Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Epigraph

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Copyright

Trixie knew she couldn’t hide from the truth forever.

Even though no one, absolutely no one, in Dallas knew about the baby, Trixie knew in her heart, knew in her soul, that somewhere out there she had a child.

It was her great secret, her great burden to bear. She had yet to forgive herself for her one youthful indiscretion, or for allowing those around her to force her to send her child away.

Sometimes she lay awake at night, asking God to help her bear the sorrow of her secret.

Did God ever hear her pleas? Could she ever be whole again?

Tomorrow she would face her past. Face the man she had loved so fiercely.

And Trixie desperately wished she could turn back time…

LENORA WORTH

grew up in a small Georgia town and decided in the fourth grade that she wanted to write. But first, she married her high school sweetheart, then moved to Atlanta, Georgia. Taking care of their baby daughter at home while her husband worked at night, Lenora discovered the world of romance novels and knew that’s what she wanted to write. And so she began.

A few years later, the family settled in Shreveport, Louisiana, where Lenora continued to write while working as a marketing assistant. After the birth of her second child, a boy, she decided to pursue full time her dream of writing. In 1993, Lenora’s hard work and determination finally paid off with that first sale.

“I never gave up, and I believe my faith in God helped get me through the rough times when I doubted myself,” Lenora says. “Each time I start a new book, I say a prayer, asking God to give me the strength and direction to put the words to paper. That’s why I’m so thrilled to be a part of Steeple Hill’s Love Inspired line, where I get to combine my faith in God with my love of romance. It’s the best combination.”

Logan’s Child
Lenora Worth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy.

He who continually goes forth weeping, bearing seed for sowing, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.

—Psalm 126:5-6

For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

—Psalm 30:5

To my best friend and neighbor, Cindy Sledge, my own “Pig Pal.” And to all the mothers who love their children, even when they can’t be with them. You are not forgotten.

Chapter One

A hot, humid September wind whipped across the flat countryside as mourners dressed in fashionable funeral black filed out of the small country church just outside Plano, Texas. Mingling together beside the expensive sports cars and chauffeur-driven limousines lining the graveled driveway, the elite crowd talked in hushed, respectful tones.

Tricia Maria Dunaway looked around at the cream of Dallas society, here to say their final farewells to her father, the famous bull rider, Brant Dunaway. Her mind was numb with grief and shock; her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses that did little to relieve the harsh glare of the bright Texas sun. Beside her, her fiance Radford Randolph III, looking as dapper as always in his dark navy summer suit, stood with one arm solicitously touching her elbow.

“C’mon, honey,” her grandfather, Harlan Dunaway, said, his usually firm voice shaky. “We’ve got to get back to the Hideaway. People’ll be coming around to pay their respects and it’s up to us to be there to greet them.”

Her mother, Pamela, pale and dark-haired, elegant and slender, in a black linen sheath and cultured pearls, nodded her agreement. “Granddaddy’s right, Trixie. We wouldn’t want to be rude to all these good people who came to your daddy’s funeral.”

Trixie looked straight ahead. “No, Mama, Dunaways can’t ever be rude, can we? I mean, what would people think?”

Pamela’s brown eyes held a glint as cold and hardedged as the huge marquis diamond in her necklace. “I’m going to ignore that remark, Tricia Maria, only because I know losing your father has been a great strain on you.”

With a halfhearted effort, Trixie reached up a black-gloved hand to touch her mother’s still smooth cheekbone. “I’m sorry, Mama. I know you gave up a trip to Palm Beach to make it to Daddy’s funeral. I guess I shouldn’t be mean to you.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Pamela retorted, her smile, exacted for the benefit of prying eyes, as intact as her unruffled classic bob. “Even though your father and I were divorced, I still had feelings for the man.”

Trixie didn’t respond. She’d heard it all too many times before. Too many times. Not even Rad’s gentle endearments could bring her out of her deep grief.

She’d sat here in the church were she’d attended services all of her life and listened as Reverend Henry told them to rejoice in Brant’s departure from this life.

“Be joyful,” the good reverend told them. “’They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.’”

In spite of her faith, in spite of the strong Christian values she’d been taught, Trixie couldn’t feel any joy today. After all those many years of riding bucking, angry bulls and fighting his way into and out of barroom brawls, Brant Dunaway had lost his life to the one thing even he couldn’t fight off or sweet-talk his way out of—heart disease.

How could she find any joy in that cold, simple fact? How could she find any joy at all, when in her heart she kept thinking she should have stayed close to her father. She should have made him go to the doctor, take care of himself, live to be an old man. But…instead, she’d stayed away from the ranch in Arkansas where he’d spent his last years isolated and alone. Now she felt the remorse and regret that came with his death. So final, so harsh. So cold. Without even a goodbye between them.

