A Rancher's Pride - By Barbara White Daille Page 0,26

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.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Kayla asked. “I could have helped you with the stairs.”

“Thought I could handle them myself.” She sighed heavily. “Thought wrong, I guess.”

“Becky and I just finished breakfast. Can I get you something? I’d have brought you up a tray, but Sam told me last night you didn’t want anything in your room this morning.”

“No. I’d planned to come downstairs. Just not quite this late.”

“We had pancakes, and I’ve got batter left.” She opened the refrigerator door. “It’ll just take me a minute to make some.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Kayla got to work, heating up the skillet again, setting a place at the table and pouring a glass of orange juice. It didn’t take long at all before she had a plateful of pancakes ready.

“Hope these are the way you like them.” She smiled as she set the plate in front of Sharleen. “I’m sure it’s a little awkward having another woman cooking in your kitchen.”

“When it’s a woman who’s out to make trouble for my family, it is.” The twang had disappeared completely. Sharleen Robertson’s voice and blue eyes had turned colder than the container of orange juice Kayla had just picked up to return to the refrigerator.

She set the juice carefully on the shelf, then closed the door quietly. She turned to the table again. “I’m not here to make trouble,” she said. “Only to do what’s right for Becky.”

“Sam wants that, too, you know.”

“I don’t know that, for sure.” She swallowed hard, but curiosity won out. Against her better judgment, she blurted, “He said he didn’t even

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