on the dresser as if she was moving me into a real sorority house or something.

“Call me when it happens and I’ll come right away,” she told me as she gave me one last hug. “And remember, we love you.”

We who? Her and Kyle? I am well aware that Kyle thinks I’m a juvenile delinquent, a stupid little slut, and I’m sure he’s glad I opted to enter this free adoption program. I had to come here now so mom and dad would think I was off at the camp. Kyle doesn’t mind pretending that he and Frankie are helping me foot the bill for that.

It’s not bad here. Really. The backyard is pretty and secluded, with places for me to sit in the shade and write in my diary. Somebody put a little bowl of fruit on my dresser before I arrived. I’m supposed to keep up my studies here, but I don’t know if I’ll have the heart. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to be here at all.

But here I am. Waiting to give my baby to strangers.

ROBBIE, THE ONLY REDHEAD in the family and the most emotional of the McBride sisters by half, even when she was not pregnant, pressed a palm over the open pages of the diary as her face flushed and the tip of her nose gorged red from suppressing tears.

“Oh, Sissy, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She shook her head and gripped the diary. “I had no idea. I thought this was just going to be a bunch of kid’s stuff.”

“Of course you did.” Markie was determined to let her sister off the hook gently for this trespass. “That’s what a teenager’s diary should be, shouldn’t it? Innocent kid’s stuff. Like yours, I suppose.”

Robbie stared past Markie’s shoulder, at the sky beyond the window. “My diaries were mostly about Danny. From the eighth grade on I expect my whole life was about Danny. But you’re right.” Her eyes snapped back to Markie’s. “It was all innocent. School and proms and stuff. I just assumed yours would be the same.”

“How far did you read?” Markie took two strides and lifted the diary from Robbie’s hands. She angled her wrist so she could scan the page where her sister had been reading. The words Edith Phillips Center jumped off the page. “Oh, you got to the part where I moved to the Home.”

Robbie nodded. “So I assume you…you gave up the baby for adoption?”

“Yes.” Markie frowned at the loopy teenage handwriting that described the most painful months of her life. “I’m really sorry you had to find out this way.”

Robbie swallowed. “Don’t apologize. Do you know what…what happened to it? To him—her?”

“Him.” To keep from going into total meltdown, Markie frowned at her reflection in the window. “He was a little boy. He’s with a good family in Dallas.” Again, to keep herself composed, Markie stated the facts simply, though living through it had been far from simple. It would never, ever be simple. The fact that she hadn’t shared that experience with the sister she claimed to love so much seemed to only compound her loss.

“How in the world could I have missed this?” Robbie had the same look on her face that Markie recognized on her own. Self-condemnation.

The pattern of the McBride sisters from childhood on had been to shoulder the blame in any situation. A by-product of growing up under their mother’s unrelenting domination, Markie knew. All of them had chosen different ways of coping with Marynell. Frankie fled. Markie rebelled. But poor Robbie had stayed on in Five Points, trying to appease a woman who could never be pleased. She had ended up feeling responsible for everybody else’s happiness. And now even the buffer of happy-go-lucky Danny was lost to her. The last thing Robbie needed was more guilt.

“It’s not your fault. I intentionally kept it from you.” Markie took two more steps and sat down on the twin bed next to her sister, grasping her hands.

“And it wasn’t the end of the world. I survived. I know I did the right thing. I know he’s happy and well.” And brilliant and handsome and brimming with charisma and a natural-born leader like his father. But Markie couldn’t add those things. Be cause how would she explain how she had come to know all of that? There was too much risk…for Brandon.

“Don’t try to make me feel better. You were only seventeen. I could have helped you and your baby.” Robbie withdrew one hand, draping it protectively over her abdomen as if shielding the child growing there from the sad knowledge that he or she had an unknown cousin somewhere, far away from them all, far away from Five Points.

“You had just married Danny that Christmas. And then you guys got the opportunity to buy the farm and you and Mother and Daddy ended up working so hard to get it in shape by the following spring.”

“So, you were pregnant when I got married in December and then you had the baby that spring?”

“That summer.”

“But how—”

“Remember when I had that bad case of mono and dropped out of school and Frankie told mother she would tutor me and take care of me in Austin?”

Robbie nodded.

“Then that summer when I was supposed to be at that Christian leadership camp for a month? Well, I didn’t ever have mono and it wasn’t a leadership camp.”

Troubled emotions flitted across Robbie’s face as she struggled to add it all up. “I remember when Frankie moved you down to her apartment. That was right before she married Kyle.”

“Yes. She finished nursing school that May,” Markie supplied.

“Right.” Robbie nodded.

“She and Kyle got married—”

“At the courthouse. You know, I think she always resented the fact that Mother and Daddy threw a huge hometown wedding for me and Danny.”

“It was Kyle’s idea to skip the wedding. They were in a big hurry to settle in and set up their first apartment in time for him to start his residency. Then I popped into the picture. It was no picnic, living with young marrieds as a pregnant teenager. Kyle wasn’t all that great about it. Poor Frankie. She was trying to help her baby sister and at the same time trying to please a very demanding young husband.”

“And now he’s a demanding old husband,” Robbie pronounced. Kyle, barely past forty, wasn’t exactly old. But Markie knew that Robbie and Danny had never cared for their uppity, sneering brother-in-law.

“Yeah. I was glad he was off on his residency rotations most of the time.”

“I can’t believe she married the guy, even if he is handsome as all get out. Was that it, Markie?” Robbie turned on her younger sister, eyes radiating sympathy. “Your big sisters were falling in love and getting married so you got in a big hurry to do the same? You always were trying to keep up with us like that.”

“No, that wasn’t it!” Markie couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Look,” she continued more gently, “I was genuinely in love with the father of the baby. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving him.”

“Who was it?” Robbie asked softly. “If you don’t mind my asking. I mean, I don’t remem—” Robbie stopped as if a truck had slammed into her. “Oh, my gosh. It was that congressman’s son! What was his name?”

“Justin Kilgore. It’s all in there.” Which was foolish, she supposed, having the whole thing written down like that. But even with all the pain recorded in its pages, some compulsion had kept Markie from being able to part with the diary.

“Justin Kilgore.” Robbie’s soft voice was full of awe. “I don’t believe it. Justin and his father used to come into the Hungry Aggie back when I was waiting tables. I always kind of liked him. I remember how he’d always ask about you, how he always found a way to work your name into even the briefest conversation. And then when you guys started seeing each other…oh, my.” Robbie’s shoulders sank and her soft voice grew hushed. “It was partly my fault, wasn’t it? I mean, I helped you go sneaking around with an older guy.”

“Robbie. It wasn’t your fault. I was a big girl. I made my own choices.”

“I guess. But I should have told Mother what was going on. But you seemed so…so happy with him. I thought he was kind of right for you. He was so handsome, Markie. And so smart. So very nice. What a terrible ordeal.” Robbie lowered her head.