And this was just the beginning. Tomorrow she had to take her father’s body back to Arkansas, back to the ranch he’d loved more than he’d ever loved the fancy mansion near Plano that everyone called Dunaway’s Hideaway. The mansion, Victorian in style and stark white and lacy in design, had been more like an overdecorated birthday cake to her father. His real hideaway had always been the crude, run-down ranch in Arkansas he’d inherited from his mother’s side of the family.

The ranch where he’d requested to be buried.

The ranch Trixie had inherited from him.

The ranch where Logan Maxwell worked as foreman.

Logan. His name still brought little tremors of awakening shooting through Trixie’s system. Would he be waiting there to greet her when she brought Brant home for the last time? Would he speak to her, acknowledge her, talk to her about the last eight years of his life?

Or…would Logan turn away from her in disgust, the way her father had turned away?

Harlan took her by the arm, gently urging her into the waiting, black limousine. “Let’s get going, Trixie. It’s a long ride back to the house.”

Trixie nodded absently, then allowed Rad to guide her into the roomy car, her thoughts on the man she’d have to face once again, come tomorrow. “Yes, Granddaddy, it is a long way back. A very long way.” Then she closed her eyes and thought about Logan…and remembered.

“But where’s Daddy?” Trixie had asked Pamela as they dressed for her coming-out ball that spring night so long ago. “He’s supposed to be here with you, to present me.”

“Brant won’t be attending the ball, sugar,” Pamela retorted, her chin lifting a notch, her eyes capturing Trixie’s in the gilt mirror of the dresser where she sat. Trixie stood in the center of the elaborate bedroom her mother shared with her father, that is, when they weren’t fighting. Pamela then turned away, patting her upswept curls, to stare down into the velvet-lined jewel case set out on the Louis XIV dresser.

Disappointed and steaming mad, Trixie stormed toward her mother, her white taffeta skirts swishing over the Aubusson carpet, her blond curls contrasting sharply with her mother’s darker ones. “Daddy wouldn’t do that to me! He promised he’d be here.”

Pamela pursed her lips as she gazed into the jewel case. Making her selection, she lifted out a brilliant diamond necklace, then smiled over at Trixie. “Here, sweetie, wear this.”

Trixie pushed the gaudy necklace away. “I’d prefer pearls, Mother, and I’d prefer you tell me what’s going on here. Where’s Daddy?”

Frustrated, Pamela snapped the jewel case shut. “And I’d really prefer not to discuss your father. Especially not now, right before your coming-out ball.” Spinning on the satin-covered vanity stool, she stared up at her daughter with beseeching eyes. “Oh, Trixie, we’ve waited for this night all of your life, darling. Tonight you’ll become a part of the best of Dallas society. Let’s not spoil things by talking about your missing father.”

Trixie stood there, her gaze sharp on her beautiful, haughty mother. “You had another fight with him, didn’t you?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about Brant.”

“That’s it! You picked a fight with him so he wouldn’t want to come to my cotillion. How could you do that, Mother?”

Pamela’s expression quickly changed from sweet to steely. “It wasn’t just me, young lady. You know how your father can be. And this time he pushed me too far.” Waving a diamond-clad hand, she added, “If Brant isn’t here tonight, it’s his own fault. Your grandfather will present you. And that’s all I have to say on the matter.”

The matter turned out to be divorce. Of course, Pamela didn’t reveal that to Trixie until after the season was over, until after she’d been to so many debutante parties, and danced with so many fumble-footed sons of oil tycoons and banking CEOs, that she thought she’d literally scream. No, Trixie found out the horrible, awful truth on the day of her graduation from high school, when Pamela lifted her wine glass in a toast at the formal dinner party she’d arranged for “just family,” then presented Trixie with a trip to Europe as a graduation gift.

“We leave in a week, darling. Just you and me. I’ll show you all the best places, of course, and introduce you to my friends over there. We’ll stay at a lovely chateau in France, and I’ve arranged for a private manor house in the English countryside. After we’ve done London, of course. You’ll love Europe. I plan on introducing you to several very eligible bachelors.”

Shocked, Trixie glanced around the long dining room of the Dunaway mansion, hoping to find some answers from either her beaming mother or her strangely quiet grandfather. “And what about Daddy?”

She didn’t miss the meaningful gaze that moved between her mother and Harlan. In fact, she hadn’t missed much over the past few weeks, in spite of being busy. Now she was sure something was going on. Brant hadn’t even stayed for dinner. Her father, usually so carefree and talkative, usually so full of silly banter, seemed so distant, so quiet these days.

