“You wanted a business arrangement, Rafe.

“And that’s what I’m offering. You help me save Sean. I help you save Zoe.”

What about the fact that every time we come within kissing range, sparks fly? Rafe wanted to say. He was half tempted to reach for her and prove his point. But let him stroke her once and she might fly to pieces. Still, he couldn’t let it go. “Zoe’s requirement for her baby is a two-parent loving family. I don’t see how I can sell her on a make-believe marriage.”

“You seemed to think you could before,” Dana observed.

Putting a finger to her chin, he brought her head around. “I meant to wed you and bed you and make the best of the deal while we were together,” he said fiercely. “I don’t call that a sham.”

She jerked her chin away. “Whatever you care to call it, I don’t want it! I’m offering a merger of interests—not a marriage of hearts.”

Marriage. To Dana. Rings and lace and driving off with tin cans clattering, hands clasped. With my body I thee worship. He wasn’t alone in this feeling, whatever she said. Patience, he reminded himself.

“Well?” she demanded. “Take it or leave it.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said huskily. “When?”

Dear Reader,

The nicest thing about being an author is that I get to “fix” things. Doesn’t work that way in the real world. But, on paper, Readers, I can make the world so…sweet.

Better yet, I can take the best of the dozen best men I’ve ever met and meld them into one great man. I can give him the postman’s gorgeous eyes, the buns of that senior quarterback who never even knew I existed back when I was fourteen, my father’s fierce “family man” instincts, my own man’s deliciously arrogant, maddening, entrancing sense of macho—but maybe I’ll insert a tidiness gene stolen from my accountant.

Well, I knew from the moment I created Dana Kershaw, in Don’t Mess with Texans, that I’d have to get back to her. Her life needed fixing. No way could I leave her pregnant and grieving, fighting a gallantly losing battle to honor her promises, while she struggled to hang on to a tottering little dude ranch in southwestern Colorado. She needed help, and so did her confused and lonely stepson, Sean.

They needed a good man, a family man, a tall-in-the-saddle, blue-eyed, steadfast Solution to their problems. They needed…Rafe Montana.

So I sat down to my ancient computer, put the cat in my lap and started to write. (“This I can fix!”)

Hope you enjoy their story, and thanks, as always, for reading it!

Peggy Nicholson

The Baby Bargain

Peggy Nicholson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for my dad, Erwin Grimes of Kerrville, Texas, who gave me my wings.

And as always, Ron. Thank you.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER ONE

A YEAR AGO TODAY, St. Patrick’s Day, he and his dad had sat here in this booth, eating bacon cheeseburgers. Guys’ Night Out, his dad had called it, and he’d ordered the jumbo basket of onion rings, then winked at Sean, both of them knowing that if they’d brought Dana along, she would have fussed about too much grease and cholesterol.

That was the last meal they’d ever shared. Sean had slept over in town that night with the Wilsons, though he’d protested that he was old enough to stay by himself out at the Ribbon R for a three-day weekend. “Or you could take me with you,” he’d pleaded, not for the first time. “It’s not like missing one crummy Friday is going to hurt my grades.” He’d been a straight-A student last year in ninth grade, when things like that mattered. Seemed to matter.

If you’d taken me along…He’d never have let it happen. Somehow Sean felt that if he’d been with them, he’d have known not to cross that hillside. Or if it had happened—the avalanche—he’d never have quit—never, ever, never—till he found his dad and dug him free. Not like Dana, who hadn’t dug deep enough, fast enough, long enough. Stupid, gutless Dana, who quit and skiied off for the help that came too late.

Quitter. Anger felt like a lump of smoldering charcoal in his stomach, gray-white dust over a ruby center. He picked up his glass of soda and took a tiny sip—had to make it last—then jumped as Judy, the night waitress at Moe’s Truckstop, loomed up behind him.

“Here, you’re done with that, kiddo.” She reached for his plate, which still held a curl of limp lettuce and a slice of tomato.

“Am not!” He caught hold of it and glared up at her. He didn’t have enough money to order anything else, but he was darned if he’d leave yet. The Ribbon R was nothing but an aching and an emptiness. Nobody but Dana and her loudmouth baby waiting there for him.

“Suit yourself.” Judy shrugged and turned to welcome the group coming through the arch from the front room—the convenience store Moe ran—of the truck stop. “Sit anywhere you like,” she called, and headed toward the counter where she kept the menus.

Kids from school, Sean realized, watching them as they chose the big circular booth on the far side of the café. Seniors. They didn’t spare him a glance. The biggest guy, a football jock, maneuvered his date with a possessive hand at the small of her slender back.

The skin on Sean’s palm tingled as if it slid across silk. He curled his fingers hard around the feeling, making a fist, as the jock’s date smiled up at him and edged into the booth. She wore a long, slinky yellow dress, with a dyed green carnation pinned between her breasts. Sean swallowed with an audible gulp, wondering if she had let the jock pin it on her—the lucky stiff—then jumped as the three boys at the table swung their heads to fix him with cold, unblinking stares.

Caught me looking. Wishing. He turned back to his plate and hunched his shoulders. With the girls’ giggles sounding like sleigh bells behind him, he felt his face grow hot, then hotter. Frantically he grabbed his drink and rubbed the misty glass across his cheek. Oh, no, was the back of his neck turning red?

“California,” one of the guys jeered, not bothering to lower his voice.

Almost a curse word, Sean had learned since he’d moved here from San Diego two years ago. Coloradans thought Californians were buying up every last acre of their lousy state that the Texans hadn’t already grabbed. Though who in his right mind would want it? If I had my way, I’d go back to San Diego in a heartbeat. He would, too, any day now, as soon as his mother felt well enough to take him. A wave of emotion swept through him, like a black hole yawning wide; greasy slopes led down into his own private darkness. He closed his eyes tight and waited for the feeling to pass.

“Sean?” Judy patted his shoulder. “Your mama’s on the phone.” She nodded toward the corridor that led to the rest rooms and the pay phone.

“My—” Hope flew up like a startled bird—then fell as he realized. “My stepmother, you mean.”

“That nice, nice lady named Dana, who your daddy liked enough to marry—yep, that one. She wants you.”

“Tell her I’m not here,” he blurted desperately.

“Ha! I’m not your press secretary, Mr. President. Tell her yourself.”

He kept his eyes on his sneakers as he casually crossed the room, but he stole a glance over his shoulder as he reached the hallway.

The three girls in the booth were all primped up, wearing fancy dresses in bright colors. The St. Patrick’s Day dance was tonight, he remembered. Another reason he’d felt blue today. I wonder if I’ll ever have a date. The few friends he’d made in his first year at the high school he’d lost, because he just couldn’t make himself care. The only girl he really talked to was Zoe, but she was a senior and his boss on the yearbook. The head editor. Nobody a sophomore could ever date.

The receiver of the wall-mounted pay phone dangled at knee level. He sighed and picked it up. “’Lo.”

“Sean?” Dana’s low voice hummed with tension.

“Yeah.” He should have just hung up on her. He sighed again and swung around to slouch against the rough plaster.

“You…didn’t come home.”

Yeah, no fooling, Sherlock. He didn’t say anything.

“Did you miss your bus?”

I gave it a miss, right. If there was one day of the year he couldn’t stand the sight of Dana…that he needed to spend by himself, this was it. Crappy St. Patrick’s Day. “Looks like it, doesn’t it.”

He heard her sigh down the telephone line. “I can’t pick you up, Sean. We have guests tonight—for the whole week—skiers. I’m just about to put supper on the table.”

“Doesn’t matter.” In San Diego he could have taken a cab home, the way his mother always did when she’d partied too much. In Trueheart, Colorado, it’d be easier to catch a coyote and ride it home. Or hitch. “I’ll manage.”

“Judy gets off work at ten. She said she’d be happy to give you a ride.”

No way. He’d rather walk ten miles in the snow and slush than listen to one of Judy’s pull-up-your-socks pep talks. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.”

“Sean, honey, please. Come home. I know what you’re—”

“No. You don’t.” He replaced the receiver on its hook with stony deliberation—it was that or smash it against the phone, then keep on smashing till he held nothing but splinters. No, you don’t. He was standing, staring at his fingers curled around the black plastic, when an icy draft brushed his cheek.

Someone coming through the fire exit at the end of the hallway, he saw from the corner of his eye. She slammed the door behind her and stood panting, one hand pressed to her throat—long, tall Zoe Montana, reminding him of a Christmas tree with her shiny green dress and her carrot-red hair. He felt better already, just looking at her.

“Oh, rats!” she said. Her fine, goldy-red eyebrows drew into a scowl. “You didn’t see me.”

“I didn’t?” She was hard to miss. She was taller than his five foot six-and-a-half inches by several more, though he was all muscle while she was all freckly skin and bones—most of that leg, like one of those big wading birds. A stork on fire, the captain of the football team had called her once in the cafeteria, and everybody had laughed.

She let out a long-suffering sigh, the way she did when one of the airheads on the yearbook staff failed to meet a section deadline, and hooked a thumb at the door to the ladies’. “Is anybody in there?”

“Uh, don’t think so.”

“Thank God.” She slipped around the door and vanished.

Sean crossed his arms, leaned back against the wall and waited. Zoe Montana was maybe the only person in True-heart worth talking to.

She came out a few minutes later, looking less wild eyed. More like the yearbook editor about to give her most junior photographer a shooting assignment. But then, Zoe’s assignments were always interesting. She was the smartest girl—the smartest person—in their whole regional high school, and that probably included the teachers.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. And in a long, silky dress. She always wore slacks or jeans to school, with bulky sweaters and funky lace-up knee boots. Or clunky Steve Maddens, which raised her height to over six feet, when she was in a mood to kick butt. Idly he lifted his fingers, shaping a square to frame her, and wished he had his camera. It was the first time he’d ever realized Zoe was more than funny looking. Snckk. He took a mental photograph.

“Is there anybody out there?” Zoe nodded toward the café. “Anybody from school, I mean?”

“Some jocks and jock-bunnies, eating supper before the dance.” The dance that Zoe must be going to, also, Sean realized with quickening interest. He didn’t know she had a boyfriend. Who would be sharp enough to keep up with her?

“Shoot. I’m dying for a cup of coffee.” She sagged back against the opposite wall.

“Then come have one with me.” He was astonished at his own daring—then his heart sank as he remembered. Crap! He had less than a dollar left.

“Thanks, but…” She shook her head. “I’m not in the mood for company.” Her eyes sharpened on his face. “I mean the kind of company in there.” She crossed her forefingers between them. “No clowns tonight. Not one more.”

“Oh.” He had clowning down to an art form, but he didn’t think she meant him. Still, Sean felt like a bozo, with nothing more to say. “I guess you’re going to the dance?” He threw out the question at random.

“I guess I’m not.”

“But you’re all…” He waved his hand, taking in her finery. She even had boobs, he realized, stealing a peek at the gap between the long lapels of the coat that matched her party dress. Not honkers, but somehow right for Zoe. Her clothes had always disguised them before.

“The creep stood me up—okay?” she said between clenched teeth.

“Or maybe he had car trouble,” Sean suggested, wanting to wipe that look of angry humiliation off her face. She didn’t deserve to be stood up just because she was too tall and too smart for her own good.

“No, I finally called his house. His little brother told me he had a date with Amanda Clayton and that he’d already left.” Zoe stared blankly down at the toes of her green high heels.

Amanda Clayton? A babe, if Sean had ever seen one. Little and brunette and cuddly. And dumb as a post. Her longtime steady had rolled his car after a party last weekend, Sean had heard, and was in the hospital down in Durango with both legs in casts. High school dances were like a game of musical chairs, he’d always thought, and this time poor Zoe was left standing. Stork ablaze. “So why didn’t you just…” Call me? He’d have been happy to help her out.

“Stay home? Right, and tell my dad why? He’d have stomped down to the gym and dragged Bobbie out by his ear. Or maybe shot him. I have enough to live down without that, thank you. So I—” Zoe shrugged and turned toward the fire exit. “I’ve got to go.” She spun back again, tottered on her heels, and braced one long arm out against the wall. “Oh, and Sean, do me a favor? You never saw me.”