Markie lowered her head, too. As she did, she brought the diary to her lips, fighting tears. “Yes,” she whispered with her lips pressed against the dry, musty fabric, “it was.”

“Oh, my poor baby!” Robbie wrapped her arms around her sister’s shoulders. “I can’t imagine how painful it was for you.”

Markie struggled not to let herself feel it—all the emotion she had kept bottled up for eighteen long, lonely years. “It’s nothing compared to what you’re going through now.”

Robbie turned her head into Markie’s shoulder.

Markie clasped her sister’s forearm, holding on tight, afraid that what she had kept so carefully sealed away would crush them both if she let it out now.

But when Robbie started to cry, Markie knew there was no hope of holding her own tears in.

For a moment the two wept and clung in a sisterly hug.

Finally Robbie held her sister away at arm’s length. “You had a baby with Justin Kilgore.” She looked into Markie’s brimming eyes and pronounced each word slowly, as if trying to cement the fact in both their minds.

Markie swiped at her eyes and looked down at the worn floorboards. How she had hated this barren room as a young girl, especially after the warmth of her sisters was gone from it. “Yes. I just hate it that you found out this way, now of all times.”

But Robbie, who could be incredibly strong as well as kind, shook her head. She wiped at her eyes with the sash of her robe and suddenly she looked more like her old self than she had in days. “I hate it that you suffered with it alone all this time. I can’t imagine. Being so young and having a baby off in Austin, with a congressman’s son, no less.”

Another silence stretched before Markie said, “I wouldn’t say it was with him.” She glanced at Robbie to see if she comprehended.

But Robbie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He never knew.”

“You mean he never knew that…” Robbie hesitated, and Markie imagined her sister was still struggling with the fact that she had a living, breathing nephew somewhere in Dallas. “That you gave the baby away?”

“No. He never even knew I was pregnant.”

“Mar-kie.” Robbie stared at her. “He never even knew—I don’t understand.” Robbie tilted her head, looking disturbed now, as well as perplexed. “I mean, I can see how you kept this from me, maybe, but how could you keep such a thing from the baby’s father?”

“He… I didn’t think he wanted to know. I was young. I was convinced. People—the congressman and Mother—convinced me that it would ruin Justin’s future if he knew, that there was no point in telling him if I wasn’t going to keep the baby, anyway.” Markie’s voice trailed off as she realized how weak and sorry her excuses sounded now, coming from a competent woman of thirty-five. But back then, she had been one very scared teenager. And back then, she had felt so angry, so betrayed.

“Besides…” Markie had trouble admitting this next part even to herself, much less to her sister. “He was already engaged.”

“Engaged?” This time when Robbie stared, her jaw dropped, as well. “The guy was engaged and he…he…when you were just a teenager?”

“He was only twenty-one himself.”

“Stop defending him! Apparently all that Mr. Nice Guy stuff was nothing but an act. He was busy getting you pregnant while he was engaged to another girl, Markie.”

“It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t about the sex.”

“Oh, please. Let’s call a spade a spade, okay? The guy was a creep. I mean, when did he decide to tell you about his fiancé? Right before he dumped you and went back east?”

Markie bit her lip to gain control. Robbie could be so small town, so black and white in her thinking. She of all people would never understand what had happened between the young couple. “He never did tell me, exactly. Mother found out about the engagement from his father and she was the one who told me.”

Robbie shook her head sadly. “Mother.”

Markie nodded. “Yeah.” Nothing more needed to be said on that score. “She took over my life after she found out about me and Justin and the fact that I was pregnant. She read all about it. In here.” Markie stroked the dairy in a gesture that was resigned, gentle.

Robbie’s jaw dropped in genuine shock. “That’s how she found out? By snooping around in your diary?”

Markie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The whole thing happened so fast. She would have discovered the truth sooner or later, anyway.”

“Oh, man. I imagine she had a cow. And there you were, all alone in this house with her.”

“I had Daddy.”

“I meant alone without us, without your sisters. Was she just awful about it?”

“You really want to know?”

Robbie swallowed, nodded. They’d tried, over the years, to share the pain their mother had inflicted, to dilute it by spreading it out before them in the light of day. But they all knew it was Markie who had suffered the most at their mother’s hand, though it was Robbie who could never seem to break free from her.

“One time I dashed outside because I had to puke. It was weird how my morning sickness never hit in the morning like it was supposed to. It hit like clockwork every day after school. I never wanted to eat dinner, but she insisted that I sit down at the table. I could feel her watching every bite. I’ll never forget it. I jumped off the porch and ran around the side of the house. The sun was going down. She came up behind me while I was retching and yanked me back by the hair.”

“Oh, Sissy.” Robbie sweet brow furrowed with sympathy. Looking at the dark circles that had appeared under her sister’s eyes since the funeral made Markie want to soften the story.

“She just fumed a lot at first. But after she talked to the congressman, she suddenly wanted me to have an abortion.”

Robbie gasped and covered her mouth.

“I’m sorry. I know that word must be hard for you to hear, especially in your condition, especially with everything else you’re going through.”

“Markie, will you stop apologizing!” Robbie turned to wrap thin fingers around her sister’s forearm. “I care about you.” She gave the arm a hearty shake. “You should have told me about this. About all of it. I don’t care if I was planning a wedding. I don’t care if we were buying that damned farm. I’m your sister and I would have helped you. What did Daddy say? Surely he didn’t want you to have an ab…to…” Robbie stumbled over the words. “To get rid of your baby.”

“He didn’t know.”

“What? I can’t believe it! I can’t believe you had a baby and kept it a secret from Daddy, from all of us, for all these years.”

“You might as well hear the whole story. Maybe you’ll understand it better then.”

They arranged themselves more comfortably in the swale of the old mattress. Around them, the boxes they had been emptying were completely forgotten.

“At first I agreed to do whatever mother wanted. She was under a lot of pressure from Congressman Kilgore. He was facing a very close election and some other troubles that I’ve now had an opportunity to research.”

Robbie frowned. “What kind of troubles?”

“A grand jury was about to indict him in a campaign-financing probe.”

Robbie nodded. “Oh, I see.”

Markie figured Robbie probably didn’t see. At the mention of anything concerning politics, her sister’s eyes had always glazed over, so she simply went on.

“Anyway, he was in no mood for this mess.” She tapped the diary. “And he didn’t want his brilliant son’s life interrupted, either. Frankie was supposed to find the doctor to perform the…you know, the procedure, in Austin. She found a good doctor, a place where I would be safe. The plan was to get it done right after your wedding. But when the time came I just… I couldn’t. I knew…”

Markie bit her lip to hold back the emotion, then forced herself to go on. “I just knew any baby of Justin’s was bound to be beautiful, exceptional, and he became…the baby became so…so real to me.” She clutched the diary, remembering the things she’d written in those pages in the early stages of her pregnancy. “So Frankie and I made up the mononucleosis dodge and then she and Kyle found the Edith Phillips adoption center in Austin.”