Earlier, he’d given her two beautiful graduation gifts, a golden heart necklace and one of his most prized possessions, his belt buckle from his last days as bull riding champ, and then he’d told her, “You know how much I love you, baby. But I’ve got to get on the road again. I just want you to know, Trixiebelle, how proud I am of you.” She hadn’t missed the catch in his voice or the sad look in his brilliant blue eyes.

Needing to know what was happening, and tired of being protected like a fragile child, she repeated her question. “I said, what about Daddy? I’ve hardly seen him in the past four months, and today he rushed in for my graduation, but couldn’t even stay for dinner tonight. Why does he keep coming home, only to leave again on business? He hasn’t traveled this much since his prime rodeo days. Will he at least join us in Europe, Mama?”

“Your father hates Europe,” Pamela explained. “And besides, he wouldn’t come if I begged him. In fact, now that you’re through with graduation, you might as well know—your father has been spending a lot of his time up in Arkansas.”

“Arkansas?” Trixie wasn’t surprised to hear that, but she wondered what the big secret was. After all, Brant owned a huge chunk of land near Little Rock. “Is he finally fixing up the ranch? Is that it?”

Another stern glance from Harlan, but it didn’t stop her mother. Pamela shrugged, then tightened her expression into a firm frown. “Well, he is wasting a fair amount of time and money on that broken-down hovel in the wilderness if that’s what you mean. Trixie, your father has decided he wants to live up there permanently, and well…I can’t agree to that. So I’ve put my foot down, and…we’ve decided it would be best if we go our separate ways and get a divorce—”

Trixie looked from her mother to Harlan. Her grandfather seemed to age right there in front of her. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t want you to find out this way,” he said, his eyes watering up, his accusing gaze shifting to Pamela.

Shrugging daintily, Pamela rushed on. “I’ve fought against it and tried to keep up appearances, of course, but this marriage can’t be fixed. No amount of prayer or reasoning is going to change Brant Dunaway into a decent, reasonable human being. I’ve discussed this thoroughly with Harlan, and he’s been very generous about letting me continue to live here, for your sake. I’ve had counseling with Reverend Henry, but it’s just too late. Your father expected me to give up my life here, everything I’ve come to love, everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve for both you and for this family, to go up there and live in the boonies.” She waved a hand. “I’m too old and too established here to start over.”

“I can’t believe this,” Trixie said, turning to her grandfather for support. “Do you agree with her?”

Harlan cleared his throat and sat back heavily in his Queen Anne chair. “I’m trying to remain neutral. I know how much that land means to your pappy, so I can’t keep him from doing something he’s wanted for such a long time. Heck, he’s got more money than he’ll ever need, what with my holdings and his own money from endorsements, but he’s determined to do this thing his own way. He’s basically told me to stay out of it.” He glanced down the table at Pamela again. “But he sure wanted your mama to come up there with him. Thought it might do them good to get away from everything…and start over.”

Trixie stared at her mother’s unyielding face. “Couldn’t you just try it, for a little while, Mama? It sounds like Daddy really wants to make things up to you.”

“Hah!” Pamela interjected, her brown eyes flashing fire. “He should have thought about that years ago when he left me for weeks at a time to travel the rodeo circuit. You’re right, Harlan. He never needed the money. We could have had a good life together, if he’d only given it a chance.”

“And what about you, Mother?” Trixie said in a low, trembling voice. “Did you ever give him a chance? You know how much he loved being a bull rider, yet you never once supported him or gave him any encouragement. Why did you marry my daddy, anyway?”

Pamela looked her daughter straight in the eye. “I’ve often asked myself that same question. But I can tell you this, young lady, because I’m a Christian, I tried to make this marriage work. I guess some prayers just can’t be answered.”

Hurt and disgusted, Trixie turned back to Harlan. “How can you sit there and let her talk about your only son that way?”

Harlan lifted up out of his chair. “Your mother knows exactly how I feel about the subject of my son. I love Brant with all of my heart, and I’ll continue to support his efforts up in Arkansas. But for your sake, and for the sake of this family, I can’t very well put Pamela out on the street. We will continue to be discreet about this, and we will continue to act like Dunaways, regardless of any rift in this family.”

Trixie shot up out of her chair, rattling dishes and upsetting water glasses in a very unladylike fashion that made her oh-so-proper mother wince. “I get it. Close ranks and put our best face forward, no matter how torn apart this family really is. Show the world the perfect life of the Dunaways, the family everyone in Dallas can model their own miserable lives after, right? Pretend we’re good, upstanding Christians who attend church every Sunday and give a hefty tithe each and every month.”

“That’s enough, Tricia,” Pamela said. “We are good people and we have nothing, nothing at all, to be ashamed of.”