She must be just riding around, he realized, killing time till it was safe to go home. “Then how about a favor for a favor?” Her embarrassment made him feel bolder. “Could you give me a ride out to the ranch? There’s no hurry,” he added, as she opened her mouth. “You could drop me at my turnoff out on the highway—any time tonight at all.”

She closed her soft pink lips and cocked her head, studying him. Being Zoe, he knew, she saw more than he wanted to show. He shrugged and held her blue-eyed gaze with an effort.

“Yeah, I could do that,” she said thoughtfully, her eyes turning inward in that look that usually ended in another crazy assignment for him—like the time she’d hidden him in the ceiling above the teachers’ lounge to take candid photos. “I’d be happy to.”

TWO HOURS OF CRUISING around in Zoe’s baby-blue antique Mustang. Sean had held his breath when they drove past the small sign out on the highway that said Ribbon River Dude Ranch, 4 miles, Guests Welcome, but Zoe had given him a sideways smile and had kept on driving. All the way to Cortez, where they bought hamburgers and French fries—Zoe’s treat—at the drive-through window in the McDonald’s. They ate in the parking lot while they punched the buttons on her car radio, ceaselessly scanning the airwaves for anything but country music. Sean preferred hard rock, golden oldies, songs that reminded him of the West Coast; Zoe liked anything with a Latin sound. Her mother had been Hispanic, Sean remembered her telling him once while they developed film in the school darkroom. That was another thing they shared, besides their impatience with small-town life: they’d both lost a parent; though Zoe’s mom had died ages ago, when she was six.

Driving back, they passed the Ribbon R again. “You don’t want to go home yet,” Zoe said, and it wasn’t quite a question. She drove almost halfway to town, then flipped on her blinker as they neared the turnoff to the private airport that lay a few miles to the south. Sean felt his stomach jump, then swarm with butterflies. Surely she couldn’t mean to—

But she did. Zoe chose the left-hand fork in the road, which wound around the back side of the airport, and stopped at the far end of the north-south runway, where the road skirted the edge of a bluff. She parked facing the dropoff, with the far-off lights of Trueheart twinkling in the thin mountain air like diamonds scattered in the snow. Two other cars were parked at discreet intervals along the overlook. Sean stole a glance at the one on his right, but its windows were too steamed up for him to see anything.

“I come here in summer to watch the planes take off,” Zoe said, ignoring their neighbors. “Did you ever do that? They zoom right overhead. It feels like they’re going to snap off your antenna they fly so low—then whoosh—they’re out there beyond you and gone.”

“Wow.” His throat was too dry, and his mind a blank. What did she want from him?

“I’m going to fly away like that one of these days. Soon. I just got admitted to Harvard—early admission. Did I tell you that?”

She hadn’t, but he’d heard. The whole school had been abuzz with the news last week. Nobody from their school had ever been admitted to Harvard. And Zoe Montana was the baby of her class, a year younger than the next youngest senior—not even seventeen yet, since she’d skipped a grade of school back in elementary.

“That’ll be neat.” For her. For him it meant he’d have zero friends next year, instead of one. “I wish I could fly away.” His mother’s last letter from the health spa had said he should be patient, finish the tenth grade in Colorado. But after that, surely she’d agree that he belonged with her. If he belonged anywhere.

“Yeah,” Zoe murmured without conviction, then said it again, louder and brighter. “Yeah! Boston…Harvard…Everything’s going to be different then. Better.”

He glanced at her, surprised. What was wrong with her life now? She had an overdose of brains. A grudging respect in the school, if not popularity. A rich rancher daddy who loved her—he must love her to have given her this wonderful car. And she was escaping Southwest Colorado, going off to the real world where exciting things happened. She was practically grown up, practically free, while he—he was trapped here in Nowhere City. Trapped by his own age—couldn’t drive, couldn’t drink, couldn’t vote, couldn’t hold a real job. Couldn’t choose with whom he wanted to live. His dad had appointed Dana his guardian, and had never once asked Sean what he thought about that.

“Oh, rats, rats, rats!” Zoe started the Mustang, reversed it hastily onto the road, then popped it into forward gear. The tires slipped on an icy rut, then caught, and they zoomed off around the perimeter road.

“Hey, your headlights!” Sean reached for the switch, and she batted his hand aside.

“Uh-uh! Look behind you.”

Sean turned—to see that a car had stopped behind the first car back at the bluff. A spotlight switched on, illuminating the luckless couple twined together in the backseat. “The sheriff!”

“Nosy Noonan. And he’s a friend of my dad’s.” Zoe passed the first hangar and hung a hard right, driving along the far side of the building toward the airfield, then tucked her Mustang in neatly ahead of a pickup truck set up as a snowplow.

The giant curved blade blocked Sean’s view of the road entirely, provided perfect cover. “Whew!” She was clever.

“Get down, get down!” she cried in a giggling frenzy. “If he shines his light…!” She leaned sideways toward him over the gearshift, her frizzy hair brushing his knees. Sean laughed and hunched down over her, his chest pressed against her quivering shoulder. He stayed there that way, in a state of total bliss, long after the sheriff’s car had cruised past. Her shampoo smelled of lemon and a spice Dana used sometimes in her cooking; rosemary, that was it. Something soft was touching his thigh, and he thought—hoped—prayed—it was her breast.

“Is it safe to come out?” she asked finally in a muffled voice.

“I think…” Except he wasn’t. He was absorbed totally in feeling all the wonderful sensations of a warm girl sprawled across his lap. Zoe. Her giggles made her seem younger, more his own age than an impossible two years older.

She jabbed an elbow gently into his ribs, and he had to sit up. Curling one hand around his thigh just above his knee, she pushed herself upright—then slowly turned her head to look at him over her right shoulder. Their lips were only inches apart.

Every muscle in his legs tensed and hardened. Heat pooled in his lap. Oh, Zoe!

She pulled completely away from him and sat, clutching her steering wheel, staring out through the windshield.

He counted his own heartbeats, dizzy from the lack of blood in his head. What do you want from me, Zoe Montana? Anything, anything at all that she wanted, he’d give—and give gladly.

“Want to see a special place?” she said finally, not looking at him, her voice sounding funny. “My special place?”

TEN MINUTES LATER they sat in the cockpit of a wrecked Cessna, which was parked on the far side of the hangar. Zoe had claimed the pilot’s seat, which to Sean seemed only fitting. She could take him anywhere she wanted tonight.

They even had supplies for their journey. Zoe had pulled two down sleeping bags, and a sack that contained water and granola bars, from the trunk of her car—part of a safety kit her father made her carry in winter, in case she ever was caught out in a blizzard.

“I found this last fall.” Zoe stroked the Cessna’s steering yoke. “Some elk hunter flipped it coming in for a landing. He walked away and swore he’d never fly again. Something’s twisted in the frame. Luke, the mechanic here, bought it cheap from the insurance company. Said he’s going to fix it one of these days. But meanwhile she just sits here, all lonely.”

“Cool.” In every sense of the word. Huddled in his ski jacket, Sean was starting to shiver, partly from the cold, partly from excitement.

“I’m going to be a pilot someday,” Zoe said dreamily. “Dad promised he’d pay for my flying lessons when I graduate from college.”

And his dad had promised that when Sean graduated from high school, he’d give Sean a motorcycle, an old Harley he could fix up himself. That they’d ride together all the way up to Alaska, then back again, the summer after his senior year. Dreams…so fragile that a mound of moving snow could crush them. The snowbound runway beyond the windshield shimmered, then blurred, and Sean blinked frantically. “So tell me about college, what that’ll be like.”

“College…” She tipped back her head and stared up at the dented ceiling. “It’s going to be…different. Very, very…different.”

“Different how?”

She turned to fix him with her wide, light eyes, and was quiet so long that he wondered if he’d said something really stupid. “I’m freezing,” she said at last. “Want to get into the bags?”

They zipped themselves into the puffy down bags and sat shoulder to shoulder in the wide, flat space in the rear that once must have held passenger seats.

“Much better,” Zoe murmured, leaning against him. She sighed contentedly. “Mmm…how will college be different? Well, for starters, nobody’s going to call me a brain, or a grind or a teacher’s pet at Harvard. I won’t be a freak. I’ll be normal.”

Just as he had been a normal kid, back in San Diego, before Dana married his dad and lured them off to Colorado. “That’s good.”

“Yeah…and maybe I’ll throw all my clothes away and start over. No more thumbing my nose at the cowgirls and the cheerleaders. I want a whole new image—sleek, elegant, sophisticated. I’m going to scout the campus for a day or two when I get there. Before I check in. See what everybody’s wearing…”

He was so used to Zoe’s rebel tomboy looks that it was hard picturing her dressing to blend in, but Sean knew what she meant. You got tired of fighting, but what else could you do? Once they had you pigeonholed, they’d laugh at you even harder if you tried to change. If he broke down and bought a Stetson and boots like the cow-patty crowd wore, that wouldn’t get him accepted now. They’d brand him as a phony—and a coward.

“And maybe I’ll switch to using my middle name. Elena.” She gave it the Spanish pronunciation, making it sound rich and exotic.

I’d miss “Zoe.” But he nodded gravely. A fresh start; it was what he wanted, too. “Elena—it’s pretty.”

“And…” She tipped her head down to rest it against his shoulder. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“I swear.” He drew a shaky breath and, holding it, put his arm around the soft, puffy expanse of her waist. When she didn’t stiffen, didn’t pull away—actually seemed to settle a little closer against him—he felt as if the Cessna had taken off. He was floating, flying…“I swear I won’t.”

“I’m thinking of dyeing my hair. Black. Or maybe an auburn so dark it’s practically black.”

He loved her crazy red hair, loved the fact that, in her own way, she was a freak like him, a fish in the wrong pond. Even holding her, he felt a wave of loneliness wash over him. She was soaring away, off to somewhere she’d fit in, while he—

“You think that’s crazy?” Zoe demanded in a tiny, dubious voice.

While he—he was her friend. Here to back her up, even when she was crazy—and dyeing her fire-engine-red curls was the worst kind of crazy crime. “No…No, I don’t think so. I think you’d look wonderful with black hair,” he lied. “Or maybe…um…auburn? That might be an even better idea.” At least, less of a crime.

“Good!” she laughed delightedly. “I’m so glad you think so!” Somehow she’d slipped down to half-lie across his lap—the nylon bags were slippery. She squirmed around to rest her head across his thighs, smiling up at him. “And that brings me to one last little thing I mean to change.”

He stared down at her, helplessly, hopelessly enthralled. “W-what?”

“I thought maybe you could help me with this…” She stared up at him, smiling no longer, then reached up to finger the collar of his jacket. “You see…the problem is…I’m still a virgin.”

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN MITZY BARLOW invited him over for Saturday supper, the first week in June, Rafe Montana had gone gladly, anticipating an evening of hot, no-holds-barred sex.

Instead she’d served pot roast.

She’d served it up with such a hopeful, fluttery smile—fussing over the homey details like candles on the table, bran rolls she’d baked herself, glazed carrots just like the ones he’d enjoyed in the restaurant last week when he took her out on their first date—that Rafe realized immediately, with a sinking heart, that this wasn’t to be a simple night of fun between two healthy, sensible adults who knew precisely what they wanted.

Oh, no, this was an audition. Along with the peas, pot roast and carrots, Mitzy was dishing out all the unspoken reasons she’d make a good—no, a perfect—wife. His perfect wife.

How could a man so misread a woman’s intentions? Rafe wondered, scowling through the windshield as his headlights fled before him up the valley. He would have sworn from the way she talked last week—hell, from the way she came on to him—that they were in complete agreement. After dinner they’d danced, and you couldn’t have wedged an ace of hearts between them, the way she’d melted into his arms. And later, when he’d walked her to her door, Mitzy had made it crystal clear what she wanted. While he kissed her good-night, she’d drawn the hand he’d placed lightly on her shoulder down to her breast—then held it there while she moaned and squirmed against him. He’d felt plain apologetic, when he came up for air, explaining that he couldn’t stay. That since he hadn’t presumed to make arrangements for someone to sleep over with his daughter out at Suntop Ranch, he had to go home to Zoe.