“But how did you keep Mother from finding out that you changed your mind? How did you hide something like that?” Again, Robbie’s hand slid to her bulging tummy. She was only five months along and her pregnancy—her fourth—was already obvious.

Markie’s older sisters had always been utterly feminine, curvy and pretty, but for Markie it had been different. She had never considered herself all that beautiful, at least not until Justin had made her feel that way. Naturally tall and athletic, with angular shoulders and long legs, she had managed to conceal her pregnancy behind the camouflage of sloppy sweatpants and oversize letter jackets. Her plain brown ponytail, thick glasses and pale, unadorned complexion made it easy enough not to attract male attention in a high school filled with perky little blondes in skimpy pom-pom outfits.

“I think Mother made some kind of deal with the congressman. Supposedly she got money for my college education. I never saw much of it, I’ll tell you that.” Markie tried not to be bitter.

Her current life, the life of a successful political consultant with tons of friends, was enormously satisfying. But when she came back to Five Points the memories always surfaced afresh, and it was hard to look at her life objectively.

“How could Mother keep something like that from Daddy?”

“You have to ask? How does Mother do anything she’s determined to do? Listen—” suddenly Markie’s tone was urgent “—don’t stay here with her.”

“What?”

“Don’t move in with mother. She’ll only make your life miserable, bossing you around, manipulating your feelings. And you don’t need that now, not when you’re so vulnerable.”

“But… I can’t stay way out there on that big farm by myself. I’ll need someone to help me when the baby comes.”

“I’ll move out to the farm with you. I do most of my work on the phone and on the Internet this time of the year, anyway. And Five Points will be the locus of Doug Curry’s campaign. It’s in the center of his district.”

“Oh, man, I just realized something. Curry’s running against Congressman Kilgore. Are you sure you’re not working for this guy out of some kind of old spite? I mean, to get even or something? And isn’t it going to be hard for you to face the congressman, after all that’s happened?”

“Now, hold on just a minute.” Markie aimed a finger at her sister’s nose, then quickly squelched the gesture. She wanted to be gentle with Robbie, she really did, considering what Robbie had only recently endured, considering what lay ahead. It wasn’t Robbie’s fault Markie had made a mess of her life so long ago.

“For one thing, Congressman Kilgore doesn’t know what I really did about the baby. Nobody does, except for Frankie and Kyle, and I doubt Mr. Big Shot Surgeon has ever given it a second thought.” She ducked her head to meet her sister’s eyes. “And now that you know the truth, I can trust you to keep it to yourself, right?”

“Of course,” Robbie murmured. “Who on earth would I tell?”

What was left unsaid was that the one person in all the world Robbie might tell was recently dead. Markie could see that’s what her sister was thinking. She looked haunted, pained, the way she had looked almost constantly for these past few days.

And watching that expression overtake Robbie’s face again gave Markie a sick wave of guilt. She looked away. Here was her sister, coping with the loss of a husband, with the possible loss of her farm, and she’s berating the girl about keeping her own deep dark secret. Robbie, of course, couldn’t possibly understand the stakes, couldn’t possible know what Markie had discovered only a few days ago.

Brandon Smith. For one instant Markie relived the shock of seeing his picture among the applications, the shock of hearing his voice—so like his father’s—on the phone. Every campaign season she chose a protégé, a young go-getter to work alongside her in a congressional or senate race and learn the ropes. Every season, the competition for the internship got stronger. Applications poured in to McBride Consulting from all over Texas.

Markie patted Robbie’s hand. “Of course you won’t tell anyone. But please don’t go thinking I’ve got some kind of ax to grind with the congressman. I didn’t seek out his opponent or anything like that. Curry’s campaign contacted me. Because I’m the best, remember?” She nudged her sister and got a faint smile.

“And I firmly agree with Doug Curry’s positions on the issues. He’s going to do a great job in Washington. Old man Kilgore thinks he’s got this race all sewn up. He’ll make a few scattered appearances around the Hill Country and maybe he’ll even show his face once or twice in Five Points. In the mean time, we’ll be slowly and surely kicking his ass.”

At least Markie hoped that’s the way this summer would go. Not only for Doug Curry’s sake, but for her own. And for Brandon’s? She bit her lip as she pressed the diary to her middle, wishing she could see her son. Would that be worth the price? No. She already knew she would do what she had to do. The safe thing. Always protecting herself. She’d done it so long she didn’t know how to stop.

“So what do you say?” She affected an upbeat attitude, nudging Robbie again. “I can make Five Points Curry’s campaign base if I want to. Like I said, it’s smack in the middle of the district. I can stay with you out on the farm. Help with the bills and groceries and stuff. That way you can stay in your own home and keep the boys away from…” She rolled her eyes in the direction of the stairs at the end of the hallway. “You Know Who. And by the time this little darling arrives—” she gave her sister’s pregnant abdomen a soft pat, as if everything would be hunky-dory when that blessed event happened “—the election will be over and I can concentrate on taking care of you and the baby.”

“I don’t know,” Robbie frowned. “That’s a lot to ask of you. Maybe I should just stick to the plan and move in here.”

“What else has your spinster sister got to do?” Markie tried to kid her, then grew serious again. “Mother would suck the heart and soul out of you within a week and you know it.”

The sisters fell silent. Both of them knew the situation to be just so. Their mother was the most controlling woman in all of Five Points, in all of Keaton County, possibly in all of the state of Texas.

And somewhere below them inside the quiet walls of this picturesque Victorian-era farmhouse, the most controlling woman in all of Texas was seething, waiting. Waiting to pounce on her daughter Markie for daring to rebel yet again. Waiting to reexert control over the one thing she had always controlled more easily than any other—her daughter Robbie.

CHAPTER THREE

I promise you one thing, my little one, I will do everything in my power to see that your life is safe and happy. Even if that means giving you up—no. I don’t want to think about that right now. Not yet. I want to think happy thoughts because if I don’t, I’ll cry.

And if Mother catches me crying again, she’ll get suspicious for sure. Not that she isn’t already. When she reads what I just wrote on these pages, all hell will break loose.

(And you are reading this, aren’t you, Mother???)

P.S. I don’t care what you do. There’s nothing you can do to me anymore. I have my baby to think about now.

Back to you, sweet baby. You know how much I love you, my sweet, sweet baby. Hey! Was that you? Did you just give me a little tiny kick? Awesome! Truly, truly awesome!!!

Man. I can’t wait to see you!

You will be a beautiful baby, I bet. How could Justin be the father of any other kind? You will have his perfect, wavy dark hair. His dark brown eyes. Maybe even tiny baby muscles that are shaped like his gorgeous big ones.

I guess I can’t think about your daddy, either, sweet baby. Because that makes me want to cry, too.

Oh, Diary! Why did he leave me? Wasn’t I good enough for him? Didn’t he understand how much I love him? I gotta go now. Because now I am starting to cry again.