“Except the truth,” Trixie retorted. “We’re living a facade, a lie, Mother. And I for one, won’t continue it.” Slamming her linen dinner napkin down, she headed for the foyer, then turned to face her stunned mother and disapproving grandfather. “And I won’t be going to Europe with you. I’m going to Arkansas, to see my father, and I intend to stay there until this fall. But don’t worry, I’ll be home in time for college. So you just keep on bragging to all of your friends. And while I’m gone, you can continue to keep up appearances to save face, Mother, since that seems to be so much more important to you than trying to save your marriage.”

In the end, however, even Pamela’s manipulations and sugar-coated half truths couldn’t save face. When the Dallas press got wind of the impending divorce, things turned nasty, and Pamela turned vindictive. After demanding a multimillion-dollar settlement from Brant, Pamela went to Europe alone and made headlines by being seen with some very eligible men. Of course, Pamela managed to keep things highly proper and above reproach, stating that she loved her daughter and only wanted to protect Tricia Maria from all of this hurt and pain.

She never stopped to think how much she’d hurt both Trixie and her father. No, Pamela always managed to put a spin on the truth, to twist it to her advantage and to come out, as Harlan put it, “smelling like a rose.”

So that summer Trixie went to Arkansas to find her own peace of mind, to regroup and reassess her life, to get back at her domineering, self-righteous mother, and to get reacquainted with the father she loved and adored.

And…wound up meeting a man who changed her life.

That summer Tricia Maria Dunaway fell in love with Logan Maxwell.

That fall Tricia Maria Dunaway did not enroll in college at Southern Methodist University, because she was expecting Logan Maxwell’s child.

As the sleek limousine pulled into the long drive leading up to the mansion, Trixie glanced up to the sign over the white fretwork gate, proclaiming the surrounding thousand acres of prime Texas real estate to be Dunaway’s Hideaway.

But Trixie knew in her heart, this was no hideaway. She knew she’d never be able to hide from the truth, no matter how secluded and protected her grandfather’s estate might be, no matter how much power the Dunaway name carried in Texas, no matter how hard her mother had managed to put a pretty face on the worst of situations by guarding Trixie’s great sin with all the alert attention and precise organization of a qualified damage control expert.

Even though no one, absolutely no one in Dallas, knew about the baby, especially not Rad’s blue-blooded family, Trixie knew in her heart, knew in her soul, that somewhere out there she had a child. Once, she’d accused her mother of living a lie; now she had to live one each and every day of her life. Unlike Pamela and Harlan, and even her father, she couldn’t forever stay in a state of determined denial. It was her great secret, her great burden to bear. She had yet to forgive herself for her one youthful indiscretion, or for allowing those around her to force her to let her child be sent away like a parcel of dirty laundry. Sometimes, she lay awake at night, asking God to show her the way, to give her comfort, to help her bear the sorrow of her secret. And she wondered, did God ever hear her pleas? Or like her misguided mother, was she praying for all the wrong things?

But tomorrow, tomorrow when she at last faced Logan again, as much as she now believed in the absolute truth, she hoped the truth wouldn’t be plastered there on her own face. Because he could never know the truth.

Logan could never, ever know that she’d been forced to give his child up for adoption. Only she and her immediate family could ever know that great shame. Because of the Dunaway power, Logan hadn’t had a say in the matter, at all. He had no idea that a baby had even been conceived.

Again, Reverend Henry’s words came back to haunt her.

“They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.”

Dear God, she silently prayed now, hidden behind her dark glasses, shielded by the touch of Rad’s hand on her own, Will I ever be forgiven? How can I face Logan, knowing what I did? How can I enter into marriage with Rad, with a such a devastating secret between us? How can I ever be whole again?

Tomorrow she would take Brant Dunaway’s remains back to the place he loved most. Tomorrow, she would come face-to-face with her past and the man she had once loved so fiercely.

As Rad helped Trixie out of the car, the unmerciful Texas wind whipped her hair and sang mournfully in her ear, holding her, pulling her close. But Trixie fought at the wind, her thoughts turning to the rolling green hills of Arkansas. And she desperately wished she could turn back time.

Chapter Two

Time might have changed Trixie, but time had not changed the ranch. The red-stained, open barn still stood at a slanted angle beside the dirt lane, looking as if the next strong wind might just knock it over. But Trixie knew this old barn had weathered everything, from gentle rains to fierce, whirling tornadoes. And yet it stood.