Mitzy had caught him off guard on their first date. But this Saturday, when she’d insisted in a husky voice that it was her turn to entertain him, he’d come prepared. At his pointed suggestion, Zoe was sleeping over in Trueheart tonight with her best friend, Lisa Harding. And yesterday he’d stopped by the barber’s for a trim, a week before his usual cut. Plus he’d shaved for the second time today, just before setting out. And along with a thirty-dollar bottle of French wine, he’d brought a wallet full of condoms.

But then Mitzy served pot roast—her great-grandmother Barlow’s recipe. Rafe had sat there at the table with his expectant grin fading on his face, wondering if he should tell her how he felt before the meal. Or after.

Like all men, he was a coward when it came to hurting a woman, so he’d opted for after, praying with each bite of overdone beef that he was wrong. That Mitzy just liked to cook. Or that maybe she was building up his strength for the evening’s entertainment.

No such luck. Along with the strawberry shortcake, their limping conversation had taken a turn for the worse. Mitzy had started quizzing him on Zoe. How had he ever managed, raising a small daughter alone out on a ranch miles from anywhere, without even a neighbor’s wife to give him advice?

She’d shaken her head and smiled knowingly when he’d insisted they’d managed just fine. Seeing that smirk, he’d felt his temper rise. No one had better hint to him that he hadn’t done his best for Zoe. He’d shaped his whole life around her from the very start.

And he hadn’t been fool enough to try to raise her alone, though he owed Mitzy no explanation and so had given none. He’d recruited Mrs. Higgins to be their live-in housekeeper after Pilar’s death, and that arrangement had worked out fine.

At least it had up until last year, when Mrs. Higgins had fallen head over heels for the new county agent and, after thirty years a widow, remarried. Since then, she could only come three days a week to cook and clean, but neither Zoe nor he would have dreamed of trying to replace her. After all these years, she was family. Besides, by this time Zoe hardly needed constant supervision.

“But if it wasn’t so bad before,” insisted Mitzy, “what about now, now that she’s…um…a young lady?” Didn’t Rafe find himself at a loss dealing with sex and the other issues a young woman faced?

“When it comes to the birds and the bees, ranch kids learn most of the answers before town kids think up the questions,” Rafe had observed dryly. As to other issues—things a teenage daughter wouldn’t care to discuss with her own father—she could take those to Mrs. Higgins.

Besides, though this was nothing he’d share with Mitzy, Zoe was maturing late. That date earlier this spring, for the St. Patrick’s Day dance, had been her first real night out. And apparently nothing had come of it. The kid—what had his name been—Bobbie?—must not have measured up. Which hardly surprised Zoe’s father. She had been chosen valedictorian of her class this spring, just as he’d predicted. He’d been so puffed up with pride, watching her give the graduation address last week, he’d thought he might burst. But where was a girl like that going to find someone to match her in a small town like Trueheart? It was one more reason he’d pushed her to apply to Harvard.

“But now that she’s interested in boys, don’t you think she needs advice on how to dress, how to behave…how to flirt?” Mitzy demanded.

“She’s not interested. Not yet,” he said to close off this line of inquisition. He felt his teeth come together with a click when Mitzy burst out laughing.

“At sixteen? Of course she is, Rafe! And if you think she isn’t, that just shows how out of touch you really are.”

He kept the edge out of his voice with an effort. “She’s been pushing herself hard in school these past four years, Mitzy. Really hard. She has won national awards four years running in the science fairs. And then with her extracurricular work—the yearbook and choir. And volunteering down at the hospital in Durango—”

“But I suppose Zoe knows you’d disapprove of her choice,” Mitzy mused, ignoring him entirely. “I imagine any young man who dared to date your daughter would have to pass a pretty fierce inspection at the door.”

She had that double-damn right, at least. But that was beside the point. As yet, there were no randy young studs sniffing after Zoe for him to check out. Zoe was too busy being a tomboy and a scholar. “That doesn’t leave much time for boys,” he finished, and smacked down his coffee cup. End of subject.

“Oh, there’s always time for boys,” Mitzy purred, rising from the table. She came up behind him, and, resting one hand possessively on his shoulder, reached around him for the dessert he’d barely touched. Her forearm drew across his chest, and her breast brushed the back of his arm.

Rafe felt himself stiffen all over. He went too long between women. Managing a spread the size of Suntop Ranch, he had little time or energy left to go courting in town, where the available women were. And bringing a lover back to the ranch, with his daughter living there, had never been an acceptable solution. At least that would be changing soon, when Zoe went off to college.

“Let’s have our brandy in front of the fire, shall we?” Mitzy said from the counter, lifting two balloon glasses.

Rafe sighed and followed her to her big couch in the living room, which he’d noted with approval only an hour ago when he first arrived. One reason he went a long time between lovers was that he refused to play the games that some men played. He couldn’t stomach stringing a woman along, pretending to agree with her dreams when he was after something else entirely.

Still, though he believed in straight talk, he hesitated. Telling another person that you knew what she wanted, before she’d declared herself, felt downright rude. On the other hand, maybe these tippy-toe hints were as close to a declaration as Mitzy could come.

She handed him his brandy, then clinked her glass against his. “To us,” she said softly, and held his gaze over the rim as she drank. She licked her upper lip, then smiled a slow invitation.

But Rafe was stuck back on “us.” There was no “us” yet, as far as he was concerned. “Us” sounded like a matched pair in harness trotting down the long, long road together. No, thanks, Mitzy. She was moving way too fast. “To good times,” he said firmly.

“What about you?” Mitzy murmured, snuggling back into the hollow of his shoulder. “With your chick leaving the nest in September, won’t you be terribly…lonely?”

“No.” He finished half his glass in a gulp, and straightened the arm she was leaning against along the top of the sofa, making himself into a hard, unbending corner. “I won’t be.” At least, he thought not. “You’ve got to understand, Mitzy. I’ve been sitting on that…nest for almost seventeen years.” Hatching his one fabulous, freckled egg for the past ten years all by himself, except for Mrs. Higgins. “I was nineteen when Zoe was born.”

“That must have been so hard,” she said softly. “But I suppose the good side of it is, now you’re still a young man. Why, you even have time to start a second family, if you feel like it.”

“What I feel like, after all this time of being a responsible, hard-working daddy, is taking a break,” he said bluntly. “Being footloose and fancy free. Free to come and go as I choose, when I choose.” To chase one woman or twenty, or none at all.

She was right; he was still a young man. But he’d missed most of the good times that a young man enjoyed. Those wild and crazy times that made the best memories, that a man could look back on with rueful pleasure when he reached his settle-down years. So far, Rafe had had to live his life backward, and though he didn’t regret it—look what he had to show for his hard work—still…If this wasn’t his time now, when would it ever be?

“Oh,” Mitzy said in a small voice.

Good, she was getting his message.

“Do you mean to…travel much?” She tipped her head to gaze up at him.

“Some,” he allowed cautiously. As manager and part owner of one of the region’s largest ranches, he’d never be able to travel far or long. But he’d finally found himself a good foreman, and he paid the man well enough to keep him. Anse could take up the slack if Rafe wanted a week or two away in the off-seasons.

Though it wasn’t as if Rafe had any particular plans. He wasn’t one of those middle-aged idiots desperately trying to recapture the lost years and live them now. At thirty-five, he was too old, too stiff, to hit the rodeo trail, although that had been his intention before he and Pilar had made a baby.

And he was too wise to chase the girls he’d missed out on seventeen years ago—the pretty rodeo queens, the spunky barrel racers, the sassy waitresses. Somewhere along the line his tastes had changed. To him, those girls all looked like slightly older sisters of Zoe, staying up way past their curfews. No, nowadays when he wanted company, he wanted a warm and knowing woman in his bed, not some giggling child.

The warm woman leaning against him stirred. “I’ve always wanted to travel, too. I’ve been thinking about flying down to Cancún, sometime this month. Laze around the beach, drink too many margaritas, take a lo-o-ong siesta every afternoon.” She arched her back and smiled up at him then, and hooking an arm around his neck, leaned backward. “Want to come with me?”

If there hadn’t been so many strings attached…Rafe had shaken his head regretfully, resisting the urge of both gravity and nature to follow her down on the cushions. “June is branding month, moving the cows up from the home pastures…” And he was a full-time father for one last summer, before he could cut loose.

She pouted prettily. “What if I waited till July?”

“I don’t think you should wait for me,” he’d said in all truth. Any woman who dreamed of starting a second family with him would have a long, long wait, indeed.

He’d made his excuses and left soon after that, though it had been a hard-won retreat. Sensing his cooling, Mitzy had redoubled her efforts to fan his flames. But knowing she wouldn’t thank him tomorrow if he took what she was offering tonight, he’d politely declined—and gained no gratitude for his self-control. He winced, remembering her final tearful reply as he stood shuffling on her doorstep, hat in his hands.

“Thanks? Thanks for nothing, cowboy!”

“Well, damnation, what was I supposed to do?” he now asked the night and the mountains. His truck was mounting the last rise of the county road that twisted up the valley past Suntop.

He’d given nothing tonight, taken nothing. Felt nothing now but shame and frustration and emptiness. A man felt nothing but small when he failed to give a woman what she needed, wanted. And as for his own wants—He thought of that handful of condoms in his wallet and groaned aloud with embarrassment. If he hadn’t needed both hands for steering, he would have yanked them out and tossed them to the winds!

He reached the main gate to the ranch, and, as his truck turned under the big name board that arched overhead and rumbled across the cattle guard and onto his own land, Rafe heaved a sigh of relief. At least here on Suntop, everything was simple.

As he drove the last half-mile up to the manager’s house, his eyes automatically swept the pastures to either side, his mind cataloguing the state of the grass—greening up nicely since they’d moved the yearlings last week. The condition of the fences—a post on the right looked wobbly, tell Anse tomorrow. He braked as a whitetail deer soared over the right fence, touched once, twice on the roadway, then flew away over the left into darkness. He brought the truck to a halt and waited, and sure enough here came a second, then a third, fourth and fifth. A fawn raced frantically along the barbed wire, calling, and one of the does leaped back the way she’d come to meet it.

Rafe drove on—then let out a grunt of surprise as he topped the last rise and saw Zoe’s Mustang.

Must have just arrived, he realized as he parked beside it, outside the back door. She’d yet to shut off her headlights, and the passenger door swung wide. Great. Much as he loved his daughter, she wasn’t the sort of company he’d had in mind tonight. And given his mood, he’d sooner get over his frustration alone, with a cold beer and a good book by the fire, than be forced to sit in the kitchen, eating a bowl of ice cream, while Zoe quizzed him in cheerful detail about his big night out.

“Daddy!” Zoe leaped down the porch steps to the yard, with the dogs, Woofle and Trey, bounding at her heels. “What are you doing back?”

“Called it an early night,” he said, walking around to her door to close it. As he leaned in to turn off her lights, he saw the bags of groceries crowding the seat and the floorboards. He scooped up the nearest four and straightened. “You’re supposed to be over at Lisa’s,” he noted.

“She, um…got sick. Flu, I guess. It seemed smarter to not stay over. So I swung by the grocery store, then came back.” Zoe reached for one of his bags. “Here—give me that one.”

“I’ve got it.”

She tugged it out of his arms. “This one’s got the eggs. There’s a really heavy one with lots of cans. If you’d get that…”

“Sure.” He followed her up the steps to the porch, the dogs surging delightedly around their feet, celebrating this reunion as if he and Zoe had been gone a month instead of hours. “Woof, sit.”

The Airedale dropped on the stoop, stub tail wagging, while the jealous Border collie, hearing a command, spun on her furry length and shoved out the kitchen door for her own—just as Zoe stepped up over the threshold from the mudroom.

“Watch it!” Arms full, Rafe lunged helplessly toward her, then stopped short as she tripped over the dog and went sprawling headlong. “Zoe!” He set his bags down. “Baby, are you—”

“I’m fine.” She pushed herself to her elbows, laughing, as the collie bathed her face with apologetic kisses. “Stop, Trey! Back off!” She curled her long legs under her and sat, as Rafe dropped on his boot heels beside her. Then her smile vanished, and her mouth rounded to an “Oh” of dismay.

“You’re hurt! Where?” He ran his hands down her slender arms. She’d broken her wrist years before in just such a fall. Not yet grown into her legs, she was always tripping, still clumsy as a foal.

