Egan Cassidy's Kid

“And the way has been revealed, sir?”

Grant laughed. “Mmm-mmm…” He licked his lips and sighed. “I could have killed Cassidy years ago, but I wanted more. I need to see him suffer, to see him lose everything, the way I did. And now it’s going to happen.”

“I thought you’d told me that Cassidy had nothing to lose, except his life.”

“Ah, but that’s the joy of it. He does have more to lose—much more—and he doesn’t even know it,” Cullen said.

“Then this last private detective uncovered something you can use against Cassidy?”

“Indeed he did. He came upon some information that none of the other idiots I hired ever discovered.”

Grant couldn’t remember when he’d felt more alive. More exhilarated. Pure pleasure wound its way through his mind and body as he fantasized about the moment he would rip out Cassidy’s heart.

“It seems that for the past fourteen years Cassidy has paid for flowers to be placed on the grave of Bentley Tyson III, a former Vietnam vet, from some Podunk little town in Alabama,” Grant explained. “When I learned that bit of information, I knew that Tyson had meant something to Cassidy. So I had my detective investigate a little further. Seems Tyson saved Cassidy’s life in Nam.”

Winn frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What good is this information if Tyson is dead?”

“Tyson had a younger sister.”

“I see, sir. What significance—?”

“Maggie Tyson Douglas has a fourteen-year-old son.”

“I don’t follow you, sir,” Winn admitted sheepishly. “Tyson’s sister and nephew wouldn’t mean anything to Cassidy, would they?”

“Oh, yes, but they do, my friend. They do. They mean more to him than he realizes. Especially the boy.” Euphoria unlike any he had ever known suffused Cullen’s very soul. “After we’ve arranged to bring Bent Douglas here for a little visit, I plan to telephone Cassidy and tell him just how important Maggie Douglas’s child is to him.”

“I’m confused, sir.” Winn’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “You’re inviting this boy here to the fort?”

Cullen shot to his feet, clamped his hand down on Winn’s shoulder and smiled broadly. “We’re going to insist the young man come for a visit. You see, Colonel Sherman, Bent Douglas is Egan Cassidy’s kid and the man doesn’t even know it.”

Chapter 1

“Don’t eat so fast,” Maggie Douglas scolded. “We aren’t running late this morning. We have plenty of time to get you to school early for your student council meeting.”

“I’m hungry, Mama,” Bent replied, his mouth half-full of cereal. “Is my grilled cheese sandwich ready, yet?”

Using a metal spatula, Maggie sliced the sandwich in two, then lifted it from the electric skillet and laid it on her son’s plate. For the past six months the boy had been eating her out of house and home. No matter how much he ate, he remained famished. She smiled, remembering how her father had teased her brother when he’d gone through his ravenous period at about the same age Bent was now.

Maggie wanted to ruffle her son’s hair, the way she’d done when he was younger. But another change that had occurred in the past few months was Bent’s obsession with his hair and clothes. He wore his silky black hair in the latest style: short, moussed and sticking straight up. And his baggy jeans and oversize shirt looked as if they’d been purchased at a secondhand store, despite their hefty price tags.

Bent lifted a sandwich half and stuck it into his mouth. His gaze met Maggie’s just as she rolled her eyes heavenward. He munched on the grilled cheese, swallowed and then washed it all down with a large glass of orange juice.

Bent wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go ahead and ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me if my legs are hollow.” Laughing, Bent shoved back his chair and stood. “You know you said Grandfather used to tell Uncle Bentley that he ate so much his legs had to be hollow.”

“I don’t need to ask you. I’ve come to the conclusion that all teenage boys have hollow legs and sometimes—” she reached up and pecked the top of his head “—hollow noggins, too.”

“Ah, gee, Mama, don’t start that again. Just because I want to go to Florida with the guys this summer doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

Maggie looked up at her six-foot son and a shudder rippled along her nerve endings. Dear Lord, the older he got, the more he resembled his father. And the stronger the wild streak in him grew. A yearning for adventure and excitement that was alien to Maggie. She’d always preferred safety and serenity.