Off to the right were the big rectangular stables, their planked walls painted the same aged red shade as the barn. As the wind rushed through the long, cool stable corridors, the smell of fresh hay and pungent manure assaulted her senses and touched her with such a sensory remembrance, she had to close her eyes to keep the tears from falling. She could almost hear her father’s deep-throated laughter floating along on that wind. She could see herself and Logan, young and carefree, walking the horses, cleaning the stalls, stealing a kiss in a dark, cool alcove.

Out beyond the barn and stables, out beyond the screened-in cookhouse and the narrow barracks that served as the bunkhouse, the pine-covered hills that formed the beginnings of the Ouachita Mountains lifted and flowed like a green velvet blanket tossed across a rumpled bed.

Everything about the place that Brant had simply called The Ranch, was rumpled and slightly off center. It was as run-down and down home as they came. Nothing fancy, no frills—just a good, solid working ranch that included cattle, sheep and pigs, along with corn, cotton, produce and hay. Certainly nothing to be ashamed of, but nothing to shout about, either, as her father used to say.

Pamela had always hated this place.

Trixie had always loved it.

And missed it.

Now she stepped out of the rental car she’d picked up at the Little Rock airport, to look toward the west where the small lodge stood on a pine-shaded hillside. Brant had built his modest house there, so he could wake up each morning with a perfect view of the surrounding peaks and valleys. Off in the distance the mountains presented a muted, watercolor vista of rock and trees. Brant had loved his view of this part of the Ozark Plateau. He had liked seeing his little domain as he stood on the wide, posted porch with his first cup of coffee.

Now, the A-frame, log-cabin-style house looked forlorn and lonesome, a bittersweet reminder to Trixie of all that she had lost. Her father had built the house as a retreat for Pamela, hoping to mend the great tear in their doomed marriage. But Pamela had shunned his gift and him. Trixie wondered if her mother felt any guilt or remorse over that now. She knew she certainly did.

In a few hours the meager staff would gather together not far from the brown-logged lodge, underneath a great live oak that stood alone like a sentinel on one of those rolling hills, to watch Branton Nelson Dunaway be put to rest in the earth he loved. Trixie had arrived early to make sure everything had been arranged. The funeral home in Little Rock would bring her father’s remains in a few hours.

Right now she needed this time to readjust to being here, to steel herself against seeing Logan again. She just wanted to stand here in the sandy driveway and look out over what now belonged to her.

Rad wanted her to sell it, take the money and run.

“We won’t have time to fool with some run-down ranch in Arkansas, darling. We’ll be so busy with my law practice and your consulting work I don’t see how you can be in two places at once.”

“I won’t have to be there, Rad. The Ranch has a very capable foreman.”

“That Maxwell fellow? You don’t even know him that well. For all we know he might decide to take you for a ride now that Brant’s gone. From everything Harlan’s told me, the place barely breaks even as it is. No, I think it’d be best to get rid of it. We’ll invest the money. I’ll call my broker first thing once you’ve taken care of the sale.”

Trixie closed her eyes and leaned back against the rented Nissan, images of the past she’d tried to bury springing up like wildflowers in her mind. Was that why she’d considered selling the ranch—to get rid of any traces of her great shame? Now she had to wonder why she’d even agreed to sell it at all. How in the world could she tell Logan that she wanted to sell the land he loved so much, the only home he’d known since he was a teenager?

Logan Maxwell heard the slam of a car door on the other side of the barn. Dropping his paintbrush, he found a rag on a nearby shelf and tried unsuccessfully to clean the white paint off his hands. Then he headed toward the front of the building, his heart pumping, his nerve endings on full alert, his whole body coiled tightly against seeing the woman he knew would be waiting on the other side.

Trixie.

Then he saw her standing there with her eyes closed and her head thrown back as she invited the wind to kiss her face. She wore designer jeans and a pair of hand-tooled buttery tan boots—he would bet she’d had them specially made in Austin, and a bright pink-and-green-colored Western-style shirt—probably a Panhandle Slim—and she looked about as out of place as a Barbie doll at a G.I. Joe convention.

She also looked beautiful. Her hair was still that same honeyed hue of blond, although she’d cut it—no, she’d paid an overpriced hairdresser to cut it—to a becoming, layered bob that framed her face with sleek flips and. soft swirls. Still tall and cool, still the darling of Dallas, still the belle of the ball. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew the color was a deep, pure blue, same as the Arkansas sky over his head. He couldn’t take his own eyes away from her, though, so he leaned there against the support of the rickety barn and allowed himself this one concession while he compared the real-life woman to the girl he’d watched walk away so long ago.

He’d had an image of this woman in his mind for the past eight years, an image that had warred within his subconscious, an image that at times had haunted him, at other times had comforted him. He’d tried so very hard to put Tricia Maria out of his mind. But she wouldn’t disappear. It had taken her father’s death to bring her back to him in the flesh.