“N-no, I…” She was staring beyond him at the cans and boxes that had scattered across the floor. Her eyes switched to his face and she gave him a shaky smile. “I’m fine, Daddy, really. Perfectly fine.” She started to rise. “If you’d go get the rest of the groceries, I’ll—”

“You’ll sit till you catch your breath.” Rafe glanced around for a chair, stood to get it. He scanned the spilled groceries, seeking the carton of eggs she’d mentioned. A blue box had tumbled nearly to the stove. As the words on its label registered in the back of his mind, his gaze stopped. Swung back. And locked on.

“Um, Daddy?” she said in a tiny quaver as he crossed the room.

He could hear the blood thumping in his ears. Those words couldn’t say what he thought they’d said.

What they really said.

Impossible. He straightened, holding a pregnancy test kit.

“What’s this for?” he asked in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.

THE DUDES in Aspen Cabin and Cottonwood Cabin, who had driven over to the Indian cliff houses at Mesa Verde National Park for the day, had returned, tired, sunburned and happy—and an hour and a half later than they’d promised.

By that time Dana had assumed they’d stopped to eat in town. Recklessly switching her menu at the last minute, she’d decided that Sunday would be Barbecue Night, instead—you really needed a crowd out on the deck to make it a festive occasion. She’d told Sean to scatter the coals and let the fire die out in the outdoor grill, while she’d whipped up a tomato-and-onion quiche with a spinach salad for her remaining guests, the two sisters from Boston. They were perpetually fussing about calories, anyway, so let them eat light for once.

But no sooner had Dana pulled the quiche from the oven than the truants had trooped in, appetites raging, consciences shameless, innocently expecting a hot, home-cooked meal to materialize out of thin air.

“They’re brats,” she confided to Petra in the privacy of her kitchen. “Could even teach you a thing or two, sweetie, but don’t you listen.”

No fear there. Utterly absorbed in a game of Follow the Leader with Zorro, the cat, Petra scuttled across the linoleum, rump high, diaper askew. “Ca, ca, ca, ca!” she declared, reaching for Zorro’s tail, as he leaped up to the safety of a chair tucked under the kitchen table. Zorro whisked the endangered prize out of sight, then stepped serenely onto the next chair and sat to lick a paw.

“Cat, that’s right,” Dana crooned absently while she sliced the quiche into cocktail-size bites and arranged them on a platter. This, two bottles of wine and a bowl full of cherries, should keep her guests amused for the next twenty minutes or so.

But what then? Think, Dana.

She was too tired to think, and the pressure of ten healthy appetites demanding satisfaction in her living room sent her thoughts whirling like clothes in the dryer. Oh, drat, she hadn’t moved the load from the washer an hour ago, had she?

Focus, she commanded herself as she tucked the bottles of wine under her elbow, then hoisted the platter and bumped her hip against the swinging door that led into the dining room. As she passed the long mahogany table, she realized she’d told Sean to set it for four. She’d need another eight settings now.

But first food, she reminded herself. “Cocktail hour!” she announced with a smile and a flourish, handing the platter to Caroline Simmons and nodding at the coffee table. “And Leo, would you play bartender?” He was the one member of the latecomers who’d had the grace to look embarrassed. She placed the bottles of chardonnay on the sideboard, where he’d find glasses and a corkscrew.

“Could you use any help in the kitchen?” he asked, smiling down at her.

“Oh, thanks, not at all! Just sit down and put your feet up. You’ve had a long day.” She threaded her way through the rest of her milling guests, with a smile and a word for each, then went up the front stairs, consciously imitating Zorro’s unruffled serenity. Once she’d turned at the newel post on the landing and was out of sight, she took the last steps three at a time. Help? Oh, no, not me!

Arriving at Sean’s door—closed as always—she paused and drew a breath, steeling herself. Then knocked. “Sean?”

No answer, though she could hear music turned down low, beyond his barricade. “Sean, please.” He hated it if she opened his door without permission, but then, the other rule of his game was that he never seemed to hear her. “Sean!” She gritted her teeth and opened the door. “Sean, honey—”

“I told you, you’re supposed to knock!” he growled, glaring back at her from over his shoulder. He lay sprawled on his stomach on the bed, a book propped on his pillow.

“I need help,” she said, voice quivering with the effort to keep it level. She didn’t sound far from tears, she realized. Wasn’t. Oh, do I need help. This job had never been intended for one. That wasn’t the way she and Peter had planned it.

But now all she had was Peter’s son, glaring at her with Peter’s brown eyes. And none of Peter’s tenderness. “Please, Sean? I need eight more places set at the table, then some help in the kitchen.”

“Uh.”

She resisted the urge to demand if that meant yes or no. Hope for the best. “Thank you.” She shut the door gently.

Go ahead with the original barbecue? she asked herself as she hurried downstairs. No, the coals would take forever to reach grilling heat. But she couldn’t see cooking tomorrow’s steaks indoors tonight—what a waste. And Monday’s chicken was still frozen solid. Pasta, she decided, topped with peas, bacon and roasted red peppers. Garlic bread and salad. She shoved through the kitchen door.

Petra sat on the floor, face screwed to a tiny red knot of woe, beating on the linoleum with a wooden spoon in time to her hiccuping sobs. “Oh, sweetheart, did you miss me?” Dana scooped the baby up, kissed the top of her downy head, then settled her onto one hip and set to cooking one-handed. Peter, Peter, oh, Peter, if you could see us now…

CHAPTER THREE

LATE AS IT WAS, supper had been a success, Dana told herself as she paraded a steaming apple tart straight from the oven to the table. Sean followed glumly, carrying a bowl piled high with round scoops of vanilla ice cream. “So who wants pie?” she asked gaily amid the groans of delight and “oohs” of admiration.

Beyond the kitchen door, the phone rang. Dana glanced over her shoulder, her brows drawing together. It was well past nine, late for anyone to be calling. The phone rang again, and she bit her lip—Petra was sleeping in there in her playpen!

“I’ll get it,” Sean muttered, thumping his bowl down beside her.

By the time she’d served out dessert, he’d still not returned. So either the call was some tourist inquiring about vacancies at the Ribbon R, and for once Sean was handling it, or the caller had wanted her stepson in the first place.

Much as they needed to fill all the gaps in their summer schedule, Dana found herself hoping the call had been for Sean. At fourteen, he didn’t seem to get enough phone calls—didn’t seem to have any friends to speak of. Although, he confided in her so little, she supposed she’d be the last to know if he did. Still, a schoolmate calling Sean nights—she pictured a giggling thirteen-year-old charmer with a terrible crush and twice Sean’s social skills—now, that would be a welcome development. Dana ached for his loneliness, but so far she’d found no way to cure it. Peter would have known how—

Stop, she told herself firmly. After fourteen months, it was time she stopped calling on Peter.

Fourteen months or fourteen years or fourteen lifetimes, how could she not? She sat, smiling at her guests around the table, glad for the candlelight that turned tears in the eyes to sparkles.

WHEN ALL HER DUDES had left the table to wander sleepily from the main house and off up the hill to their cabins, Dana set to clearing away. A very long day, she mused as she entered the kitchen, arms loaded. “Sean?” she murmured to warn him, in case he was still engaged in conversation.

No Sean.

Dana frowned, staring at the phone on the wall beside the back door. Its receiver had been dropped on the counter. And—Her frown deepened. He’d left the door ajar.

Hand at her throat, she spun to the playpen—then breathed again at the sight of the small, blanket-draped lump in its center. At least the baby was still covered. The draft of cool mountain air would have done her no harm. Still…Does he ever think? She lifted the receiver to her ear, heard the dial tone, let out a tckk of irritation and hung it up.

What had caused him to bolt like that? The worst of it was, if she went after Sean and asked what was wrong, she knew exactly what he’d say. “Nothing,” she murmured, and grimaced.

Okay. So leave him alone, then. He’d be up in the loft of the barn, one of his hideouts when he wanted to escape her. Or else mooching along the Ribbon River—the snow-melt stream that stairstepped down the mountain, chuckling past the cabins, then the house, to spread out into glistening trout pools when it reached the valley meadows.

Dana turned back to her daughter. If I can’t help Sean, at least your wants are simple, my love. Gathering the sleeper into her arms, she buried her nose against Petra’s warm neck and, with eyes closed, simply breathed in her scent for a moment. Then she carried the baby softly up to bed.

HALF AN HOUR LATER she was rinsing the last pots and pans. Sean had yet to make an appearance, though a few moments ago she’d half thought she heard him thump through the front door. Had he returned that way to avoid her? But if that wasn’t him…Dana frowned out the window into the darkness. Go find him and coax him home? Or leave him be?

Something moved in the glass. She blinked, and then realized—a reflection from the room behind her; the dining room door swinging open. Sean stood in the doorway, one arm bracing the door wide, as silently he watched her.

The skin along her spine contracted in a rippling shudder. Not Sean, but someone much taller, wider, darker. Standing with the stillness of a predator.

Why didn’t I lock the door?

She hadn’t for the same reason she never did. Guests trooped in and out all day; Sean came and went; and this wasn’t Vermont, where she’d been raised, where everyone locked up. Out here in the West, you depended on distance to protect you. The guest ranch was four miles down a private road from the highway. No one came here by chance.

Behind her, the stranger moved at last, letting the door go and striding on into the kitchen. The blood thrummed in her ears. Dana chose her longest carving knife from the drainage rack, examined it for imaginary food specks, rinsed it, then, still holding it, let her right hand casually droop below the rinse water. She shut off the faucet and half turned.

“Oh!” She’d meant the word to deceive, but her shock was real. He was closer than she’d expected. Bigger.

And angrier—black, level brows drawn down over deep-set eyes.

“Wh-wh-what do you—” She stuttered to a stop. Did she really want to know what he wanted?

“Sean Kershaw. Where is he?” A low, gravelly voice, its steadiness somehow more deadly than any shout. No drama to this rage, but pure, cold intention.

“Sean?” Whatever this invasion was, it wasn’t what she’d thought. Still, it was bad—trouble. Teacher? she asked herself, and rejected the hope immediately. This was no indoor man. His face was tanned to the color of buckskin. The lines fanning out from the corners of his blue eyes spoke of years squinting in the harsh sun. “Wh-why do you want Sean?”

“That’s between him and me.”

The intruder turned a slow circle on his heels, scanning the kitchen as if Sean might be cowering in a corner. He wore boots, Dana realized, which was why he seemed so enormous. Though even in his socks he’d still top her five-three by nearly a foot.

Nevertheless, she let go of her weapon. She could no more imagine herself stopping this man with a knife than she could imagine stopping a train. “I’m afraid it isn’t,” she said coolly—to his back. He was striding back the way he’d come.

Hey! She goggled after him, then felt rage awaken as he retreated. “It’s considered polite to knock, you know!” she cried, hurrying to catch up.

“I knocked. You didn’t hear me.” He was already past the dining room, heading for the front door.

Good riddance, whoever he was! But no—her mouth dropped as he turned toward the stairs.

“He’s up there?”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Good.” He took the stairs two at a time without a backward glance.

Her baby! The hair bristled on her arms, at her nape. Dana flew up the steps, a primal humming sound in her throat. You stay away from my baby!

The door to Petra’s room stood wide. Dana flung herself through it and slammed into his back—“Ooof!”

“Huh?” he muttered absently. He’d stopped short just inside the room to flick on the light. She grabbed his elbows from behind and, with a little growl of despair—might as well try to uproot the oak banister!—she attempted to wheel him around and out. He glanced over his shoulder with a startled frown, then simply shrugged, breaking her hold. “Who’s this?” He nodded at the sleeping child.

“Mine,” Dana said flatly. She caught a fistful of the back of his shirt and tugged, and, lucky for him, he allowed himself to be towed backward out of the room. He hit the light switch as he passed it, then pulled the door quietly shut.

Dana let him go and swung around to put herself between him and Petra’s door. Chin up, she stared at him, breathing hard. “Get out of my house this…minute.”

Startling white against the tan, a reluctant smile flickered across his hard face. “Good for you,” he said simply, then turned away…

To open the next door down the hall—Sean’s room! Dana pressed a hand to her throat, swallowed, then charged after him. But—thank you, God—Sean hadn’t returned.

The stranger stood in the center of Sean’s bedroom, surveying the posters pinned to the wall—surly rock groups and a surfer shooting a blue-green pipeline at Maui. The desk piled high with books and camera accessories. Discarded shirts and jeans draped over the chair and the top of the closet door.