JUSTIN KILGORE ROLLED INTO Five Points on one of the five highways that radiated out in a star pattern from the town, the one that angled up from the southwest. As he looked around at the familiar buildings, he thought, For ill or good, I’m committed now. For ill or good, he had come back here, back to the ranch land of his Kilgore forebears, back to the home of his first love, his only love, Markie McBride.

Memories of her started to flow through him as soon as he’d caught sight of a windmill on the highway. Some sweet, some disturbing.

Like the sound of her mother’s voice when she answered the phone the first time he called their farmhouse.

“It’s some boy,” he’d overheard the woman say in a hateful tone. It was the first indicator he had that Markie’s childhood had been far from gentle.

He’d heard Markie say it was probably something to do with the campaign. When she’d picked up the phone, she’d offered a careful “Yes?” and Justin got the impression the mother was listening. He could hear dishes clanking in the background.

Man! Markie’s voice on the phone! Clear and sweet and sending tightening sensations through his core. Right then, he’d suspected he was falling in love with her.

He’d asked her if he could come out to the farm and pick her up and take her into town for a Coke. Later she’d told him her parents would chain her to the bed before they’d let her date a college guy. And they’d make her stop volunteering in campaigns if they knew she was meeting older guys doing it. She told him that wasn’t the reason she volunteered—to meet cute guys—but it sure didn’t hurt! Then she’d gone on to say the boys that do stuff like that are head and shoulders above the stupid jocks at Five Points High, but she never dreamed one would actually call her. How unsophisticated she’d been back then. How innocent.

He’d watched her that first night when they were stuffing envelopes, being so nice to the old ladies in tennis shoes. He got up and moved his stack of fliers and envelopes to her card table. The old ladies smiled to themselves, but he hadn’t cared.

Some lady named Fran did all the talking, so they didn’t get a chance to say much. But her eyes. Oh, my, her eyes! Every time he looked up, he felt like he was looking into them for the very first time. In all these years he hadn’t forgotten how they’d thrilled him. Blue as the Hill Country sky. Sparkling with intelligence. He’d give anything to look into those eyes again.

“I’m not allowed to go out on school nights,” she’d said. “And besides, I have choir practice tonight.” It was a code to avert the shrill mother, one that he caught onto immediately.

“Where?” he’d said.

“Old St. Michael’s.”

“That tall old brick church that’s set back off Dumas Street?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Can I come and listen in?” He’d sit in the back of a church on a handful of thumbtacks if he had to.

“Uh, yeah.” She hadn’t sounded too sure.

“What time?”

“Uh, seven.”

“I’ll stay in the back. I don’t want to disrupt your choir practice. I just want to look at you,” he’d said, bold as you please.

He’d looked at her, all right. And he remembered, to this very day, how beautiful she was. So many memories. All of them revolving around Markie McBride.

The divided highway narrowed as it became Main Street. The town looked about the same to Justin, spruced up a bit, maybe, because of a recent holiday or parade or whatever. The old diner, the Hungry Aggie, was still tucked in between the bank and the optician’s office on Main Street.

He could see the steeple of the church where Markie had sung in the choir off in the distance. He turned the car down a side street, headed there. The priest had called him on his cell phone while Justin was out riding the fence line. Lorn Hix, the foreman out on the Kilgore, had given the priest the number. A girl, the priest said. All alone. Being held in the municipal jail. At least she had known to make her one phone call to the local Catholic church. Could Justin help? the padre asked. The truth was, Justin was buzzing with excitement at having his first case, his first real rescue.

Justin parked and went inside the small limestone jailhouse that crouched beside the small limestone fire station.

“She’s another one of those illegals, probably dumped by coyotes,” the guard tossed the words over his shoulder with no small amount of contempt as he led Justin to a back room. “I’m glad the priest called you. I don’t have the space or the time for these people.”

“We call them undocumented immigrants.” Justin laid some emphasis on the word undocumented, but he doubted this man would appreciate the distinction. “And she won’t be that way for long.” That was the reason he had started the Light at Five Points, known among Mexican crossers simply as La Luz, the Light. As he and his very bare-bones staff often told the desperate crossers, You’re an undocumented alien now, but not for long. We will help you get your citizenship. We will help you learn English. We will help you find a job. We will help. It had become Justin’s mantra.

“Stinkin’ coyotes,” the guard said. “Getting a girl this far into Texas and dumping her. Bet they took all her money and, you know, probably did some other things to her. But I have no choice but to pick up these illegals when the store managers call. I did get her name out of her. Aurelia Garcia. Stinkin’ coyotes.”

Justin would never say it to a guy in local law enforcement like this one, but in Justin’s mind the young men who devolved into coyotes were victims of sorts, as well. They were bad hombres, to be sure. Living a subterranean life that fed off of the human bondage and desperation of their own people. But in the beginning most of them had been lured away from all that was wholesome or sacred in their culture by something that only those crushed under the weight of poverty could fully understand.

Money. Lots of money, and all that it represented. A coyote could get as much as two thousand dollars a head for moving crossers north under cover of darkness. A smart one could make nine or ten thousand dollars a day, easily. Justin knew how it happened. He just didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to save girls like this one or boys like the Morales brothers who had shown up out on the Kilgore last week, looking for ranch jobs, looking for food. But he was determined to try.

The deputy brought a tiny girl up out of the holding cell. She had straight black hair, nearly to her waist, huge eyes, nearly as black, frozen wide in terror. Despite a filthy face and clothes, her beauty still shone. In the few pictures Justin had seen of his mother, she looked like this. Fragile and beautiful.

When she hesitated at the sight of Justin, the guard pulled her forward by the wrist as if she were a child. And she could have easily passed for one, in the States. She couldn’t have been more than five feet, not an ounce over a hundred pounds. She eyed the men with the kind of wary silence that spoke of mistrust from past abuses.

In English, Justin convinced the guard to let him speak to her in private. In Spanish, he told her not to worry and guided her over to a bench. After they sat down, he took off his Stetson. “Aurelia, I’m Justin Kilgore,” he said in Spanish, “and I’m from a place called the Light at Five Points—”

“Ay, La Luz!” the girl cried, clasping her tiny hands together. “I find you! Take me with you! Padre Gusto, he told me about you! It’s a miracle how I find you!” She made the sign of the cross on herself. “A miracle!”

Justin gave her the quiet sign. He didn’t want the local cops to think he was running some kind of underground network. “Father Augustus?” he said quietly. This was the name of his aging friend in Jalisco. A renegade Roman Catholic priest who encouraged the natives in Jalisco and the surrounding areas to blend their native culture with Christian spirituality. Father Gus’s favorite hobby was roaring around on his motorcycle and dispensing condoms to those who needed better sense.

“Sí. He said if I can make it to the Light at Five Points, I would be safe. Please.” Her eyes pleaded. “I think Julio is already there.”

“Julio?” That was the name of the youngest of the Morales brothers. A strong, quiet young man, about eighteen or nineteen, Justin would guess.

“Sí. My man. We are getting married.”