Now he used bitterness as his only weapon against the surge of emotions threatening to erupt throughout his system.

He had so many questions; he needed so many answers.

So he remained silent and just stared at her.

Trixie opened her eyes, feeling the heat from the sun on her tear-streaked face at about the same time she felt someone watching her. It didn’t take her long to figure out who that someone was.

Logan.

She stared across the expanse of the dirt driveway, to the spot where he leaned with his arms crossed over his chest, just inside the open barn doors. In her mind she held the memory of a young man in his early twenties, muscled and tanned, with thick wisps of brown hair falling across his impish, little-boy face. This Logan was the same as the one in her memories, yet different. He still wore his standard uniform of faded Levi’s and chewed up Ropers she remembered in her dreams. A battered Stetson, once tan, now a mellow brown, sat on his head. The torn T-shirt, smeared with grease and dirt, told her he still worked as hard as anybody around there, and…he obviously still wore the attitude, the whole-world’s-out-to-dome-in attitude, that had attracted her to him in the first place.

Only now, a new layer had been added to his essence, along with the crow’s feet and the glint in his brown-black eyes. He’d matured into a full-grown man, his muscles heavier, more controlled, broader, his expression hardened, more intense, deeper.

He looked bitter and angry and hurt.

He looked delicious and vulnerable and lost.

And he looked as if he’d rather be any place on earth except standing there with her.

“Hello, Logan,” she said, her voice sounding lost and unsure to her own ears as it drifted up through the live oaks.

“Tricia Maria.” He lifted away from the barn to stalk toward her, his eyes never leaving her face. When he’d gotten to within two feet of her, he stopped and hooked his thumbs in the stretched, frayed belt loops of his jeans. “Sorry about your daddy.”

“Yeah, me, too.” She looked away, out over the hills. “He wanted to be buried here, so…”

“So you had no choice but to come back.”

“Yes, I had to—for him, for his sake.”

Not for me. Not for my sake, Logan thought. Because she’d written him off a long time ago. And they both knew why. Yet he longed to ask her.

The questions buzzed around them like hungry bees. Logan wanted to lash out at her, to ask her why, why she’d left him so long ago. But he didn’t. Because he knew the answer, knew probably even better than she did why she’d deserted him and left him, and lied to him. Instead he said, “C’mon. We’ll get your stuff up to the lodge. When’s this thing taking place?”

“Three o’clock,” she said, understanding he meant the graveside service for her father. “Didn’t anybody call you about it?”

He didn’t look at her as he moved around her to get into the driver’s side of the car. “Yeah, some fellow named Ralph, Raymond—”

“Rad. Radford Randolph. He’s…we’re engaged. I asked him to call ahead and let you know when we’d get here. Granddaddy’s coming later.”

Logan slid into the car, then patted the passenger’s seat, his dark gaze on her face. “Get in. I’ll drive you up to the lodge.”

Trixie had no choice but to do as he asked. She remembered that about Logan. Quiet, alert, a man of few words. Dark and brooding. A rebel. A troublemaker who’d been turned over to her father for a job over ten years before by a judge who’d agreed with Brant, and Logan’s mother, Gayle, not to send him to a juvenile home. He’d come to work off a truancy sentence, and he’d never left.

In spite of everything, Logan had not deserted her father the way she had, the way Pamela had. Somehow, that had comforted her and made her resent him at the same time. Logan had known Brant Dunaway better than Brant’s own flesh and blood. She could tell he was taking this hard, too. Maybe that was why he had a scowl on his scarred, harsh face. Out of respect, Trixie didn’t speak again. Besides, she didn’t know what to say, how to comfort him. She’d prayed long and hard to find some sort of comfort for herself, but it hadn’t come yet.

Logan pulled the car up to the long, square lodge that Brant had built with his own hands, then turned in the seat to stare over at Trixie. “Yeah, this Rad fellow was more than happy to talk with me a spell. Asked a lot of questions, too.”

Frowning, Trixie said, “What kind of questions?”

Logan tipped his battered hat back on his head and wrapped one hair-dusted arm across the steering wheel, his eyes full of accusation. “Oh, about profit and loss, how much income we’ve been generating, how much I think the land is worth.”

Trixie moaned and closed her eyes. How could Rad be so presumptuous? This wasn’t his land, after all. It was hers.

When she felt Logan’s hand on her chin, she opened her eyes to find him close, too close. His touch, so long remembered, so long denied, brought a great tearing pain throughout her system. To protect her frayed nerve endings, and the small amount of pride she had left, she tried to pull away.

He forced her head around so she had to look at him. “You’re gonna sell out, aren’t you?”