“Get out.” Dana bared her teeth. She supposed she could run uphill and ask her wrangler, Tim, for help, if by any miracle he was home on a Saturday night. Or run downstairs and phone the sheriff. But no way would she leave Petra to do either.

“You’re his sister, I reckon?” the man murmured, without turning.

“His stepmother.”

His dark head snapped around, and the blue eyes reassessed her, a quick head-to-toe appraisal. She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared back at him. Why the surprise? “And who the hell are you?”

“Rafe Montana.” He brushed past her and stalked out the door, headed for her bedroom.

“He’s not here,” she hissed, bracing her hands against the doorjamb and leaning after him. “Can’t you see?”

He stood there, looking down at the big brass bed that she’d shared with no man for fourteen months and thirteen days. The soft, rumpled down comforter that was no substitute for Peter’s living warmth.

“So where is he?” Montana turned to take in the rest of her room.

She felt his eyes touch the books stacked on her bedside table, testimony to all the nights she could not sleep; the vase of blue columbines on the wide windowsill; the bottles of perfume on her dresser, which she hadn’t uncapped for more than a year—and she felt as if he’d run his hands across her body. You trespasser. She stamped her foot to reclaim his attention. “I’m not about to tell you, when I don’t know what you want. When you barge in here like a—a maniac!”

“That’s about how I feel,” he said, swinging to face her. Two long strides and he towered above her. “I’m Zoe’s father.”

“Who’s Zoe?”

“Who—” His eyes narrowed with rage. “You don’t know?”

She shook her head wordlessly. His daughter. He was no longer a maniac, but an outraged…father. And he wants Sean. Her hand rose of its own accord to her lips. My Sean?

“Uh-huh,” Montana said dryly, as if she’d spoken her thought aloud. “And where’s his father?”

“He’s…not here, either.” Montana might seem somewhat more human, claiming a daughter, but still, no way was Dana admitting she didn’t have a man to back her. “He should be home any minute.”

“Sooner the better.” Montana walked out of her bedroom, glanced through the open door to the empty bathroom, then headed back down the hall.

Hands clenched, Dana tagged at his heels. “If you would just tell me what this is about—”

“He’s around here someplace, isn’t he?” Montana growled, descending the stairs. “You thought he was in his room. So…” He walked through to the kitchen again, then out the back door.

She caught up with him on the deck. He stood with big hands on his lean hips, staring up the slope toward the corral and the barn. A light shone through the cottonwoods from one of the cabins along the creek. “Where is he, Mrs. Kershaw? In the barn? Or—what’s that house beyond—the bunkhouse?”

“One of the guest cabins. But if you barge in on my dudes, I’ll call the sheriff and have you arrested, so help me God. Now, tell me—” She stopped with a gulp as a thought hit her. “Oh…” She drifted past him, down the two steps to the gravel where her old pickup should have been parked. Turned a slow circle of bewilderment.

Montana joined her, glanced down at the ruts made by the tires, and swore. “Where’s he gone?”

“I…don’t know.” At fourteen, Sean had no license yet. Peter had allowed him to drive the truck on their property, and though Dana didn’t entirely approve, she hadn’t dared revoke that privilege after Peter was gone. Sean had extended his range without asking, she’d noticed this last six months, to include the private road out as far as the highway. But he wouldn’t dare—“Did you pass an old pickup on your way in from the public road?”

“I passed nobody.”

Which meant, she supposed, that Sean had already departed. Or fled, she realized, staring up at Montana. He knew you were coming! That phone call during supper.

“Where would he be on a Saturday night, Mrs. Kershaw? Down in Trueheart at one of the bars?”

“Sean?” She laughed incredulously. “Of course not!”

He stepped closer, till they stood almost toe to toe. “You haven’t a clue where your punk is, do you, lady? I guess I should have expected that. Running wild…”

Insults on top of invasion, and the truth in his charge only made it sting more. She tipped up her chin. “And I suppose you know precisely where your daughter is this minute, huh?” What was she supposed to do? Keep a fourteen-year-old boy who outweighed her by twenty pounds—who barely could stand the sight of her—on a leash? She was doing the best she could!

“You better believe I do,” Montana said coolly. “Zoe’s locked in her bedroom without even a phone for company. And that’s where she’ll stay till I thrash this out.”

A tyrant, on top of all else! Dana paired two fingers and jabbed them directly into his second shirt button—it was like prodding warm stone. “Thrash what out?” Please, not what I’m thinking. This had to be some sort of ridiculous mistake. Perhaps he had the wrong Sean.

They both jumped as, inside the kitchen, the phone rang. Montana caught her arms and moved her aside with a gentleness that belied his temper. She stood for a moment, blinking, strangely undone by the sensation of a man’s hands upon her—it had been so long—then spun and went after him. She saw him lift her phone to his ear. “Don’t you dare!”

“She’s right here,” Montana said in response to the caller’s question, then handed her the receiver with ironic courtesy.

“Mrs. Kershaw?” inquired a male voice. “This is Colorado State Trooper Michael Morris calling, ma’am. Do you have a son named Sean?”

“Oh, God!” Not Sean, too! Slowly she sagged against the counter. No, no, oh, no. She was dimly aware that Montana had set one broad hand on her shoulder, steadying her, and that he’d tipped his head down close enough to hear the trooper’s voice. His temple brushed her hair.

“Oh, no, ma’am, nothing like that—not an accident! Sorry to scare you. But I’ve got a Sean Kershaw stopped here on Route 160, and it appears he isn’t licensed to drive. We’ve checked the plates, and you’re the owner of record of this vehicle. Did you give him permission to drive, ma’am?”

“I…” She drew in a shaking breath. Sean was all right! He wouldn’t be once she got hold of him, but for now…Thank you, thank you, oh, thank you! “No, Officer, I did not.” She straightened, and Montana’s hand fell away from her shoulder, though he still hovered within hearing range. She met his eyes and smiled her relief, and, wonder of wonders, his mouth quirked with warmth and wry humor. A very nice mouth indeed, she noticed, when it wasn’t hardened by temper.

“Well, that’s good,” said the trooper. “I’m afraid, though, we’ve got a situation here, ma’am. I ought to take him in and book him, but we’ve had a tractor trailer tip over, down by Durango. Took out a few cars with it. All the tow trucks are out on the job, and I should be over there, too. If you and another licensed driver could get down here in a hurry, I’d release the car and your son into your custody. Saves me a trip to the station.”

“Tell him yes,” Montana said in a whispered growl, his eyes lighting.

No way was she taking him along. “I’ll…yes. Of course.” She’d ask Leo Simmons, the dude in Cottonwood Cabin, to help her out. “Tell me again where you’re located?”

The trooper told her quickly, then added, “I’ve got a second kid here, too, ma’am, in case you could contact her parents for me. She won’t be charged, since she wasn’t driving, but…”

“Who?” Dana asked with a sinking heart. Somehow she knew already.

“She refuses to say, ma’am. A tall, redheaded, mouthy kid.”

The shock dawning in Rafe Montana’s eyes was almost laughable. He shook his head, shook it again as if he were slinging water out of his eyes, and snatched the phone from her grasp.

“Ask her if her name’s Zoe Montana,” he rasped. “Never mind who I am! Ask her.”

There came a long pause. Montana stood as still as a rock, teeth clenched, as he glared into the distance, utterly oblivious of Dana’s wide-eyed scrutiny. Then, as the trooper spoke again, Montana swore under his breath and said, “You tell her for me, Officer, that her father’s on his way.”

“Know just where your daughter is, do you?” Dana couldn’t resist murmuring.

CHAPTER FOUR

STRAPPED INTO her car seat on the rear bench of Rafe Montana’s long-cab pickup truck, Petra whined and fretted till they reached the smoother highway. As the big truck settled into a mile-eating drone, her long lashes drooped on her fat rosy cheeks and she slept.

“Never fails,” Montana murmured, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

The voice of experience, Dana realized, studying his hard-edged profile. Perhaps he had other, younger children aside from Zoe. And for that matter—“Where’s Zoe’s mother?”

Five fence posts whipped into the headlights, then passed, their barbed wire swooping and falling, before he spoke. “She died in a car wreck when Zoe was six.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She watched his mouth curve wryly. Yes, she supposed it was a bit late to be offering sympathy. For that matter, he might well have replaced Zoe’s mother years ago. With his darkly smoldering good looks, that intense vitality, he’d find plenty of volunteers for the job.

The taillights of a car appeared as the pickup topped a rise. The country was flattening out into sagebrush-covered slopes, the dryer land to the west falling away toward the state border. The truck closed on the car in a rush—slipped out, passed it by and roared on.

“What about your husband?” Montana asked without taking his eyes off the road. “You didn’t leave him a message.”

She didn’t answer the question behind that statement. “No, I…didn’t.” To confess would be to admit he’d scared her. Scared her still in some way she could not fathom. But her instinct was to raise any and every barrier against him she could find.

At the same time, though, necessity demanded that she understand his outrage before they reached Sean, that she defuse it if she could. “Why did you want my stepson, Mr. Montana?”

“If I’m going to drive you halfway to Utah, Mrs. Kershaw, you can call me Rafe.” A tractor trailer thundered past, shaking the truck, and he flicked on his high beams.

She would have preferred the formality of last names, but he’d maneuvered her neatly. Now she’d look ungracious not to reciprocate. “Then it’s Dana.” She straightened her shoulders. “But what about Sean?”

“My daughter’s pregnant.” He glanced at her, as she shook her head. “Oh, yes. I caught her sneaking a pregnancy test kit into the house this evening.”

“Not Sean!” Dana said emphatically. “That’s not possible.”

“You’re saying my Zoe’s a liar?”

His voice grew softer and more level with rage, she was learning. “No, I…” Wouldn’t dare, but still…She thought of three ways to ask the same essential question—Is she sure Sean is the father? But no matter how she phrased it, she might as well set a match to a stick of dynamite. “There must be some mistake,” she said, instead. “Is she sure she’s pregnant?”

“She told me she’s missed two months, almost three. What do you think?”

The worst, quite likely. Dana bit her lip. But still…“Sean isn’t even dating.” How could he? She gave him an allowance, but it was woefully meager. Peter had cashed in his main life insurance policy to buy the ranch. His little term policy had paid off enough to create a trust fund that someday would cover Sean’s and Petra’s college tuitions. But the family’s day-to-day finances were cut to the bone. Sean had no money for dating, and no transportation aside from his beloved mountain bike. “Where have they been, um, meeting?”

“Didn’t get to the bottom of that. She clammed up on me, so I locked her in her room to think about it.”

“For all the good that did you.” Dana couldn’t resist the jab, and noticed it made the muscles in his jaw jump and his knuckles tighten on the wheel. To her mind, a girl who was old enough to make a baby was too old to be locked up like a rebellious ten-year-old.

“You’re doing a better job? Your kid’s running wild and unsupervised, stealing your car when he wants it. Speeding…knocking up girls.”

“Girl. If he did that at all. I still don’t believe it.”

“I’ll ask him when I meet him, how’s that?” Rafe suggested darkly. “Your sonny boy and I are going to have a long, earnest talk, believe me.”

Withdrawn, unconfident Sean pitted against this full-grown, outraged male in his prime? “No, I don’t think so. Not tonight. Not till I talk to him myself.” Peter would never have allowed his son to be bullied, and now she stood in Peter’s place. “Tomorrow…” Once she’d gotten Sean’s version. Once Rafe Montana had cooled down. Perhaps after she’d consulted a lawyer. God, where would I find the money?

“We’ll see about that,” Rafe said with dangerous calm.

Indeed they would. Dana clenched her hands. Sean’s refusal to forgive her might wound her daily, but still, she was all he had. No way would she throw him to this wolf. She changed the subject. “How much farther?”

“Another twenty miles. Almost to Four Corners.”

“Where could they have been going?” California? Sean missed San Diego, somehow seemed to believe that if he could go back there, life would be as it was. As if Peter waited there on the front lawn of the suburban house that he and Sean had shared when Dana first met them. If only it were that easy.

“They were headed for Arizona, I imagine. Zoe’s great-aunt lives in Phoenix. She’s Catholic, like all Pilar’s folks. I suppose Zoe figured she’d take her side.”