“You’re too young to go off with a bunch of other boys, without a chaperone.” She and Bent had been batting this argument back and forth for weeks now. She had no intention of allowing her fourteen-year-old child to spend a week in Florida with five other boys, ranging in age from fourteen to eighteen.

“Chris’s big brother is going along to chaperone us.” Bent picked up his clear vinyl book bag from the kitchen counter.

“And how old is Chris’s big brother?” Maggie downed the last drops of lukewarm coffee in her mug, set the mug aside and grabbed her purse off the table.

“He’s twenty,” Bent said, as if twenty were an age of great wisdom and responsibility.

Maggie snatched up her car keys and headed toward the back door. “Let’s go. If I have to drop you off a block from the school, then we’d better head out now so you’ll have time to walk that extra block.”

Bent grabbed Maggie’s shoulder, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’re the absolute best mom. Some mothers wouldn’t understand why a guy my age would be embarrassed to have his mommy drive him to school every day.”

Maggie caressed her kissed cheek. Those sweet moments of little-boy affection were few and far between these days. Her only child was growing up—fast. Each day she noted some small change, some almost indiscernible way he had transformed from a boy into a young man.

“Buttering me up won’t work, you know.” She opened the kitchen door and shooed him outside. “You aren’t going to Florida this summer, unless you go with me.”

Bent shrugged. “If you say so.”

He let the subject drop, but Maggie knew the issue was far from dead. Her son was a good kid, who’d given her very little trouble over the years, but she knew that the wanderlust in him would sooner or later break her heart. She could protect him, now, while he was still underage, but what would happen once he reached eighteen?

Ten minutes later, Maggie pulled her Cadillac over to the curb, one block from Parsons City High School. “Do you need any money?”

Bent flung open the door, glanced over his shoulders and smiled. Even his smile reminded her of his father’s.

“Got plenty,” Bent said. “You just gave me twenty Monday, remember?”

Maggie nodded. “Have a good one. And don’t be late this afternoon. You’re getting fitted for your tux at four-thirty so you need to meet me at the bookstore by four.”

He slid out of the car, then leaned over and peered inside, his smile unwavering. “I’ll meet you at the bookstore no later than four.” With that said, he slammed the door and walked down the sidewalk.

Maggie watched him for a few minutes, then eased the car away from the curb and out into traffic. Another perfectly ordinary day, she thought, then sighed contentedly. Perhaps her life wasn’t perfect, but it was good. Maybe she didn’t have a special man in her life and hadn’t had anyone since her divorce from Gil Douglas four years ago, but she was content. She had the most wonderful child in the whole world, a job she loved, enough money for Bent’s college as well as her old age and both she and Bent were blessed with excellent health. What more could a woman want?

A sudden, unexpected memory flashed through her mind. Her heartbeat accelerated. Heat flushed her body. Why had she thought about him? she wondered. She had tried to forget, tried not to ever think about that week they’d spent together and the way she had felt when she was with him. Fifteen years was a long time. Long enough for her to have gotten over her infatuation. So, why had she been thinking about Egan Cassidy so often lately? Was it because Bent had grown up to be a carbon copy of him?

She couldn’t help wondering where Egan was now. Was he even alive? Considering his profession, he could have been killed years ago. Emotion lodged in her throat. Despite the fact that a part of her hated him, she couldn’t bear the thought that he might be dead. As surely as she hated him, she still cared. After all, he was Bent’s father.

“Psst… Hey, kid, are you Bentley Tyson Douglas?” a deep, masculine voice asked.

Bent jerked his head around, seeking the man who had called out to him. “Who wants to know?”

A big, burly guy wearing faded jeans and an army fatigue shirt stepped out from behind a car in the parking lot at Bent’s right. “I’m a friend of a friend of your old man’s.”

Bent inspected the rather unsavory-looking character, from his shaggy dark beard to his scuffed leather boots. Bent very seriously doubted that this man was a friend of anyone Gil Douglas referred to as even an acquaintance. His adoptive father was one of the biggest snobs in the world. He probably wouldn’t let a guy who looked like this man did walk his dog.