A Mother's Secret

By Pat Warren

WHAT WAS HER SECRET?

Was it her beseeching blue eyes? Her unstoppable spirit? What was it about gutsy yet vulnerable Sara Morgan that lured legendary lawman Graham Kincaid back into tracking a missing person and worse taking Sara along?

Sara's devotion to her kidnapped nephew soon had the pair hiking deep into the wilderness and facing unknown dangers. While tough, inscrutable Kincaid tried to brave his own recent, heartrending loss, Sara bore the secret that the missing little boy was her illegitimate son.

The perilous rescue pushed them to the edge. They shared desperation. They tasted desire. And all their secrets were laid bare. But would love take them past the point of no return?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460855348

Book preview

Chapter One

Sara Morgan wasn’t the kind of woman who frequented bars, especially Western bars at the edge of town. But she had to find Graham Kincaid, had to convince him to help her. Too much was at stake.

She’d checked around. His name kept coming up, but finding him was proving to be more difficult than she’d anticipated. The desk sergeant at the Scottsdale police precinct he worked out of had told her very little, except that the elusive detective was on leave. She’d learned that he had a ranch in Cave Creek just north of Phoenix, but she didn’t know exactly where, and his phone number was unlisted.

Information on the almost legendary lawman was scarce and spotty. Nearly everyone she questioned seemed very protective of his privacy, almost reverential in discussing him, as if he were some sort of folk hero who belonged to them. Not one to give up easily, Sara had persisted until she’d learned some of his habits and the names of his favorite watering holes. It wasn’t that he was a drinker, she’d been told, but rather that he loved to play pool. And Shotgun Sam’s was the in place for pool addicts.

The ample parking lot was nearly full, and the thrumming music drifting outside was loud enough to jar her teeth. Sara pulled her white BMW into the last place, next to a lamp post. Hopefully, under that small splash of light, no one would steal her hubcaps.

Then she spotted them—no less than six motorcycles with more chrome than an Art Deco showroom. Just her luck, a biker bar.

As she got out, Sara noticed there were no other buildings nearby, only open desert for miles in all directions. Terrific, she thought as she hit the button on her keychain to lock her doors. The middle of nowhere.

Residual heat from the hot June day shimmered up from the paved parking lot. Deciding there was safety in numbers, she made her way to the double doors.

A framed newspaper ad off to the left caught her attention. Five-star rating for Shotgun Sam’s where the burgers are thick and juicy, the beer cold and icy and the pool tables always humming. If this was Graham Kincaid’s kind of place, she had to wonder what sort of man he was.

Kincaid’s the best, she’d been told more than once. He could find a needle in a haystack, and he always gets his man, dead or alive, the desk sergeant had added. Sara shuddered at that thought and went inside.

The polished mahogany bar stretched along the left wall where a couple of old-timers slouched on stools, nursing their beers. The lighting was dim except for neon roped around the mirror behind the bar. Busy waitresses in cowboy hats, short denim skirts and white boots carried loaded trays between the dozen or so tables, all occupied. In the far right corner, a three-piece band frantically played a fast one for the half-dozen couples gyrating on the tiny dance floor. On the far side of that was an archway leading to the pool tables where several men were clustered.

For a Monday night, Shotgun Sam was doing all right.

Sara was both anxious and weary as she stepped up to the bar and waited. After a few impatient moments, the very tall, very bald bartender with a handlebar mustache and a white apron wound around his generous torso, noticed her and ambled over.

What can I get you, little lady? he asked, his voice soft when she’d been expecting booming. His nametag read Oscar.

I’m looking for Graham Kincaid, Sara told him. Is he here tonight?

Oscar’s eyes slid to the pool area, then narrowed as he looked back at her. Who wants to know?

There was that almost automatic shielding again. The man sure had a lot of friends. My name is Sara Morgan, and I need Mr. Kincaid’s help. She held a photo out to him.

Detective Kincaid, he corrected, peering at the picture she held, then at her face. He’s on leave. He likes to be left alone.

She swallowed a sigh, not wanting to aggravate the man. So I’ve been told. I only need a few minutes of his time, honest. She’d rehearsed her story repeatedly and prayed that she could pitch her case quickly if she ever found the man.

