Undeniable (25 page)

And yet Dax couldn’t let it go. Greg looked too much like him for him to let it go. His chest heaving, his voice low, he asked, “What did you say?”

Greg nodded, arrogant, sure, moving his hands from his chest to his pockets. “Thirty years ago. A conference in Houston. My mother was a legal secretary attending with her employer. From what I’ve been told, it was a whirlwind, and nine months later, there I was.”

“And he knows this?”

Another nod.

“Does Darcy know, or only The Campbell?”

“The Campbell?” Greg arched a brow. “I thought that was just what Darcy called him.”

It was. He didn’t know why the words had slipped out, but he repeated, “Does Darcy know?”

“No.”

“He hired you knowing this?”

Finally, Greg moved, turning only his head, his gaze holding Dax’s and daring him. “He’s known it since I was born.”

Dax’s eyes went wide, disbelieving. “What?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“That my father is a cheating son of a bitch? No.”

“How about
our
father being there for one of his kids from day one?”

The only thing that surprised him was the fact that he was still standing here. And that he hadn’t let loose the gripping anger tightening his muscles to strike out. Problem was, the person he wanted to hit couldn’t hit back.

That thought had him going after the next best thing. He took two long forward steps, and swung, his fist connecting with Greg’s jaw and sending him sprawling across the sterile white floor.

And then he walked out of the room, down the hallway past whispers and curious eyes, his steps louder than when he’d arrived, his anger like jet fuel, propelling him.

D
AX BALANCED ANOTHER
short log from a felled mesquite on the wide oak stump Dave Dalton had used to split wood for his barbecue pit. He eyed the circular target, hefted the ax over his shoulder, and bounced up, swung down, the blade finding its sweet spot, the log cracking.

The fact that he’s my father,
too.

Another short log, another bouncing swing, another resounding crack. Sharing a father with that prick made them half brothers. Half brothers. He didn’t want a half brother, and he sure as hell didn’t need one. He had Boone Mitchell. He had Casper Jayne. He had Darcy. And he had Arwen. Half of anything more was half too much.

The fact that he’s my father,
too.

Again with the log, the swinging, the cracking. Greg Barrett. Greg Campbell. Dax wondered if while his sister was working with the bastard, Darcy had considered the possibility they shared
Wallace Campbell’s genes. If they did. Which only their old man or a DNA test could verify.

Even if there’d been nothing to tip her off, she had to have wondered what an urban pretty boy was doing practicing law in Crow Hill. Dax hadn’t been curious enough to ask, but it had struck him as strange. People were born here. People moved away or they died here. No one purposefully chose Crow Hill as a place to live.

The fact that he’s my father,
too.

Log. Swing. Crack. And what about their mother? Did she know? Had she kept their father’s secret? Was that why she’d put herself in the middle of other families’ dysfunctions? Trying to fix them and forget what was happening with her own? Convincing herself her husband spawning a son with another woman wasn’t such a big deal?

Knowing his mother, that didn’t make sense. He couldn’t imagine her hanging around all these years if she’d known. About the affairs, sure. Those were well enough hidden and no surprise. She was married to a powerful man who couldn’t keep his pants zipped, her own Clinton or Spitzer or Edwards. But not the kid.

His mother would never put up with another woman’s kid reaching for a slice of the Campbell pie. Image meant everything to Patricia Campbell, but since she wasn’t around now, and none of Darcy’s questions had produced answers as to their mother’s whereabouts… Could she have found out? And how, if only the two men at the center of the deception knew?

He had to decide what to do with the information—though he couldn’t do anything without confirmation from his father that Greg Barrett had sprung from his loins. And since a DNA test was out of the question—even if he’d had the money, no way was he asking for Greg’s toothbrush or hair—that wasn’t going to happen
until the old man came out of his coma. Until then, Dax would be carrying Greg Barrett’s words alone.

Before he could grab another log from the dwindling pile, two long shadows fell over him. Casper and Boone, Casper saying, “It’s the dead hell of summer, dude. Drought. Wildfires. What’s with the wood?”

“I’m thinking it’s about the ax, not the wood,” Boone said, and Casper snorted.