Which might further explain why the Morales brothers had urged him to hurry into town for her. Well, he’d do his best. “We have to be careful here. You were caught shoplifting at the 7-Eleven.”

“Sí. Please.” Aurelia continued to beg. “I’ll cook for you. I am a fine, fine cook. My whole village says so.”

“Wait here. Do not—” he pointed a warning finger at the girl “—run.”

Justin went back to the guard.

“She was hungry. It was only a candy bar. Do you honestly think sending these poor people to jail helps?”

“Nah,” the guard scoffed. “But you and I know about ninety percent of them are out to beat the system. They keep going around in the same old ruts, generation after generation. We can’t let them overrun us, either.”

Justin knew about the ruts, the patterns, the traps. Border crossers knew one another, ran in groups. Whole families, extended families, came to the States in stages. A father or a grandfather would go north and make his way, then call for the others. This process took years, sometimes spanning several generations.

“Then will this help pay this girl’s expenses or her fines or whatever so I can get her out of here?” Justin had carefully folded the hundred-dollar bill so that the numerals showed.

Bribes. Common as the Texas limestone beneath their feet.

The guard peered off into the cells beyond, past Justin’s shoulder, obviously looking at Aurelia, who sat hunched on the bench. He took the money.

“You’re wasting your money, Mr. Kilgore,” he said as he stuffed it in his pocket. “You know this kind of shit always ends badly. These people would be better off never leaving their villages. We should just press charges and send her back.”

Justin thought Father Augustus might surely agree. The priest felt the contaminating influence of El Norte was ruining the simple life of the villages. But how did you convince the young people of that? Once they had seen the big TVs and the big cars and the fancy clothes? How could you send a girl back south who had journeyed more than a hundred miles inside the border through God-knows-what to meet up with the love of her life?

Back out on the highway, Justin didn’t stop in town. There was no need. He had plenty of gas and the girl was skittish, being in the cab alone with him. She hugged the passenger door like a frightened kitten. Justin was relaxed in the seat but tried to keep his six-foot frame squarely on his side. No need to spook her. In Spanish he said, “You’ll be all right now.”

“Sí,” she said, but he could tell she didn’t quite believe him. Though it was another fifteen miles out to the ranch, he was anxious to get her to Julio. So when the highway opened up outside of town, he set his old pickup’s engine to thrumming. They might not encounter another car for miles now. One could put the pedal to the metal on these Texas highways with some impunity.

As the truck gained speed, the girl looked more and more frightened, yet more and more excited, as well. No doubt she was anticipating seeing her true love. Justin tried to remember how that felt. Somewhere deep inside him there was a spark of the love he’d once cherished for Markie McBride. But out of sheer emotional survival he had quelled those feelings long ago.

He glanced at Aurelia. How had she made it? he wanted to ask her. She had mentioned the sign of the Five Points.

“Did Julio send you a star?” Justin asked her in Spanish. He wanted to know if word of his organization had begun to spread yet among the crossers. He hoped so.

“Sí.” The girl slashed a quick star in the air with an index finger.

The Five Points of the Lone Star. The signal that a crosser had made it as far as the Texas town where five highways converged in a radiating pattern. Crossers sometimes sent a Lone Star home to their relatives in Mexico in one form or another—a trinket, a postcard, a pattern stitched on cloth.

Justin had chosen Five Points as his location partly for that reason. Once they got that far, crossers felt safe enough to rest before fleeing in five directions to hide in the caves and canyons and remote ranches of the Hill Country. If he could get to them at that stopping place, he felt he had a chance to make a difference, a chance to interrupt the cycle.

Five Points.

Outside the truck window, the country Justin had loved since he was a boy rolled by. Evening was coming on and the dark hills undulated endlessly against the purple sky.

When they pulled into the ranch drive, Aurelia spotted Julio. He was high up on a two-story scaffolding, repairing some crumbling limestone on a corner of the immense Kilgore ranch house. Justin had been pleased to learn that the Morales brothers were local Maya stonemasons in their home village, as skilled as their ancient counterparts. The renovations they had accomplished on the aging ranch house were nothing short of art. Even in its current state of decay, the house was an architectural monument of symmetry and well-crafted stonework. Constructed more than a hundred years ago by one of Justin’s Kilgore forebears, the place had a Romanesque simplicity that Justin loved. Rows of limestone pillars defined the first-story veranda. It would take plenty of fresh limestone to restore it, and Justin knew just where he could get it on—the Tellchick farm.

Justin’s father no longer made a pretense of keeping a residence in Texas, and the place had been virtually abandoned until Justin returned to it a couple of months ago. The inside was caked with dust, its timeless beauty only enjoyed by the occasional stray cow or shelter-seeking snake. But Justin had come to the house often as a youth, dreaming of restoring life to it.

And of course, he’d brought Markie McBride here often to share that dream.

Aurelia had rolled down the truck window and was hanging out of it, waving her arms and screaming, “Julio! Julio!”

Julio scrambled down off the scaffolding like an ant off a mound. He ran, his boots kicking up dust, until he came up alongside the pickup. He grabbed the door handle before Justin had even come to a stop.

When the door opened, Aurelia flung herself out into Julio’s strong arms. He swung her light body high off her feet and spun her in a circle with her skirt flying, then clutched her to him, his pelvis jutting into hers, his muscular shoulders hunched around her, his mouth claiming hers in a reunion kiss.

Justin had to look away. Now he did remember. Watching the lovers kiss, he remembered, all too clearly, what it felt like to be so young, so in love.

There was a small celebration in the old house that night. The kitchen was hardly up to sanitation standards, but Aurelia was used to far humbler conditions. She cooked a delicious Mexican feast for the men and Lorn’s wife.

But as in the lives of all crossers, the peace didn’t last long. “Someone comes,” Juan Morales, who seemed to have a sixth sense about these things, announced the very next night.

Sure enough, Justin spotted moving shadows back in a thicket of live oaks.

Lorn went for his shotgun, but Justin restrained him. They would have to get used to the illegals approaching La Luz in all kinds of ways; from the jail in town to hiding in the woods to approaching the ranch in stealth.

“Come with me,” he told Juan, and they went out to investigate.

The Ramos family consisted of a father, mother and two frightened little boys. The priest in town had directed them here. Hasty arrangements were made to feed and bed down the tired travelers.

Later that night, Justin walked out on the upstairs veranda to contemplate the starry sky and think about his mission. Below him the ranch land spread like a peaceful kingdom. Getting the Light at Five Points going was sure to be hard work, but already he had his first real family tucked in for the night.

His reverie was broken when he heard frantic arguing whispers on the porch below and then the sound of Aurelia hysterically crying, “Don’t go!”

Justin hurried back inside and down the wide stone staircase.

“What’s wrong?” he said as he emerged on the porch.

The Morales brothers stood there, with their shabby backpacks slung over their shoulders.

“We didn’t have nothing to do with no fire,” Juan said defensively. “The man paid us to go there for one night and make noise.”