The bartender ran a hand over his bald pate as he studied her for another few seconds, then apparently decided to take a chance on her. He’s over at the last pool table, the tall guy dressed in black.

Relieved that she’d found him, Sara gave Oscar a smile. Thank you.

Carefully, she followed a waitress zigzagging through the tables, then had to maneuver around the dancers until she reached the arch. This room also was dim except for large shaded lamps hanging over each of the three pool tables. A bearded man wearing a leather vest hanging open over his naked chest studied the balls at the first table. Another with a long ponytail and low-riding jeans took his turn at the second table. Half a dozen other men stood around, some with cue sticks, others just watching. Sara moved a bit closer to get a better look at the man in question before he noticed her.

Graham Kincaid didn’t look like the real-life legend she’d expected. Granted he was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, with a rangy build and well-defined shoulders straining the seams of a black T-shirt. Much like a lot of guys. As he bent over the table to line up his shot, the woman in Sara couldn’t help noticing that he had a pair of spectacular buns snuggled into faded black jeans.

Watching closely, she saw him cock his head to one side, considering his best move, a lock of black hair falling onto his forehead. Now she saw it, the inscrutable face, a strong jaw covered with several days’ growth of dark beard. Though she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, she’d bet they were cold and assessing.

Growing impatient, she shifted her feet, waiting for him to take his shot. At this rate, it must take him hours to play a game. The men watching were quiet, unmoving. Was that pool etiquette or was it respect for the man? she wondered. Did he have a Minnesota Fats reputation in pool halls? Or was it his line of work that lent him that respectful, enigmatic edge?

Sara knew Graham Kincaid had been an FBI profiler for several years, then a Phoenix homicide detective and now he headed the Arizona Special Unit on Missing Persons. She’d also found out that he’d been placed on leave of absence by his captain because of something that had happened a while ago. But no one would say what or when or who’d been involved. She figured that after some idle time, he might be ready for action.

She prayed she was right.

Finally he narrowed his gaze, lining up his cue stick just right and…and stayed there, crouched low, not moving. Enough already, Sara thought, and approached him from the side.

Are you Graham Kincaid? she asked loud enough to be heard over the music, just as his cue stick slammed forward. The balls went scooting all over the table, but none went into a pocket.

Slowly he straightened and turned to Sara. You made me miss my shot, he said in a deep, annoyed voice.

Did I? I’m sorry, but I really need to talk with you.

She’d been right, his eyes were steely gray and cool as he looked her up and down.

That so? Well, I don’t need to talk with someone who doesn’t know enough to stay back when a man’s about to take a shot.

Sara was not intimidated. I said I was sorry.

Yeah. Now go away. He picked up a piece of chalk and started rubbing the end of his cue stick.

Please, I really need your help, she insisted. She tried not to notice the men standing around listening to their exchange. Graham’s opponent took a shot and missed by a mile, probably too engrossed in the little drama to take better aim.

I’m on leave of absence, he told her, his eyes averted.

Undaunted, Sara went on. She had to make him understand. My name is Sara Morgan, and there’s a young boy missing. His name is Mike, and he’s twelve years old.

A muscle in Graham’s cheek clenched. Lots of young people go missing every day, every year.

Her voice softened as she stepped closer to him. This one’s special.

"They’re all special," he said, then leaned down, lining up his next shot.

Frustrated but determined, Sara took a picture from her shoulder bag and tossed it onto the green felt next to the white ball.

Despite his irritation with the persistent woman, Kincaid’s eyes moved to the picture. A close-up head shot of a young blond boy, mischief radiating from his blue eyes. Kincaid sucked in a swift breath as the image hit home, the eyes reminding him of another young boy who’d been missing.

Straightening, he studied the woman looking up at him with a similar pair of blue eyes, beseeching yet refusing to let the tears fall. Her lips were full and on the verge of trembling. Her long blond hair was pulled back and anchored at her nape with some sort of clip. She was small, with a willowy figure, yet even in jeans and a man-tailored white shirt, she looked decidedly feminine. Sara Morgan was quite a package.

But he wasn’t buying.

He held the picture out to her. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.

