A Rancher's Pride(27)

But he knew the first step he had to take toward finding someone who could.

He swiveled his chair around to face the computer on the table at his right elbow, opened his email program and started tapping the keys.



ALONE IN THE KITCHEN the next morning, Kayla paced the tiled floor.

Becky had gone outside to play on the back porch.

Sam had left the house early, even before she and Becky had woken. Downstairs, instead of the money she had expected to find, he’d left a note on the kitchen table.




Will meet you and Becky at the Double S at noon.





No, not what she had expected at all, from the stories Ronnie had told her about Sam’s self-imposed isolation. His unwillingness to go far from the ranch.

He was doing this to satisfy the judge. She had to remember that.

She’d left her cell phone on the counter. When it rang, she pounced on it. At the sight of Matt Lawrence’s number, her heart thumped erratically. She had talked to him the day before to give a rundown of what had happened in court. He’d had no news for her then. But now…

“Just checking in, Kayla. I’m sorry to say we don’t have anything to report yet.”

She didn’t know whether to feel happy or sad. In a way, she almost hoped Matt wouldn’t track Ronnie down. What if she got it into her head to take Becky back again? Kayla couldn’t deal with seeing her precious niece sent back and forth across the country between parents who didn’t really want her.

“I know you haven’t heard from Ronnie,” Matt continued, “or you’d have called me. She hasn’t gotten in touch with your parents, either?”

“No.”

“And no contact with Lianne?”

“No. Ronnie never keeps in touch with her.” Ronnie had never learned to sign with Lianne. She knew only the basics of communicating with Becky. “She doesn’t contact me very often, either,” Kayla told him. “She usually just leaves messages with my mom and dad.”

“All right, maybe she’ll get around to doing that. Meanwhile, we’re following up on the leads you gave us.” Kayla hadn’t known much to tell him about Ronnie’s private life, but she had managed to dredge up a couple of men’s names from memory. “Let me know if you hear anything at all.”

“I will, Matt. Thanks. And I should have asked already—how is Kerry?”

Matt’s wife, an art teacher, had missed the last few weeks of school when she’d gone on maternity leave.

“Getting cranky,” he told her. “She’s not happy with the enforced bed rest.”

Just what Sam had said about his mother. “Well, she’s got to take care of that baby. Say hi for me and let her know I’ll see her as soon as I get back to Chicago.”

There was a long pause, as if they were each wondering just when that would be.

“Sure,” Matt said finally. “Before we hang up, though, is there anything else I can do?”

Kayla bit her lip. He’d asked her already about doing a background check on Sam, and she had wanted to hold off for Ronnie’s sake. But time was passing, and though she planned to talk with Sam’s mother and friends and any of his neighbors she could, who knew if they’d be willing to tell her anything. She took a deep breath.

“I think it’s time to go ahead with that check on Sam. But, please, Matt, make sure it’s discreet.” If the judge found out she was trying to go around his orders, she might never get custody of Becky. “And let me know if you hear anything about Ronnie. I’ll do the same.”

She ended the call and jumped when a noise sounded from the direction of the living room. Matt’s mother stared at her from the archway. With a pang of guilt, Kayla wondered how long the woman had been there.

Though she had crutches propped under each arm, Sam’s mother leaned awkwardly against the door frame. Kayla had only gotten a glimpse of her when Sam escorted her into the house the other night. A petite woman in her early sixties with Sam’s dark hair shot with silver, bright blue eyes and a flawless complexion. Kayla suspected the lines etched around her eyes were caused by pain.

Her heart went out to the woman.

Crossing the room quickly, she pulled a chair away from the kitchen table. “Please sit down, Mrs. Robertson.”

“Sharleen,” the woman corrected with a Southern twang much softer than Judge Baylor’s. She lowered herself into the chair.