“What are you talking about?” Justin demanded. Were they talking about the barn fire that killed Danny Tellchick?

“The sheriff is asking a lot of questions. These bad hombres.” Juan’s Spanish was so rushed, Justin had trouble keeping up. “They will lay the blame on us.”

“Shut up,” Julio snapped. “We’re leaving,” he declared to Justin.

“No!” Aurelia wailed, clinging to him. She was wearing a simple shift nightgown, probably something Lorn’s wife had given her.

“But why?” Justin asked. “Why now?” It was practically the middle of the night. What had happened to make them want to run?

“We are sorry, my friend,” Julio said a little more calmly. “We thank you for your kindnesses, but you cannot help us. We have been tricked.”

“Let’s go now.” Juan looked frightened as he tugged on his brother’s arm.

“But what about the stonework?” Justin argued as he followed them down the porch steps. “You’re just getting started.” He didn’t care about the renovations so much as showing Julio and Juan that they could be of genuine value in their new country.

“Sorry, amigo,” Julio called. “Someday I will try to finish it!” And then the two young men disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER FOUR

Tonight I figured out that when Justin’s brows draw together in that frowny way of his, it doesn’t mean he’s mad or anything. He’s just intense, sorta like his dad, only in a good way. I met the congressman finally. Yikes. He’s even bigger than he looks in his pictures, a bull of a man with a tiny little pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. I took a hard look at him. Then I took a look at Justin. Can they even be related? I wondered. Then I realized people could say the same thing about me and my mother. Nothing alike.

Anyway, I think that look just means Justin cares.

Actually, now that I think about it, it’s the look he gets right before he’s going to kiss me. His brows draw together that tiny bit, like he’s in pain or concentrating or something. His eyes squint up a bit, like he’s studying me real hard. Oh, I can’t describe it. All I know is, I love it when he looks at me that way.

Except tonight I think he was frowning because he really was kind of upset. We took a couple of horses for a moonlight ride out on his ranch, way out to the place where that big flat outcropping of limestone looks so pretty. Justin told me there are caves under there, which I kind of knew, but I’ve never actually been in them. He had a flashlight and was going to take me down into one, but right then we saw headlights and this big Cadillac came rolling up. It just drove right up on the limestone.

Justin stopped the horses back in the trees and said that was weird, for his father to be out here so late at night. And then we saw a shadow get out and carry something into the cave.

It was really kind of creepy.

Justin was in a hurry to split, so we turned the horses around and got out of there.

Later I told him about how my mom is weird like that, too, sometimes, and later he really opened up and told me all about his dad. We’re getting that close. When you love someone, you tell them everything, even about your crazy parents.

“ROBBIE AND THE BOYS WON’T be staying here,” Markie announced without preamble as she bounded down the last few steps of the stairway leading from the attic.

She marched through her mother’s gleaming green-and-white kitchen to the dinette table where her laptop and papers were spread out. The southwest sun was high in the sky now, creating a glaring backdrop at the bay window that cupped around the small table. How deceptively comfortable and serene her mother’s fastidious decorating made the spot feel. The room was already filling with the savory aroma of roasting meat.

Marynell turned from the sink with a half-peeled potato in one hand and a potato peeler in the other. “What fool nonsense are you talking now?” She turned back to the sink and resumed her task. “Of course they’re staying.” Her mouth was pinched tighter than the clasp of a change purse as she proceeded to whack at the potato.

“The boys and Robbie are ready to go home.” Markie proceeded to stack her papers. “I’ll be going out to the farm with them.”

Marynell’s jaw dropped, then she quickly snapped it shut again. “I have already put a roast in the Crock-Pot and peeled a dozen potatoes for the boys’ supper. They’ve been instructed to get off the bus down here at the road after school, just like always.”

“Just like always?” Markie frowned. “It’s only been a week since the funeral, mother. The boys only went back to school the day before yesterday. There is no like always in Robbie’s boys’ lives right now, nothing routine, unless it’s the Tellchick farm, their home. That’s where they belong. I’ll be going out there to stay and help Robbie.”

Marynell carefully placed the potato into a large pot at her elbow. She rinsed the slicer and propped the blade over the edge of the sink, just so. As she wiped her hands on a towel, she slowly crossed the room toward Markie. “You always do this,” she started in a low, threatening tone. “You can’t stand to be in this town two seconds without thinking you have to tear everything up. For once, Margaret, think of someone besides yourself. You can’t seriously be considering taking those children back out there to that place, not after…not after seeing their father killed that way.”

“Robbie has decided that’s what she wants.”

“Robbie decided? Robbie is not herself these days, and you know it.” Marynell grabbed Markie’s arm, gripping it somewhat viciously, but Markie was used to her mother acting this way. She stared, unblinking, while her mother demanded, “This is about that damned diary, isn’t it?”

“You had no right to take it, Mother.” Markie jerked her arm away. “And where the hell is my picture?”

“What picture? I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“When did you take it?” Markie persisted. “How? Back when you and Daddy were moving me the last time? From Dallas?”

Marynell wrung the dish towel for an instant before she folded her arms across her chest and steadied herself. “I simply didn’t want you to be reminded of that painful period of your life. I wanted you to have a fresh start in Austin.”

Her gut wrenched as Markie realized that of course her mother had read the entire diary, every last word of it, the parts written after Markie had left Five Points and gone to live with Frankie in Austin—the parts after she moved to the Edith Phillips Home.

Which meant Marynell knew about Brandon. Well, she didn’t know that was his name or where he lived or who his parents were. None of that was in the diary, thank goodness. And Markie would make sure this woman never did know those things.

“Does anyone else know?” she said, fully aware that her mother knew exactly what she was asking.

“No. And they’re never going to, Margaret.” Her mother seemed suddenly sincere. “As far as I’m concerned, the whole incident is in the past. I would think you would be glad to have all that in the past, too. Why do you want to stir up trouble now, when your sister’s life has been practically destroyed? You should never have taken that diary out of the box.”

Markie sensed a subterfuge behind Marynell’s persistent blaming. Turning things on the other person was the same old trick her mother always used to defend her actions, no matter how indefensible. What had she done now? Perhaps she had, in fact, told someone else about the baby. Or perhaps for some reason the incident was not really in the past as Marynell claimed.

“If it’s all in the past, why didn’t you simply destroy that diary?”

Marynell’s face grew slightly flushed, the same way it had when she was up on the ladder. “You always insist on twisting the most innocent things,” she hissed. “You do it in order to cast me in a bad light. If you must know the truth,” she sniffed, “I simply forgot all about the silly thing. I didn’t even know it was in that box with that other stuff. P.J. keeps so much old junk up there, anyway.” Her eyes shifted sideways. “I intend to give him a good talking to about that room. That’s nothing but a firetrap up there.”

Markie studied her mother with growing suspicion. “Why were you so anxious to get the diary back from me a while ago?”