Her shoulders sagged fractionally, then rallied. I’d be willing to pay you. She had no idea what the going rate was, but she’d pay almost anything to get Mike back safely.

He looked vaguely offended. I have a job. I don’t need your money.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that I’m feeling a little desperate here and….

You can report a missing child to the police if he’s been gone twenty-four hours. You’d be better off doing that. He turned back to his game.

She stared at his back for several minutes, barely contained fury building at the callous way he’d dismissed her. I guess they were wrong, the people who said you were the best, the one man who could help me. Have a great game, Detective. Head held high, she left the bar.

Outside, Sara’s shoulders slumped, and her eyes stung from tears held back too long. She’d gone about it all wrong, she supposed. She should have coaxed, wheedled, turned on the charm. But it simply wasn’t in her to beg. If she couldn’t convince him honestly, she’d simply have to find someone else. Surely Detective Graham Kincaid wasn’t the only man on the planet capable of finding Mike. There had to be someone else, a man of compassion who would listen and help her. She was back to square one, but she’d manage.

Sara Morgan was a woman who did what she had to do. She wouldn’t rest until she reached her goal.

Inside, in the dim light over the pool table, Kincaid studied the picture the woman had left behind. He could feel the familiar tug, the questions already forming in his mind. Then he remembered another time and place, another boy.

He shook his head. No, he couldn’t allow himself to be pulled in again. Maybe one day, but not now.

His mouth a grim line, he turned back to his game.

Sara loved the summer mornings in Arizona the best. She liked to get up at dawn, shower and brew a pot of coffee, then take that first cup out onto the balcony of her Scottsdale condo where she’d watch the sun come up. The following morning, after a restless night, she was out there as usual, waiting for the coffee to finish, listening to the birds chirping as they flew from branch to branch in the large olive tree nearby. Today the busy sounds they made didn’t cheer her.

She had to come up with another plan and quickly.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon as her neighbor, Nick Prescott, stopped on the sidewalk one floor down and called out a greeting. Hey, Sara, are we climbing today? he asked, looking up.

Several times a week, she and Nick and a few of the other singles in the complex would pile into Nick’s Jeep and drive to Camelback Mountain, then set out to climb, usually Echo Canyon Trail. Still in her robe, Sara hadn’t planned on going today. She had too much on her mind.

Moving to the railing, she shook her head. Not for me today, but thanks. Catch you later in the week.

Nick gave her a wave and jogged off in the direction of the parking lot.

Sitting back down, Sara frowned, wondering what she was going to do. She had to make a revised plan now that she’d struck out with Graham Kincaid. She’d tossed and turned half the night, but hadn’t come up with a viable solution.

She should probably go talk with her sister again. Sara had the distinct feeling that Meg hadn’t told her everything.

There were few other options, slim and not necessarily productive. Sara had thought working with the detective, bouncing her ideas off him, listening to his ideas after years of experience, they’d come up with a plan to find Mike. But alone, she felt overwhelmed. After all, she ran a boutique; she wasn’t a cop.

Rising, her thoughts agitated, she wandered to the living room. Pausing by the end table next to her favorite chair, she picked up Mike’s picture. A sudden rush of tears clouded her vision as she studied the dear, familiar face.

Mike, Mike, where are you, sweetie? Setting the picture down, she choked back a sob. Oh, Lord, I just have to find you, she whispered, nervously fingering her pearl bracelet with a gold heart engraved with the words I Love You, a gift from her nephew.

The doorbell startled her. Dabbing her eyes with a tissue, she cleared her throat and wondered who’d be looking for her this early. Maybe Nick had returned to coax her into joining him.

The bell rang again. Tightening the belt of her robe, Sara walked to the door and opened it.

Good morning. For a minute there, I thought you were already up and gone. Graham Kincaid, carrying a fragrant Krispy Kreme bag, strolled in right past her and headed for the kitchen as if he belonged there.

Stunned, Sara slowly closed the door and trailed after him. She was unprepared for her reaction to his physical presence in her home, those wide shoulders and that lean face, the lingering scent of soap. You shaved, she said, then chastised herself for the idiotic comment.

Yeah, I do that from time to time.