“Side on what?”

“Zoe is all set to go away to college in three months,” Rafe said obliquely.

“College?” Dana had been picturing a ninth or tenth grader! Sean with a senior? Sean, who had all the social sophistication of a golden retriever pup? Now she knew there was some mistake!

“Harvard, just like her—” Rafe paused. “Harvard. She’s…bright.”

As in very bright, Dana interpreted the pride echoing behind that western understatement.

“She’s been working all her life for this. Aims to be a doctor, a surgeon—though the school counselor tells me she could shoot higher than that if she wants. Sky’s the limit. But Harvard’s the start…the door she has to walk through to get where she’s going. Where she deserves to go. Her life’s just blossoming, just starting to happen—” He slammed the wheel with a fist. “And now this? I don’t think so. Now that your kid has messed her up, there’s only one way out.”

“Abortion, you mean,” Dana murmured. She suppressed a sudden urge to look back at Petra. To grab the baby and pull her over the seat and into her arms. “Does Zoe agree?” Zoe, who’d broken out of her room somehow and tried to flee the state?

“She…Neither of us was making much sense back there,” Rafe growled. “We’re not used to banging heads. But once she’s calmed down and thought it through…”

I wonder. “There’s always adoption,” Dana observed, her voice carefully neutral.

“Zoe starts college in three months.” Montana’s words might have been carved from Rocky Mountain granite.

THEY DROVE THE REST of the way in silence. But angry as he was, Rafe found he couldn’t focus all his thoughts on the coming confrontation. Sitting only two feet to his right, she tugged at his awareness. Dana Kershaw. Small and dark, she should have looked boyish with her short, silky brown hair falling into her big slate-green eyes, yet she was anything but. She had a softness and a warmth about her that were feminine to the core. Reminded him of the little half-Siamese cat Zoe had owned for years, all silky fur to the touch, daintily elegant—and absolute hell on dogs five times her size, if they looked sideways at her kittens. His lips twitched as he remembered the way she’d faced him down at her baby’s door. Not a woman to be crossed.

Kershaw’s a lucky man, he found himself thinking. You could tell the good ’uns at a glance, just like he could size up a corral full of horses and choose the best mount. He grimaced, realizing where this thought was heading—it was just a leftover from his earlier frustration. God, was it only three hours ago that he’d been sitting across a table from Mitzy Barlow? It seemed another lifetime.

What he’d learned about Zoe—like a knife stroke cutting that happy life from this strange present, him speeding through the night with a gentle, fierce woman, her eyes reflecting like fathomless pools in the windshield whenever a car passed them by. And Zoe, turned from his loving, loyal daughter into a defiant stranger! One stumble across the kitchen floor and he’d picked up someone he’d never met before—a young woman who’d loved a man, made a baby by him, cast her father’s wisdom aside to fly to her mate. To flee as if he were some kind of ogre, not the father who’d turned his own world upside down to make a good life for his own baby…How could everything change this fast?

Nothing’s changed, he told himself savagely, and wished he could believe it. Not really. There’d be a week or two of hurt feelings and ugly necessities, a week or two of sorrow after that, then they’d get back on track. She’s worked too hard. I won’t let this ruin her life.

His headlights picked out a creek bending in from the darkness to edge the highway, then a state police car parked on the shoulder above it; ahead of that, a pickup. Two pale faces stared back through the truck’s rear window, as Rafe swung in behind the patrol car and parked. “We settle with the Statie first, Dana. He’ll want to hear that we’re taking this seriously.”

“Believe me, I am.” She checked her child, who was still sleeping, then hurried after Rafe as he strode to meet the state trooper, now unfolding from his car.

She handled it well, Rafe had to admit, as Officer Morris assured them that he could arrest Sean for everything from car theft to speeding. Dana didn’t try to excuse or defend her son, but simply promised that he would be punished, that such a grievous misjudgment would never be repeated. Clearly of a mind to be satisfied, the trooper finally nodded, marched off to his car, got in and carved a swift U-turn, then headed off toward the truck crash near Durango.

“You were lucky,” Rafe observed, hearing the distant engine shift into overdrive. He turned. And now, for someone who’d run flat out of luck…

Both doors of the shabby pickup opened as he stalked toward it. “Daddy?” Zoe called fearfully from the far side.

But Rafe had another target in his sights. The greedy, undisciplined spoiler who’d led them all to this disaster. “I want a word with you, punk,” he said quietly, barely aware that Dana Kershaw plucked at his elbow. He shrugged her off.

Head high, the boy paused beside his open door and let him come. Rafe’s strides slowed and he drew in a harsh breath. This was his enemy? Half a head shorter than him, with the gangly limbs, the too-big feet and hands of a boy? He’d pictured an eighteen-year-old, at least! “You’re Sean Kershaw?” He glanced toward the cab in spite of himself, as if the kid’s older brother might burst forth.

“My stepson,” Dana declared, swinging around to stand shoulder to shoulder with the kid.

Rage and frustration had been building inside Rafe all night. He’d contained himself—barely—but had promised himself a full and glorious venting when he found its deserving target. But now? You could stomp a man, but this—this unshaved brat? He caught the kid’s collar between thumb and forefinger. “How the hell old are you?” he demanded, ignoring both Dana’s and Zoe’s yelps of protest.

“Old enough and get your hands off me!” The boy chopped up a forearm, breaking his grip.

“Old enough for what, you little runt? To wreck my daughter’s life?”

“He’s fourteen, and you leave him alone,” Dana cried, stepping between them. “I said we’d talk tomorrow,” she added in an urgent undertone.

“Fourteen!” Rafe shook his head. What the hell?

“Daddy!” Zoe pleaded.

Zoe had betrayed him for this—this puppy? “Get in the truck,” he snapped without glancing aside.

“Don’t,” countered the kid. “He can’t make you do anything you don’t want.”

“Oh, can’t I?” He prodded the boy’s shoulder. “Mind your own business, sonny.”

The boy batted his hand aside. “This is my business.”

“Sean, be quiet! Rafe, please.” Dana caught his upper arm with both her hands.

Even through the mists of rage, he could feel each separate small fingertip digging into his muscles. She’s married, he reminded himself, and felt his rage kick up a notch. He swung his arm back, pushing her away from the fray. “Yeah, you’ve made it your business, big shot. You’ve made a baby nobody wants or needs. A baby the grownups will have to deal with now. Good going!”

“Nobody’s asking you to deal with anything—” The boy’s voice cracked on the last word and jumped half a squeaking octave.

Rafe threw back his head and laughed. The situation was so absurd, it was that or weep.

Sean shoved him hard with both hands. “Zoe doesn’t want an abortion, and if she doesn’t want one, I don’t want one!”

Rafe rocked back on his heels, then rocked forward, looming over the kid. How do you like that? Sixty pounds lighter, yet the kid was going toe to toe with him. Guts. Still, “Easy for you to say, twerp. You won’t be around to pick up the pieces.”

“I will! If Zoe needs me, I’ll be there. I’ll get a job and take care of her. I’ll—I’ll—”

“At fourteen?” Rafe jeered incredulously, shaking his head—and saw the blow coming from the corner of his eye, a roundhouse swing. His head tipped reflexively to the right, and the blow whistled past his ear. “Hey!”

Sean growled wordlessly and took another shot. Rafe caught it on his palm and swept it aside. “Back off!”

They circled, Rafe with open hands up and out, dimly aware of the women shrieking from outside the whirlwind of Sean’s flailing fists. Duck in and put a shoulder into his stomach, Rafe told himself. He could toss the kid up over his shoulder, trundle him down to the stream that gurgled beyond the truck. Dump him in to cool off.

Another blow sailed in, and he took it on his raised forearm as he stepped to one side. Somebody should have taught this kid to hit. Anyone really wanting to hurt him could have done so with ease.

“Rafe, please, he’s just a child!” Dana cried, and that decided him. Sean was a child—acting as a man. And standing by his woman, as foolishly touching as that might seem to an adult. And though apparently Dana didn’t understand, the masculine code required that you honor your opponent’s courage, no matter how incompetently displayed. So don’t demean him. Treat him as I would a man. Sean had earned that courtesy with his spunk. The kid came in grunting and slugging. Rafe sighed inwardly, chose his shot and, pulling his punch to the limit of credibility, hit the kid as lightly as he could.

Sean wobbled two steps backward and sat—and Rafe found himself nose to nose with Dana Kershaw. “You…big…bully!” She smacked her hands against his chest. “Stop it!”

Just what he’d been trying to do.

She smacked him again. “What kind of a man picks on a child?”

“Be quiet, Dana.” He’d been showing his respect, man to man. Now she was ruining his gesture—would humiliate the kid, if she didn’t hush up. “He’ll be fine.” Learning to take his knocks—that was how a boy became a man. And the kid wasn’t sniveling, Rafe noted with approval, glancing over her head. He was staggering to his feet with Zoe’s help…brushing her aside. Crap, was he coming for more?

Fearful the kid might wade in all over again, Rafe allowed Dana to back him down the road. “Take it easy,” he warned her, as she shoved him again. He caught her slender wrists and pinned her hands against his heart, scowling down at her. “Ea-sy!” Her pulse leaped beneath his fingertips, and he felt his own surge to meet it. He threw her hands hastily aside and retreated.

“Me, easy?” she cried, and turned up her palms in an appeal to the heavens.

Behind her, Zoe had caught the kid in a bear hug and was holding him back. Tears streaming, she glared over his shoulder. “I’m so ashamed of you, Daddy!”

Ashamed of me?! Now that punch landed—knocked him speechless. All those years of being his daughter’s hero, to be shattered like this? Rafe felt the first stab of pain, then rage overwhelmed it like a breaking black wave. Rage felt much better. “Get in the truck! Now!”

If he’d lost her affection, still she had a sixteen-year habit of obedience. She murmured something in Sean’s ear, then let him go.

“Zoe!” he called hoarsely after her. But head down, she marched off to Rafe’s truck, scrambled in and slammed the door mightily.

A moment later, a baby’s startled wail split the night.

“Petra!” Dana homed in on the sound, then brushed past Rafe without a glance.

The sobs gained volume and heartache, mixed with the crooning cries of two sympathetic women.

Damn it all to hell and back again! All he’d wanted tonight was to get laid. Rafe turned heavily to glare at Sean Kershaw. “Nice sound, huh? They do that for the first twelve months without a break to draw breath, except when they’re puking or pooping. Think about it.”

Halfway to his truck, he met Dana returning, arms full of the child and her bulky car seat. He opened his mouth to offer help, then shut it, knowing her answer already. Their eyes locked, held as they neared. She tipped up her chin and swept proudly past him, her baby’s hiccuping sobs trailing back on the cold night air.

Rafe sighed, then stood beside his truck till she’d started hers, completed her turn and headed for home. He followed at a wary distance.

CHAPTER FIVE

DANA WOULD HAVE LOVED to pull a pillow over her head and sleep in the next morning—she’d tossed and turned most of the night, worrying about Sean. But the demands of a dude ranch, on top of the more strident demands of a baby who rose with the sun, had her stumbling from her bed at the usual hour.

In spite of her worries, morning flew by in a rush—diapering, nursing and dressing Petra, then rushing downstairs to cook a hearty breakfast for Tim, the dude wrangler. His customary Sunday hangover had rendered him even surlier and more silent than usual, she noted with despair. This time he hadn’t bothered to shave. And he was scheduled to take all her dudes into the high country for an all-day trail ride, leaving at ten. So much for the cheerful, dashing trail boss of her guests’ fantasies—a Disneyland cowpoke on a rearing steed, who’d spin thrilling yarns, dispense homespun cowboy wisdom, whisk them off on the Wild West adventure of a lifetime. Dana supposed the larger, sleeker, full-service guest ranches could afford to employ such entertainers, but the Ribbon R was a minimalist outfit, at minimalist prices. Her dudes would have to make do with a shambling, groaning, tobacco-chewing misanthrope, who at least wouldn’t lose them in the back hills. She hoped.

Packing box lunches for the ride, at last she had a moment to think about Sean. When she’d come downstairs, a dirty plate on the counter and a tumbler with a puddle of milk in its bottom told her he’d preceded her.

He’d yet to return.