“If he’s in the mood to go medieval, I’ve got a post hole digger with his name all over it. Diego just got done clearing the space for the new holding pen to go in behind the bunkhouse. Seems that would be a more productive way to expend all that energy.”

Then Boone again. “Though I thought Arwen was taking care of that energy expending thing.”

Muscles burning, sweat rolling into his eyes, Dax straightened and said nothing, jamming the ax head into the stump and reaching for his shirt. He dried his face, his neck, his pits, then shrugged it on, wincing. The skin on his back was burned to a crisp. He’d lost track of time, lost his head, been out here too long looking for lost answers.

Breathing hard, he shunted off Boone’s dig about his sex life along with the crap he wasn’t ready to deal with, much less share, even with the men he held closer than brothers, half or not. “July Fourth’s coming up. The barbecue cook-off. Are we not keeping up tradition and entering?”

“Hell, Dax. Which one of us knows how to barbecue at a competitive level?” Boone bent, picked up a stick of mesquite and brought it to his nose. “But damn if that stuff doesn’t have my stomach rumbling.”

Casper raised his gaze from the chips and chunks and sticks of mesquite scattered in a circle around the oak stump. “We don’t,
but I hear the cook-off’s going to be held on the back lawn of the Hellcat Saloon this year.”

“Arwen’s hosting,” Dax said. “And she’s got a team entering. She’s not judging, and wouldn’t do us any favors even if she could.”

“Huh.” Boone tossed the stick back to the ground. “Wonder who they’re going to get to judge if your old man isn’t up and around by then.”

Casper put in, “I heard the committee was thinking of asking Darcy and that Greg guy from the office to wave the Campbell and Associates flag.”

“Fuck that.” Dax spat wood dust and frustration and anger to the ground.

Boone, his frown darkening, circled Dax, working the ax head from the stump and carrying it out of his reach. “Thought you and Darcy were getting along.”

“We are.”

“Well then.” He pondered that, checking the cutting edge of the ax with his thumb. “Didn’t know you knew Barrett.”

Dax mopped his forearm over his brow, clearing the sweat he’d missed, then pulled down on the brim of his hat, weighing how much to say. “Met him at the hospital earlier.”

The men both went silent, both went still. Dax looked from one to the other, hoping to leave things at that. He didn’t want to talk about the visit until he’d tamped down enough of the initial shock to better handle the things he was feeling.

Finally, Casper spoke. “You went to the hospital?”

A nod. “Arwen made me promise.”

Casper considered what he’d said, looking to Boone who only shrugged, then back. “So that’s the way of it, then? You’re doing what the little woman tells you to do?”

“Fuck you, asshole. I promised Arwen, but I did it for Darcy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You saw her the other day. The shape she was in. I was a shit not to go when Arwen first told me. Darcy shouldn’t have had to deal alone.” The way she’d been dealing alone since she was sixteen years old.

He’d left her. He’d thought only of himself and he’d split. Yeah, he’d been eighteen and stupid, but he was older now, and his sister deserved better than that same sort of selfish douche-baggery.

He looked at Casper. “You got the holding pen marked, or you want me to just start digging?”

“Hey, you still got demons to work out of your system, I’m happy to get out there and be the brain to your brawn.”

Boone snorted. “You’ve had to resort to thinking because the ladies aren’t digging your wrangling moves?”

Casper gave Dax a wink. “Figured I’d give it a shot. I hear Faith likes her men hung upstairs as well as down.”

“You son of a bitch,” Boone said, advancing with the ax in his hand. “We don’t do sisters. You’d better not be laying a hand on Faith.”

Dax grabbed the ax as Boone walked past, a grin taking over his face. “I’m thinking it’s not his hands you need to be worrying about. Or even his well-hung brain.”

“Hey now.” Casper began backing away, enough steam coming out of Boone’s ears to power a locomotive. “I can’t help it if Faith’s of a mind to compare the head I’ve got on my shoulders with my big one.”

And then he took off for the barn, Boone after him, leaving Dax shaking his head. He settled the ax in the stump again and took in the mess of mesquite. At least it would be easier to clean up than the mess of his life—and he’d get some good barbecue out of it.