“I told you, I don’t see that there’s any reason for you to relive your past mistakes. And I certainly didn’t see any reason for Robbie to have to know what happened. I hope to goodness you haven’t upset her. Where is she?”

Another deflection.

But Marynell’s games didn’t matter now. What mattered now was Brandon. Now that Marynell knew Markie had given her baby up for adoption, what would happen when Brandon Smith showed up in Five Points? Markie wondered if she should put a stop to that plan immediately. But how could she? The sound of Brandon’s voice letting out a yee-haw when she told him he’d been chosen for the internship rang in her ears. How could she possibly disappoint a young man who had worked so hard for this opportunity?

“Markie,” Marynell snapped, “I said, where is Robbie?”

“Upstairs. Packing her stuff.” Markie turned away from her mother and started to cram her own things into a tote.

“Oh, this is just plain ridiculous. Robbie has no business going back out to that farm in her condition after the shock she’s had.” Marynell strode back to the sink, picked up another potato and started peeling it as if the matter were decided. “You are making a mountain out a molehill, Margaret, same as you always do.” She spoke with her back to Markie, dismissing her. “Getting in a snit about something that doesn’t matter anymore.”

But the way Marynell was attacking that potato told Markie that the diary, for some reason, did matter. It mattered very much. She quietly moved to the counter and gave Marynell’s profile a wary once-over, wondering with increasing ire why had the woman kept that diary all this time?

Marynell continued to hack at the potato without looking at Markie, but when she said, “What did you do with it, by the way?” Markie’s suspicions were confirmed.

“The diary?”

“Of course, the diary,” Marynell’s voice became suddenly shrill as she turned on Markie. “What on earth have we been talking about here?”

“What does it matter what I did with it?” Despite herself, the volume of Markie’s voice rose to match her mother’s. “The incident’s in the past, remember?”

“You think this is all about you, don’t you?” Marynell yelled, and tossed the unfinished potato into the pan with the others. “For your information, your sister is in an extremely vulnerable position right now and I am trying to protect her.” Clearly flustered, she pawed in the sink for another potato.

Marynell had claimed the same about Markie upstairs earlier—that she was only trying to protect her. The woman, Markie thought with a healthy dose of skepticism, had become a regular Mother Teresa. “What has my diary got to do with protecting Robbie?”

Marynell whirled to face her daughter again, this time with a hard, meaningful stare, as if she held a gun and was tempted to pull the trigger. “All right, then. If it’s the only way to make you give up that diary, then I’ll tell you, you little—” Before Marynell could spit out whatever was stuck in her craw, from the mud porch attached to the kitchen a familiar Texas twang sang out, “What in tarnation is all this racket?”

Markie and Marynell both started at each other, slapped into an uneasy silence by the sound of P. J. McBride’s voice. In the heat of their exchange, they hadn’t heard the screen door open. Or close. Markie wondered how much her father had heard.

His slender, benign face appeared around the doorjamb. “I could hear you hens squawkin’ all the way down to the barn.” P.J. grinned as he awkwardly pulled off a knee-high mud boot, hopping on one foot to keep his balance.

“Oh, shut up!” Marynell snapped. “And stop slopping mud everywhere!”

“Mom,” Markie chastised. Suddenly it occurred to her that she never called her mother Mom except when her father was being attacked like this.

“Well, honestly,” Marynell huffed, “I can’t stand it when he goes around talking in that hick way. It’s so affected.”

“Mom!” Markie scolded again. “Hi, Daddy.” She stepped into the mudroom and gave P.J. a quick, conciliatory hug and a kiss on the cheek. “How’s that low-water bridge looking?”

“Terrible. Still running high. Almost too high to drive across. What’s going on in here?” His tone was more serious now, though he demonstrated his usual wry perspective. “Or am I already sorry I asked?”

“It was nothing,” Markie explained while her mother presented her back to the two of them.

P.J. shrugged and removed his other boot. Markie went back to packing up at the table while the room grew so painfully quiet that the tick of the grandfather clock that had been passed down on Marynell’s side could be heard from the living room.

“Heard a real interesting rumor in town today.” P.J. spoke as if he were offering the distraction of a cookie to a couple of quarreling toddlers. He stepped into the kitchen and smiled. It broke Markie’s heart the way he always strived for normality.

When neither woman responded to the comment, P.J. tried again. “Robbie’s gonna have a new neighbor. Justin Kilgore’s taking over a big hunk of the Kilgore Ranch, moving into the old mansion.”

Markie’s eyes went wide. Her head snapped up to see her mother returning her stare with similar shock. But Marynell’s expression quickly congealed into a mask of fury. “Now, that is interesting.” Her voice dripped sarcasm as her gaze bored into Markie’s.

P.J. seemed oblivious to the undercurrent between the two women. He had gone to the refrigerator and retrieved a pitcher of iced tea. “Rumor is he’s decided to restore the old ranch house. Got some kind of project going with the Mexicans. I always liked that old house—solid limestone. And I always liked Justin.”

Her father turned and gave Markie a bright look as if something had just occurred to him. “As I recall, you and him was pretty good buddies that summer back when you was volunteering on his father’s campaign.”

“I—” Markie started but found she couldn’t speak.

She swallowed against a thickening in her throat that threatened to choke her. She could feel her cheeks beginning to burn and was relieved when her mother turned her back to them again and resumed working on the potatoes with a renewed vengeance.

Justin was coming to Five Points? To live? Right next door to Robbie? This was impossible, the cruelest blow fate could render. What kind of wormhole of fate had she been sucked into? If she hadn’t promised her sister she would stay until the baby came, she’d high-tail it back to Austin right now.

“Maybe you two should get together, while you’re both here in Five Points and all. Bill Keenan over at the barbershop said the guy’s single again. It wouldn’t hurt you to be social. Kilgore’s a decent fella, good-looking, kind of in your league, I reckon.”

“I…” Markie finally found her voice, “I’m afraid I won’t have time for any socializing. I’ll be too busy at Robbie’s place.”

Marynell’s thin arms jerked with three vicious swipes of the slicer before she spoke. “Your daughter has some fool idea about taking Robbie and the boys back to their farm.”

“Oh, really?” P.J. poured his tea. His manner remained evenhanded and accepting, as always. “Is that what Robbie wants?”

“Yes. She said so. I’m sorry, Daddy. I know you were looking forward to having the boys here with you for a while. But Robbie’s got to do what’s right for her.” And I do, too, Markie thought. She would protect her heart. After all these years, the thought that she still needed to made her incredibly sad.

“Well, it’s her choice. I guess that means you and Justin Kilgore will be neighbors, too, at least for a while.” P.J. smiled as if this was a dandy idea. “What can I do to help you get settled?”

“Oh, that’s typical. You go and take her part.” Marynell jerked her head at Markie, though her gaze remained fixed on the potatoes. “Isn’t that the way it’s always been?”

P.J. extended his well-honed farmer’s arms toward his thin wife. “Now, Marynell. Hon.”