Gone off on his mountain bike? She hoped not. She hadn’t had the heart, last night, to mete out a punishment for his driving escapade. It would have seemed one blow too many, after Zoe’s announcement and Rafe Montana’s brutality. So she’d told him they would discuss his behavior—discuss everything—this morning.

Sean-fashion, he’d given her his silent answer. Oh, yeah? Catch me first.

Sean, Sean, what am I going to do with you? He had been so unhappy before—and now this? Every time she thought things were as hard as they could be, they got a little harder. She bit down on her lip and finished wrapping the sandwiches, while Petra pulled at her pants leg and whined.

Once she’d seen Tim and his dudes on their way up through the home pasture, she prepped for the evening barbecue—got the steaks marinating, the baked beans simmering, the potato salad made. While Petra dragged out the contents of her special kitchen cabinet—the only one without a baby-proof latch—and sat fitting lids onto aluminum pots with scowling concentration, then lifting them off again with shrieks of glee, Dana made bread. Enough dough for this week’s evening meals, plus enough to freeze for the next. Kneading it, she leaned into each stroke, her head drooping tiredly.

Sean still had not returned. Hanging out in the barn, or perhaps gone hiking up into the mountains? He rarely rode, though Peter had given him a surefooted, spunky little paint named Guapo when they’d first arrived. They’d all ridden that first fall, the three of them, laughing and awed by the beauty of their new home. Sean had liked her back then. They’d been able to talk about anything and everything. But now…

We’ll have to. This couldn’t be shoved under the rug, as Sean preferred to do. This had to be faced. Responsibility acknowledged.

And then?

That depended on what Zoe decided to do, she supposed. What Rafe Montana decides, she corrected herself, grimacing. The bully. But there was no way to deny that he was the dominant personality here, the one who would call the shots. He would shape his daughter’s future, and therefore Sean’s. Should I find a lawyer? Someone to advise her stepson on his paternal rights and responsibilities? The money made her hesitate. She’d decided this morning that she’d wait to see what Montana did next, but she wasn’t certain this was the wise approach.

Petra dropped a pot lid with a clang that made Dana jump. “Petra, what a noisy girl! You’re going to be a drummer someday?” Please, anything but!

“Ga,” the baby chortled, then smile gave way to frown. She rolled over onto all fours and crawled purposefully toward her mother.

“About that time, is it?” Dana wiped a forearm over her brow, brushing back her hair. “Can you wait a minute, sweetheart?” She patted the dough into balls, placed them in greased ceramic bowls. “Yes, sweetie, I know. Just a minute more. Be patient.” After covering each bowl with a clean cloth, she set the dough to rise on the warming shelf above the stove. “There.” She scooped up her tearful daughter and blew into her neck till Petra giggled. “See, silly girl? I didn’t forget you.”

She checked her diaper, then carried her out to the back deck and their favorite spot: a porch swing that hung under an arbor of climbing pink roses and honeysuckle. Sinking into one cushioned corner, she kicked off her shoes, dragged a pillow onto her lap, propped one arm and her baby against one bent knee while she left the other foot on the ground to rock them. “Lunchtime,” she agreed, as Petra patted her blouse. And no one around for miles, she assured herself, looking uphill as she unbuttoned. Just bird-song, the fragrance of sun-warmed roses, a precious moment of peace…the delicious tingle as the milk let down in her breasts…the rhythmic suck of warm lips drawing her down into sleepy pleasure.

Sometime later, a ripple of consciousness disturbed her waking dream. Dana’s eyes drifted half open, focused drowsily on a long pair of jeans-clad legs. Idly she rode them upward, up past lean hips, a flat stomach, a wide chest in a snap-front western shirt that flared to wider shoulders…up a strong brown throat to the startled face of Rafe Montana. His lips had parted in surprise; his eyes were narrowed slits of sapphire in his suntanned face. She felt her own face turning a color to rival the roses.

“Pardon me, ma’am!” He wheeled and walked back down the steps to the ground, then stopped there, facing away. “Didn’t meant to intrude like that. I…”

The liquid pleasure of the moment seemed to flow over his form like honey, taking him in, making him a part of the mountains, the sunshine, the fragrance, her love for her daughter. He had all the power and grace of a bull elk who had suddenly walked into her world. It took an effort to remember that she disliked him—that he’d hit Sean last night, something she’d never forgive. “Of course.” She supposed he’d tried the front door, and receiving no answer to his knock, this time hadn’t barged through, but had walked around to the back.

“If you could wait a minute?” Gently she detached Petra and moved her to her other breast.

“Sure.” He glanced awkwardly down at his boots, then he stepped backward and sat on the top step of the deck, careful not to look behind.

She felt oddly powerful and more than a little smug at being able to abash a man like this with a simple, earthy act. Women’s magic.

Sleepy, swirling magic, which bound all it touched, enchantress as well as enchanted. Petra’s lips suckled at her nipple and the enchantment spread—a golden wire drawn from her breasts to her womb, then drawn tighter in soft, rhythmic tugs that her hips yearned to answer. The sensation spooled out to include the man, as if he were the cause, the one who held the gilded wire, the one who tugged, instead of an unknowing bystander. Dana closed her eyes and shuddered. She’d been dead to her own body for so long—just a mother, a widow. How odd for it to awaken just now.

Means nothing, she told herself. I don’t even like him. He hurt Sean.

He was overwhelmingly male and perhaps “like” had nothing to do with instinct. Simply by being, he reminded her she was female. A woman without a mate—not a reminder for which she was grateful.

Montana spoke without turning. “I asked Zoe about Sean’s father.”

As if he could read her mind! Dana tipped back her head to stare at a pendant blossom. Blown, its vibrant rosiness fading to drab violet, the first petals fallen. “Yes?”

“I…meant to talk with him. But Zoe tells me I can’t.”

I talk to him all the time. But he never answers, not in words. “That’s right,” she said bleakly. She reached to pluck a petal, rubbed it across her lips.

“I’m…sorry. If you’d told me…”

“Mmm,” she hummed wordlessly. Who owed you an explanation?

“I reckon I scared you, stomping in like that. And I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” It was handsomely done, no self-justifications, no excuses. But Dana wasn’t in a forgiving mood. Not because of the intrusion, but because of Sean. “Thank you,” she said coldly.

“Hmmph.” He pulled his Stetson off, inspected it, whacked a denim-clad calf with it.

Clearly he had more to say. She waited, and when it didn’t come, she asked, “How’s Zoe?”

“She threw up this morning.” He whacked his leg again. “Not the first time, she tells me.”

“She needs to see a doctor. Forget that test kit. Let a gynecologist examine her. She should be on vitamins, eating right—”

He let out a huff of bitter amusement. “I’m known around these parts, Dana, for being a devil on nutrition. Pound for pound, my cattle are the best fed in the state. You think I’d neglect my daughter? But she’ll be eating for one, not two.”

A rancher. She should have known it, with his boots and his outdoor tan. A man used to giving orders, not taking them. King of his own small kingdom. “That’s what Zoe wants?”

“What she will want, once she sees sense.”

So he’d yet to bully her into submission. In spite of the complications Zoe’s stand might mean for the Kershaws, Dana felt a flash of admiration. It would take courage to cross this man.

“In the meantime, she should see a doctor.”

He grunted assent. “Another reason I wanted to see you. She has a pediatrician, of course, but now…Is there anybody you’d recommend?”

Had he no other female in his life to advise him? A sister, a lover, a friend? Despite his high-handed arrogance, his explosive temper, Rafe Montana was one of the most attractive men she’d ever laid eyes on, so surely he had a woman. Petra had fallen asleep while they spoke, and now her mouth slipped away from the breast. Dana buttoned her blouse one handed while she considered. Ought to stay out of this. The fewer ties between the Kershaws and the Montanas, the better, to her mind. But a good doctor was essential. “Yes, I go to a woman obstetrician in Durango. Cassandra Hancock. She’s gentle and extremely competent.”

“Does she do abortions?” he asked bluntly.

Dana winced, worked the top button through its hole, and reached for the hand towel she’d brought from the kitchen. “I wouldn’t know. But I’m sure if she doesn’t, she could advise Zoe. Tell her the best place to go.” She laid the towel over her shoulder, moved Petra to burping position and stood. Patting the baby’s back, she walked slowly back and forth. Rafe shifted to watch, and she felt herself drawn irresistibly closer with each turn, till she stood above him, staring out over her land. She glanced down, and their eyes linked. His were the dark, high-altitude blue of the mountaintop skies, direct as a bolt of summer lightning. Her heart bumped in her breast half a dozen times before his eyes released her and shifted to her baby.

The straight line of his mouth softened. “But I suppose you don’t believe in abortions.”

“I believe in choice, Mr. Montana.”

“Rafe.”

“But choice cuts both ways, doesn’t it…Rafe? What does Zoe choose? It’s her life, her body, her baby.”

All restless energy, he surged to his feet. “She’s in no emotional shape to choose wisely!” He took all the steps in a stride and stopped on the last one, which put them on a level—too close. So close Dana could see the pale line of a scar drawn across the carved fullness of his bottom lip.

She rocked back on her heels, but held her ground. “Whether she is or not, you can’t take that choice from her.” Or can you? He was so clearly used to having his way.

The muscles along his angular jaw fluttered and stilled. “Someone should have taken that choice from Zoe’s mother.”

Dana blinked. Blunt words, indeed. “Oh?”

“Pilar was eighteen when we…found out. And—” His jaw clenched again and his gaze swung off to the east, to the mountain that walled off that side of the valley. “And it ruined her life.”

But she got you. He had a profile like the head on a Roman coin—harsh, emphatic, all jutting lines and angles, with not a softening curve except for that bottom lip. Zoe’s mother had gotten herself a harsh and beautiful man. Was that the choice that wrecked her life? Eyes wide, Dana rested her cheek against Petra’s dark curls and waited.

“It’s like…” His shoulders jerked, then squared and went taut. “Like history repeating itself. Some kind of enormous, ugly joke. Pilar had already been accepted into Harvard when we…Full scholarship—she was from a poor family. Would have been the first of her family ever to go to college. She was brilliant—that’s where Zoe gets her brains. Meant to be a doctor, too. Instead she—” He shook his head. “It was a criminal waste.”

“Or maybe she…chose what she wanted.”

One bark of savage laughter—it was instantly stifled. “You think so? No, it was a waste of her talents, her hard work, her dreams, her family’s hopes. Just when Pilar’s life was about to open out, to expand—she’d never even been out of Colorado before—we made one stupid mistake. I made one. And her life contracted to a crummy one-room trailer, a baby with colic, a nineteen-year-old husband who could barely keep himself in boot leather, much less support a family. Yeah, she made one hell of a choice.”

“I see…”

“I hope to God you do.” Rafe shrugged, setting aside any personal connection to the picture he’d just painted. “So, a wise man learns from his mistakes. And if he loves his daughter, he damn sure stops her from making the same mistakes.”

Do we ever get to shield the ones we love from their mistakes? She’d tried to stop Peter from crossing that south-facing slope, nervously citing what she’d read about alpine snow conditions, but he’d teased her about learning cross-country skiing from a book and had pushed on. They’d both been cold and tired at the end of the day, eager to reach their lodge…Wouldn’t have needed to cross that hill at all if I hadn’t read the map wrong, taken us down the wrong fork in the trail. She hadn’t even been able to shield Peter from her mistakes, much less his own.

“Hey.” A warm, rough hand cupped her cheek. “Are you okay?”

“I…” She blinked back the tears, took a step backward. Slipped a hand down to Petra’s bottom. “Oops!” She managed a trembly smile. “Flood tide. If you’d excuse us a minute?”

SHE TOOK CLOSER TO TWENTY, stopping to wash her face after she’d put Petra down in her crib. What’s gotten into you? she scolded the damp face with its shadowy eyes, which gazed back at her from her mirror. After months of gray, steely calm, suddenly she felt raw and ragged, her emotions swinging wildly from elation to despair. Like a compass needle following a prowling magnet.

Not enough sleep, she answered herself, heading downstairs. Forgot lunch. She pushed through the dining room door—and stopped short. Rafe Montana in my kitchen.

Peeking under the towel that covered a bowl of her rising dough. He whipped around, as guilty as a boy caught scooping a fingerful of icing off a cake. “You were so long, I wondered if something was wrong.”