She did manage to push his hand away then, but the current of awareness remained as an imprint on her skin. “I…I haven’t decided.”

Logan jerked open the door and hauled his big body out of the car, then turned to bend down and glare at her again. “I can’t believe you’d even think of selling this place, but then again, maybe I should have seen it coming.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her hand flying to the door handle. When he didn’t answer her, she rounded the car to meet him at the trunk. “Logan, explain that last remark, please?”

Logan opened the trunk, then snorted at the many travel bags she’d brought along. “Still so cool, calm and collected, still the fashionable big-city girl, aren’t you, Trixie?”

In defense of herself she said, “I wasn’t sure how long I’d need to stay.”

He lifted her suitcases out of the trunk, then slammed the lid shut. “Oh, I think I can clarify that for you, darlin’. Just long enough to shed yourself of this place, I imagine.” When she looked away, he grabbed her arm to spin her around. “Am I right, Trixie? Is that it? Were you planning on pulling another vanishing act, like you did all those years ago?”

“No,” she said, humiliation and rage causing her to grit her teeth. “No.”

He pressed her close to the car’s back. “Yes. I say yes. As soon as you can sell this place to the highest bidder, you’ll tuck tail and head back to Dallas.” Hefting her suitcases up with a grunt, he added, “After all, some things never change, do they, sweetheart?”

She was surprised to find that some changes had been made to the ranch, after all, such as the tiny white chapel Brant had built by the great oak where he wanted to be buried, and she was even more surprised by the large turnout for her father’s graveside service. Trixie knew her father had a lot of friends back in Dallas, but here? She’d always imagined him alone and reclusive, once he’d lost touch with his family, but then again Brant Dunaway hadn’t been the kind of man to be satisfied with his own company for too long. Brant had loved life; had loved moving and roaming and watching and experiencing. What was it Granddaddy used to say? He was a good ol’ boy with a big ol’ heart.

Only, Pamela had never seen that. She only saw what she termed Brant’s weaknesses; his flaws and failings far outweighed his goodness in Pamela’s eyes. Once the novelty of being married to the renegade rodeo hero son of an oil man had worn off, she’d judged him with a very harsh measure; he’d never stood a chance of living up to Pamela’s standards.

Trixie had always been confused by her mother’s double standards. Pamela professed to being a Christian, attended church each Sunday, did all the right things, yet she never seemed to possess the one basic trait that made anyone a true Christian. Pamela had never learned tolerance or acceptance. She’d tried to change Brant, and it had backfired on her. And she was now working hard on her daughter.

Right up till this morning, when, in a nervous tizzy she’d tried her level best to talk Trixie out of coming. “Trixie, I just don’t think it’s wise for you to go back to that place. Harlan can take care of the burial. Stay here with me, sugar, and help me plan your engagement party.”

“I’m going, Mother, and that’s final. I want to be there to see Daddy buried. And I have to decide about what to do.”

“Get rid of that land as fast as you can. You and Rad don’t need the bother, darling. You’re going to be busy, too busy to have to deal with that old headache of a ranch.”

Pamela would never come out and say it, but she didn’t want her daughter anywhere near Logan Maxwell again. Pamela had erased the whole episode from her mind like a bad movie.

Now, as Trixie watched the long line of people marching across the hillside toward the spot where Brant would be buried, she was glad her mother would not be among the crowd. She needed this time alone with her father, one last time. Her granddaddy was here, though, right by her side as he’d always been, his old eyes watering up as he looked at the shiny new walnut-grained casket, encased with a set of brass bull horns, where his son now rested.

“Are you all right?” Trixie asked Harlan, worried about him. Her grandfather had started out as a wildcatter and had gone on to build an oil empire. He’d paid his dues; done his time. He was getting old. And his only son’s death had aged him both physically and emotionally.

“I’m fine, honey. Just missing your father.”

“Me, too.” She looked down at the sunflower wreath lying across the closed casket. “I should have visited him more—stayed in touch. I should have let him know I cared.”

“He knew you loved him.”

“Did he? Did he really know that?” she asked.

“Yes, he surely did. I kept in touch with him, you know. After all, he was my son. And, thank the Lord, we made our peace with each other long before he died.”

“Did…did he ever talk about me?”

Harlan lifted his gaze to her face, his blue eyes, so like his son’s, full of love and compassion. “All the time, honey. All the time.”

Trixie saw the hesitation in her grandfather’s expression. He seemed to want to say more, but instead he just looked away, down at the ground. At least he’d told her that her father still thought about her and acknowledged her existence. Trixie found some comfort in that.