She shrugged him away. “Leave me alone. Nobody cares that I’ve done all this work, getting things ready for the boys. Now it’s just—pfft!” She flipped a hand and water droplets sparkled in the sunlit air. “Change of plans!”

“Now, Mother,” Markie said sadly. P.J. tried again. “Come on now, sugar,” he coaxed. “We’re all just trying to do what’s best for Robbie here. She’s got a lot to cope with. While I was in town I talked to Mac Hughes and the farm situation is not good.”

Mac Hughes was the local banker who handled the loan on the Tellchick farm.

“What did he say?” Markie asked quietly, casting an eye at the stairs. If the news was really awful, they’d have to break it to Robbie carefully.

“Danny was way behind on his payments, Mac wouldn’t say how far. He said he can wait a few weeks until Robbie gets over the funeral and all, but he’s going to have to have some kind of payment soon.”

Marynell flew across the room at Markie, flapping the dish towel like the wings of an angry hen defending her chick. “See? I told you it would be better if they were here. And didn’t I tell you not to upset Robbie! Well, if I have anything to say about it, we are not going to lose that land! Now, go upstairs and get me that diary!” She punctuated the last four words with four pokes of a bony finger to Markie’s shoulder.

“Mother!” Markie yelped. “Cut it out!”

“Marynell.” P.J.’s level voice stopped the women’s bickering. “Just calm down now and tell me what this is all about.”

“It’s all her fault.” Marynell’s hurt-filled eyes were now brimming with tears. “After all she’s put me through. Now this!” She pressed the wadded dish towel to her mouth. “Now she’s trying to take Robbie and the boys away from me!”

“Mother,” Markie repeated, more quietly this time, though she was undeterred by Marynell’s emotional display. She decided to get back to what her mother had been ready to blurt when P.J. came in. “What does my diary have to do with Robbie’s land?”

“Your diary?” P.J. said. “You mean that old pink diary I stuck in the box with your other things? Is that what this is about?”

Markie and Marynell stared at P.J. Just as Markie hadn’t needed to ask her mother if she had read the diary, she did not need to confirm that her father hadn’t. And so she realized that not only was he unaware of her teenage pregnancy, he knew none of the other things that had happened eighteen years ago. He certainly had no idea he had a grown grandson on his way to Five Points.

“You put that diary in that box?” Marynell asked. Anger flared again, quickly replacing her self-pity.

“Well, I figured you wouldn’t want it. You don’t even want to keep my family diaries that are a hundred years old. It was on a shelf way up in your closet. I found it back there when I was putting some Christmas stuff up. Long time ago. I just figured Markie left it there…did I do something wrong?”

“It’s all right, Dad. Mother and I will talk about this later, after she’s had a chance to calm down.” It was clearly a threat, a warning that Markie would somehow get to the bottom of this deal.

For her father’s sake Markie patted Marynell, even though what she really wanted to do was strangle her. But she had to get her dad out of here. Marynell would make him suffer for this trespass.

“Right now I’ve got to go upstairs and help Robbie get packed,” she said. “We could use a little help getting the heavy bags downstairs.” Her fingers tightened ever so slightly on her mother’s shoulder. “We are going back to Tellchick Farm. You understand that now, don’t you, Mother?”

Marynell gave her a bitter look, but nodded when P.J.’s head turned.

“You female-types.” P.J. took a sip of his tea. “If it isn’t one drama around here, it’s another.”

OVER THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, Markie became progressively more fatigued. The move to Robbie’s farm had cost her dearly, not only in time and money, but in a hidden emotional toll that couldn’t be calculated.

And it had cost her plenty of plain old sleep. To the point where she was having weird dreams again. Dreams where she was kissing Justin Kilgore. Dreams where the two of them admired their newborn together. She chalked it up to being in this place, to knowing that he was near.

Every night, after Robbie and the boys had hit the sack, she went downstairs and soundlessly went about the task of plugging her laptop into Robbie’s phone jack in the kitchen and setting to work at the sturdy oak table.

She knew she couldn’t last like this—working until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m., answering e-mails, devising strategies, setting up schedules, just plain putting out fires for her client. It seemed as if she had her cell phone plastered to her ear all day, burning up the minutes. And at night her fingers were tethered to the Internet, a curse and a blessing it turned out, keeping her awake far too long into the night.

But every morning she was up early to fix breakfast for the boys and Robbie and help her sister sift through the wreckage of her life. These first two weeks had flown by in a blur of trips to negotiate payment schedules with the funeral home, the doctor, the bank. They’d sorted through Danny’s clothes early in the first week because Robbie burst into tears every time she so much as glanced at a pair of his boots. They’d gone through the farm’s books and bills and paperwork together and, together, had come to a sad conclusion. Danny and Robbie’s debt was horrendous. Robbie admitted to Markie that it was far worse than Danny had let on.

“Sissy,” Markie started gently, “I don’t see how you can hold on to this farm.”

They were sitting at the same oblong oak table where Markie had been working her late-night hours. Only it was midafternoon and the slanting southwest sunshine made the table, made the whole house, in fact, look dusty and stagnant. Several flies had slipped in when the boys had clamored out to play. The insects wasted no time in finding the smears of ketchup the boys had left on the worn countertop.

As Markie got up to swat the flies and wipe the table, she longed to be back in her sleek, new air-conditioned town house on the edge of Austin’s urban sprawl. As penance for that selfish thought, she vowed to give her sister’s kitchen a thorough cleaning…as soon as they confronted this financial mess.

Robbie moaned softly with her elbows propped on the table, her head cradled in her hands. “But what are Mother and Daddy going to say if I default on the note? They cosigned on this place.”

“Let’s not worry about them. Let’s try to decide what’s best for you and the boys. If you file for bankruptcy, I believe you can stay on the place as a homestead.”

“Bankruptcy?” Robbie lifted her pale face. “I can’t do that. Danny would never do that. I’d rather sell out.”

Once Robbie had made up her mind, they’d gone to a Realtor in town, arranged for the sale of the place, and Markie had taken on the task of riding and walking the property with the appraiser.

“He said it might take months to find a buyer for a farm of more than a thousand acres,” Markie told her sister when she got back.

“Then the sooner I list the place, the better.”

“He thinks you should fix it up first.”

“Oh, really?” Robbie’s voice rose sarcastically. “Now, there’s an idea! Oh. But wait. I’m flat broke, pregnant as a pea, with three kids pulling at me all day long. Well, shoot.”

Markie had just stood there, flabbergasted. This was not her nicey-nice sister talking.

The work and stress had been going on like this for a few weeks when one night in the wee hours, right after she’d unplugged the laptop and jacked Robbie’s phone back in, the thing let out its jangling ring, as if it had been waiting. Markie snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?” She kept her voice down. A farm could be so eerily quiet. Noise carried especially far in the wee hours. Down by the remaining outbuildings one of the dogs set to barking.

“Markie?” The resonant baritone voice was unmistakably like the one she’d heard on the phone from Dallas recently. “This is you, isn’t it?”

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