I’m fine. Dana didn’t want to acknowledge his concern. “She took a while falling back to sleep.”

He grimaced. “At least she sleeps. Zoe worked a double shift from the word go. Started climbing out of her crib at nine months. I’d wake up at 3:00 a.m. and she’d be bumping around the trailer like a raccoon on the hunt, turning out cupboards. Pulled the phone down on her head one night—Lord, what a racket.”

“A handful.” She could imagine him at nineteen, working a man’s job all day, still needing the sleep of a boy at night. It must have been desperately hard for you and Pilar, both. But watching his face, she could see his memories of Zoe’s baby years were rueful, not grudging.

His expression hardened. “A handful still. Which brings me back to my problem…”

“Yes?” But problems or not, she had an evening meal to prepare. She dusted flour over her marble pastry slab and turned out the first ball of risen dough. Dug the heel of her right hand into its spongy softness, folded its far edge back toward the center, turned the dough, then shoved again, settling into her rhythm—knead, fold, rotate a quarter turn. Knead again…

Rafe drifted closer and stared down at her hands. “You’ve got to help me, Dana.”

An order, not a request, she noted wryly. Knead, fold, turn, knead…She sprinkled more flour on the marble. “Help you how?”

“Zoe got her brains from Pilar, but she got her stubbornness from me.” He gripped the edge of the table and leaned closer. “I’m not getting through to her, what a disaster this baby would be. I thought maybe a woman…somebody who’s gone through it recently and who’s going it alone…”

She looked up at him with something like hatred. “You’d use me—me and my baby—as an object lesson? How handy that my husband died. It makes us seem more pathetic!”

He jerked upright. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t think at all.” She brushed the hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I didn’t think of it like that, dammit. You’re anything but pathetic.” His scowl softened. The corner of his mouth slowly tilted. “Though, with flour all over your face…”

I look like a clown? So much for indignation. She swiped the back of a hand across her nose, and he burst into laughter.

“Here—” He tucked three fingers under her chin to support it.

If her hands hadn’t been full of dough, she would have edged out of reach. Instead, she stood paralyzed, her lashes falling to shut him out—to shut out this fragile, disturbing moment—while he cleaned her off, his fingers brushing across the bridge of her nose, the tops of her cheeks, her shivering lashes.

“Better,” he observed huskily.

Was it? Was it really? A wave of black dismay—of echoing loss—washed over her. “Thanks,” she whispered, staring down at her dough. After a moment her hands moved again—knead, fold, turn…

“Will you help me persuade her, Dana?”

Give a little to get what you wanted, she thought, loss turning to disgust. He thought he could buy her cooperation that easily, with one gesture of tossed-off tenderness? “No, Rafe, I won’t. Zoe doesn’t need some stranger telling her what to do.” Nor, for that matter, a parent trying to shape her life according to his own lights. “What about getting her some professional counseling? I’m sure that Dr. Hancock—”

“I’m the only counselor Zoe needs, dammit! A baby will wreck her life!”

“Then if you’re all she needs,” Dana said coolly, “she doesn’t need me.”

“But, dammit—” He saw her chin tip up in warning and he shut his mouth with an effort, locked his jaw over his words. Stood rocking on his boot heels and scowling, while she patted the first ball of dough into a loaf, settled it into its greased pan and placed it on the warming shelf. She turned out another ball of risen dough, pressed out the yeasty gas, commenced kneading.

“All right,” he said grimly, “then look at it this way. You owe me this help.”

Her hands paused as she looked up. “Excuse me?”

“Your son knocked up my daughter. If you’d ridden herd on him, hadn’t let him run wild, had taught him a proper respect for girls—”

Dana threw up a floury hand. “Now, wait a minute. Your daughter is—what—two years older than Sean? And everyone knows girls are years more mature than boys. So just who seduced whom? And who should have known better?”

“At fourteen, he’s old enough to know right from wrong! Or at least, old enough to know how not to get caught. Didn’t you tell him about condoms?”

“Didn’t you tell your brilliant daughter?” she shot back.

“She knew,” he said with dangerous calm.

“Then—”

“Condoms do fail.” His gaze turned distant and bleak.

“Is that what—”

He shrugged and spun on his heel, surveyed her kitchen, swung back again. “She’s not giving me any of the gory details, and frankly—” His shrug was more of a shudder. “Frankly, I don’t want to know. Every time I think about it, I get this urge to hammer your kid into the ground like a cedar fence post.”

Dana dusted her hands and came carefully around the table. “If you ever lay so much as a finger on Sean again—” She prodded his chest with a fingertip “—I’ll have you in jail for assault, Rafe Montana. See if I don’t!”

“Assault?” He caught her wrist, trapping her hand in that gesture of threat, forefinger touching his breast. “Last night, he swung on me.”

“Yes, but who finished it?” She yanked backward, but he held her easily.

“That was a lesson he needed to learn. You don’t take on someone you can’t handle.”

“I’ll thank you not to give my son lessons!”

“Then who will?” He brought her hand down to his side, then drew it slightly behind him, a subtle tug that swayed her closer. She flattened her other hand on his chest to catch her balance—could feel his heart thudding against her palm. “You’ll teach him how to grow up a man? Not your strong point, I’d say.” His eyes roved down her face to her mouth. He smiled slowly and shook his head. “Not your strong point at all, thank God.”

She shoved his chest hard, and he let her go. “Nobody asked you for lessons, and I’m telling you again, don’t you dare—” She cut herself short as the screen door to the deck creaked.

Sean stood there, gaping at them both.

CHAPTER SIX

THE BOY’S LOOK OF SHOCK turned to a thunderous scowl and he stepped backward—spun away. Rafe Montana lunged after him before the door banged shut. “You! Come here!”

So much for her warning! Dana yelped a protest and followed. She flung out onto the deck to find them faced off like a couple of dogs, hackles risen and weight on the balls of their feet. She caught Montana’s collar and gave a warning tug. “I said don’t!”

“And I heard you,” he told her evenly, his eyes locked on Sean.

Which was hardly a promise to obey, she realized. Retaining her grip, Dana glared at Sean. “Sean, if you’d please go in the—” The bruise on his jaw registered—blue-green and glorious. “Oh, Sean!” She let go of Montana and flew to her stepson, caught his chin in her hand.

Sean jerked out of her grasp and edged away. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t!” She touched his shoulder, but he stepped aside. “Sean, please…”

“Shut up, Dana.” Sean didn’t spare her a glance.

“What did you say?” Rafe demanded in a voice of quiet thunder.

“I—I s-said…” The boy stopped as Rafe shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said with ominous calm. “Not ever. Not around me.”

“Rafe, I can handle this, thank you,” Dana insisted.

“Some job you’re doing.” His eyes switched to Sean. “You and I have to talk.”

Sean clenched his hands. “I’ve only got one thing to say to you, Mr. Montana. Where’s Zoe?”

Montana seemed to grow a foot. “You went looking for my daughter? You went on my land?”

Sean gulped and shook his head, but he didn’t back down. “Uh-uh. Zoe was supposed to meet me where—” His hand flew toward his mouth—a touchingly childish gesture—and stopped midair. Fisted again. “She didn’t meet me,” he finished sullenly. “What’d you do to her?”

“Zoe is grounded. She doesn’t set foot off Suntop till I give the word, and when she does, believe me, it won’t be to meet you.”

“No!” Sean shook his head wildly as his voice cracked. “I’ve got to see her!”

“Get this straight,” Rafe said softly. “You won’t be seeing my daughter again—ever. You’ve done your damage, and now you’re finished. It’s over.”

“It isn’t!” Sean cried raggedly. “Dana?”

“Oh, Sean…” He never asked her for anything, and now that he had, she’d give all she held precious to help. But he might as well ask her to move a mountain.

“You come sneaking on my land, and I’ll have you arrested for trespassing,” Rafe continued. “And I promise you, sonny boy, this charge will stick. You got that?”

“Try and stop me, asshole!” Sean spun, jumped three steps to ground level and took off running.

Rafe took two strides after him, but Dana blocked his path. “Don’t.”

“So help me God, Dana, if he comes sniffing after her onto my land, I’ll hog-tie the brat and haul him home to you in my truck!”

“I’ve heard enough threats for one day.” Dana swiped the hair from her eyes, retreated to her swing and sat.

“How long have you been raising him alone? He’s out of control.”

“And I’ve had enough criticism about my child-rearing techniques, thank you. Want me to start in on yours?” Crossing her arms to wall him out, she closed her eyes, tipped her head back. Willed him to disappear in a puff of smoke.

No such luck. He growled something wordless, and the swing tilted as he sat down beside her. Their thighs brushed, and she shied away. After a moment, the swing rocked backward on its chains, glided forward. Dana heaved a sigh up from around her toes, lifted her heels up to the cushion, clasped her ankles. The swing arced gently through her self-imposed darkness, through the fragrance of roses. How odd to be rocked; she’d grown so used to doing for herself.

“Well, what now?” he asked finally.

“Now? I suppose I take the steaks out to warm up. I start the coals, bake the bread, make cookies for dessert tonight…” A distant, sleepy wail drifted through an upstairs window. “I comfort my daughter…”

“And what do I do about mine?”

“Try listening instead of ranting?” she suggested.

Warm fingers closed around her arm, just above her elbow. “Help me persuade her. Please?”

She bet he didn’t beg for help often. Still, she sighed and shook her head. “Can’t do it, Rafe. Zoe needs to find her way, not be shoved into somebody else’s plan for her life.”

“It’s the best plan,” he insisted. “The only plan right for her.”

“Then maybe she’ll come to see that in time. But it’s not for me to say.” Nor you.

The swing lurched as he stood. She squeezed her eyes tighter shut, then waited, willing him gone. At least her life had been peaceful before he stormed into it. If he left now…Was it too late to go back to that?

“Thanks,” he said bitterly.

“You’re welcome, Rafe.” Eyes closed, Dana waited till the crunch of his steps across the gravel had faded. Till she could hear nothing but the Ribbon River, chuckling down the mountainside. She sighed again, opened her eyes and went into her kitchen.

Who was she kidding? From now on, nothing would be the same.

“HERE COMES YOUR DADDY,” drawled Anse Kirby from his higher vantage point. He’d been lounging sideways, one arm braced back on the rump of his red roan, Tiger, watching Zoe wrestle with the top wire of the fence. Now he straightened in the saddle and gathered his reins.

“Oh?” Zoe levered her pliers around the curve of the cedar post, tightening the wire, then hammered the loosened staple home. She pulled a second staple from the carpenter’s apron she wore over her jeans and whacked that in, downstream of the first. “What should I do? Turn cartwheels?”

“Smile might go a long ways.” Anse apparently addressed the lowering sun.

“Yeah, go ahead. Take his side.” As her father’s top hand, he could hardly do else, Zoe supposed, but she was in no mood to be fair.

“Just a general observation. Woofle’s outgrinned you ’bout twelve to one, today.”

“Well, he had a banner day—found something dead to roll in. Me, I’ve done nothing but ride fence.” A chore she usually loved in the summertime. But not today. Not when she’d been given into Anse’s care like a five-year-old pest, with the implicit order, Keep her occupied. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve been a grump.”

“We all get a mood on, from time to time.” He made no visible move, but, responsive to a tensing of Anse’s thighs, Tiger swung to face the oncoming rider and set off at a lazy jog. Ignoring the horsemen, Zoe slogged off to the next post. Out on her flank, Woofle rose from the grass and trotted on a parallel course, careful to preserve the twenty-foot margin she’d ordained.

She’d completed that post, when the shadow of a horse and rider blocked the sun. “Anse will finish up here, Zoe. Let’s go.”

She shrugged and hung her hammer over the wire, untied her apron and draped it over the post. Anse had already dismounted and collected Miel, her little palomino, who’d been standing ground-hitched, placidly grazing. He passed her the reins with a wink. “Thanks for the help, Zoe.”

Like he needed it. She gave him a reluctant smile. “Sure. Anytime.” Probably every day this summer, if her father had his way. But he won’t. She cast Rafe a mutinous glance as her leg swung over the saddle and she found her stirrups.

Under the brim of his Stetson, his eyes were expressionless. He jerked his chin uphill. “Suntop?”

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