T
HE SIGHT THAT
greeted Arwen as she stopped behind the Dalton’s ranch house had her pondering the size of her mistake. Really? She’d thought she’d be able to get Dax Campbell out of her system for good? Was she out of her mind?

How could she when just looking at him left her unable to draw a normal breath? When watching his body brought to mind his moving inside of hers? When seeing his hands at work reminded her of his calluses scraping over her skin, the reach of his fingers, their deft and nimble strength?

She shivered, clenched the muscles of her sex, blew out a long, steadying breath. He was tossing sticks of split wood into a wheelbarrow; mesquite, she thought, most likely for smoking meat. The blade of his ax was embedded in a stump, and she wished she’d arrived earlier to watch him at work.

She imagined the force behind his swing, his muscles as they bunched and released, sweat glistening on his skin. And then she
stopped imagining because she’d come here to talk to him, not for more of what she couldn’t get enough of—a truth that dug its powerful claws deeper every time he came to her bed.

She was certain he’d seen her arrive, though he’d yet to acknowledge her presence. Her truck was big and red and hardly inconspicuous, and driving across the property to park had raised a monster cloud of dust. She was letting it settle before leaving the cab, and the wait allowed her to pull herself together.

More than any other time in his company, her trip to tell him about his father’s heart attack proved she couldn’t talk to him if she was scattered. Emotions—and, yes, lust was a potent emotion—got in the way and turned the rational side of her brain to mush. Today wasn’t about sex. Today was about his promise.

It was time to see if he’d kept it. If he was the man she knew he could be.

She jumped from the cab, walked toward him, breathing in the heat of the day and the dry, brown dirt and the richly pungent spice of the wood. She wondered how much mesquite grew on the Dalton Ranch. Then wondered if buying several cords for the saloon would help them financially, or if Dax would balk at any hint of charity—especially coming from her.

She walked all the way to the stump before stopping, her thigh bumping the ax’s haft. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she gave him another ten seconds to break the silence, but he chose to continue punishing her for forcing his hand.

And so she asked, “Did you go?”

He was bent forward, grabbing all the wood he could hold, kicking sticks closer to the wheelbarrow as he cleared a small circle. “You come all the way out here to check up on me?”

“Yep.”

He snorted, shook his head, did some more kicking, some more tossing, this time with more vigor than before.

“That looks like a lot of anger.”

“That’s barbecue.”

“Are y’all entering the cook-off?”

He shrugged, straightened, twisted, and popped his back. “We’re talking about it.”

“It’s safe, you know.”

“Safe how?”

“Your father won’t be there to judge.”

He went back to his task.

“Any change in his condition?” she asked, because it was obvious he’d done his duty as Wallace Campbell’s son but wasn’t dealing with it well.

“You mean is he still a son of a bitch? Does he still guzzle Glenlivet like water?” He kicked at the wheelbarrow. Kicked it again. “Will he ever give a shit about anyone but himself? Or stop fucking with other people’s lives?”

“Then he’s awake?” Because now she was confused.

“No, he’s not awake. He’s the same self-centered ass he’s always been. He’s going to lay there until the daughter he doesn’t even acknowledge wears herself out waiting.”

She got his concern for Darcy, but… “I don’t think he’s in a coma on purpose.”

“Knowing him, I wouldn’t doubt it. Anything to inconvenience everyone else.”

“Was Darcy there?”

“Not when I went by, no.”

Okay. “Have you talked to her since?”

“I don’t know where she is. Thought about calling Josh, but figured that’s not my business.”

“You could make it your business.”

He slammed more sticks into the wheelbarrow, biting off a
string of sharp curses when most of them bounced out. “Or I could stay out of it and let her live her life the way she wants.”

“Without you in it, you mean?”

“That’s not what I said.” He took a break, wiped his sweat with his sleeve. “But she’d probably be better off.”

“She’d be alone, Dax.” Time to press the point. “But then she’s been alone all this time, so I guess you’re off the hook.”

He jammed his hands to his hips and faced her, squinting from beneath the brim of the hat he wore pulled as low as she’d ever seen. “What’re you doing here, Arwen? Trying to make me feel guilty over my sister now?”