How did you know where I live?

You forget I’m a cop? Digging in the sack, he removed two cups of steaming coffee followed by two doughnuts on napkins. You have a choice of glazed or chocolate. He finally stopped to look at her shower-fresh face devoid of makeup and was surprised that she was just as lovely as he remembered. Maybe more. Except for the strain around her eyes. Which one do you want? he asked, indicating the doughnuts.

As she recovered from the shock of seeing him, Sara decided he must have had a change of heart. Why else would he come to see her? Chocolate, of course, she said, taking the doughnut over to the small glass-topped chrome table by the window and sitting down.

Kincaid followed, bringing the cups. Not your ordinary coffee, these. Latte, if you please. That hard mouth shifted into a quick smile as he removed the lids.

The smile changed his whole face, Sara thought, making him more human, adding a sexy edge. To say that I’m surprised to see you would be a gross understatement, Graham, Sara told him. May I call you Graham?

Not if you want me to answer. I was named after my grandfather. I was real fond of him, but I can’t stand the name. Everyone calls me Kincaid. Taking a large bite of the sugary confection, he leaned back and momentarily closed his eyes in satisfaction. I only let myself buy these every couple of months because I could eat a whole dozen all by myself. ’Course I’d soon be big as a house.

Glancing at his lean frame dressed in a navy Polo shirt and tan slacks, she doubted that and told him so.

It’s true. My brother, Ken, is a couple of inches shorter than me and weighs around three hundred. He’s a farmer in the Midwest and lives to eat. Literally. His wife, on the other hand, is thin as a shadow.

Inhaling the delicious latte fragrance, Sara was skeptical. Is that a Jack Spratt story?

Swallowing, he nodded and gave her that killer smile again. Kinda, yeah. Finishing the last bite, he wiped his mouth, then took a sip of his latte. You left that picture with me on purpose last night, didn’t you? You wanted to see if the boy would get to me, right?

He didn’t let his emotions show on his face, but Kincaid had spent a restive night, the boy’s face intruding on his dreams, those laughing blue eyes pleading. Just like the face of the other boy whose picture was in Kincaid’s wallet, a haunting reminder. Could he let himself be drawn into another search? And the bigger question, how could he not help if there was even a small chance of finding the boy?

Actually, I didn’t plan to leave it, Sara answered, but when I remembered that I had, I hoped looking at Mike might cause you to reconsider.

He took the picture out of his shirt pocket. Good-looking boy. He’s got your coloring. Your son, I take it.

No, my nephew. My sister, Meg, and her husband, Lenny, are his parents. The three of us are blond and blue-eyed, only Lenny’s dark-haired.

I see. How long has Mike been missing?

Sara pushed back her hair with both hands, her expression thoughtful. I’m not sure, exactly.

That stopped him. All right. Did he just fail to return from school or somewhere else? Did the parents come home and find him gone? Is he unhappy, possibly a runaway? Twelve is a little old to be snatched by a stranger, but not out of the question.

Kincaid crossed his long legs. There was a story here. There was always a story. Maybe you’d better start from the beginning.

I’ll try. Sara gazed down at the paper cup between her hands, finding it oddly difficult to think clearly with those sharp, intelligent eyes on hers. My sister called me Sunday and said she was worried. It seems that the day before, she’d been out running errands and returned home to find a note from her husband saying he was taking Mike on a surprise trip to celebrate his graduation from grade school and starting junior high in the fall. Friday was the last day of school for the semester.

Does Lenny do this often, surprise trips, not keeping his wife in the loop?

Well, I know he’s impulsive. Last summer, he spent a small fortune on fishing gear, a tent, camping stuff and took Mike to Roosevelt Lake to fish. Meg wasn’t invited along and she was angry with him. So she went out and bought a big-screen TV and a VCR.

Irresponsible. Hell of an example for a kid, Kincaid thought. Do they have that kind of money?

Sara sighed, uncomfortable with having to reveal so much about her family. But she had been concerned for some time about Mike’s home life, and wondered now if something had happened to cause Lenny to go off with the boy. I’m not sure, she answered honestly.

Not sure of much, are you? he asked, wondering when she was going to