After she’d had the baby—they’d never allowed her to know whether it had been a boy or a girl—Brant had drifted further and further out of her life. Still numb, still grieving over the twist her life had taken, she went on to college, a year late. Determined to get her life back on track, she’d soon became immersed in her studies and her somewhat vague social life. She’d gone through all the motions—the sororities, the campus parties, the whirl of college life, but her heart, her center always came back here to her father…and to Logan. Ashamed, she’d felt as though neither wanted anything to do with her, so she hadn’t made any effort to mend the shattered relationships with the two men she loved and respected most in all the world.

Logan stood now, apart from all the others, with a group of about eight children of various ages. Watching him, Trixie wondered again how this was affecting him. Brant had been like a father to him. Logan’s mother, Gayle, had come to the ranch years ago, divorced and struggling with a rebellious teenage son. Brant had given her a job as cook and housekeeper, and promptly had put her son to work on the ranch.

The arrangement had worked, since Brant hadn’t spent too much time at the ranch back then. He’d depended on Gayle and Logan to watch over things, along with some locals he hired to tend the animals and crops. By the time Trixie arrived that summer so long ago, however, Brant was a permanent resident here, and he and Logan had formed a grudging respect for each other. That mutual respect had seen them through the worst of times. The very worst of times.

Not wanting to delve too deeply into those particular memories, Trixie turned her attention to the haphazard group of children around Logan. “Granddaddy, who are all those youngsters?”

Harlan cleared his throat and glanced in the direction of the silent, solemn group. “They’re living on the ranch, Tricia Maria. They’ve been here for most of the summer.”

Shocked, Trixie stared hard at her grandfather. “Why? I mean, are they helping out with the crops as a project? Did Logan give them jobs?”

Harlan started to speak again when the preacher lifted his hands to gather the group around Brant’s casket. Harlan leaned close and whispered, “I’ll explain it all later.”

There was no easy explanation for death, especially when speaking to a child. Logan stood with the children he was in charge of and wondered again if he’d handled any of this in the right way. Granted, he’d had training in counseling youths from the minister who was about to conduct Brant’s funeral service. But talking with children was never easy. Children demanded complete and total honesty, and sometimes adults, by trying to protect them, hedged and pawed around the truth. Logan certainly knew all about that.

Looking over at Trixie now, Logan felt a stab of guilt. He hadn’t exactly been completely truthful with her, but then again, she had kept her distance, and her secret, from him all these years, too. As he watched her now, so cool and pulled together in her black linen pantsuit, he had to wonder what her intentions were. How could she come barreling in here again after all these years and rearrange his whole way of life?

Feeling a tug on the sleeve of his chambray shirt, Logan looked down to find ten-year-old Marco holding on to him.

“Hey, buddy,” Logan said on a low whisper. “How ya doing?”

Marco, a beautiful Hispanic child whose mother had abandoned him when he was three, shook his shiny black-haired head and said, “Not too good, Mr. Logan.” He put a hand to his heart. “It hurts here, inside. I miss Mr. Brant.”

“Yeah, me, too, bud,” Logan replied, his voice tight, his words clipped. “Tell you what, though. You just stand here by me and hold tight to my hand, okay? We’ll get through this together. Then later I’ll bring out Radar and let you exercise him around the paddock. Deal?”

Marco’s sad expression changed into a grin. “I get to ride the pony?”

Logan gave the boy a conspiring wink. “You and you alone, partner.”

Marco took his hand and held on. Soon, all of the children had shifted closer to Logan. Their warmth soothed the great hole in his soul and made him even more determined to hold on to what he’d helped Brant build here. Then he saw Caleb standing by Gayle. Motioning for the seven-year-old boy, Logan waited as the youngest of the group ran and sailed into his arms, then wrapped his arms around Logan’s neck. Holding the boy close, Logan decided right then and there that he had to talk some sense into Tricia Maria Dunaway. He wouldn’t stand by and let her sell this ranch. Not after everything that had passed between them. With that thought in mind, he glanced over at Trixie and held tight to the little brown-haired boy in his arms.

She chose that moment to look up, her eyes meeting his in a silent battle of longing and questions. Soon he’d have his answers, Logan decided. And maybe soon she’d have hers, too. Whether she liked it or not…

Then the minister preached to them about finding their answers through the word of God. “For the Lord is good, his mercy is everlasting, and his truth endureth to all generations.”

The truth. Could it endure between Trixie and him? Was it time to find out? Logan stared across at the woman he’d tried so hard to forget and wondered if someone up there was trying to send him a personal message.

Much later, after all the mourners had paid their respects, after Harlan had headed back down the hill to the lodge to rest a spell, after the sun had dipped behind the distant live oaks and loblolly pines, Trixie stood alone beside her father’s freshly dug grave and remembered all the good and wonderful things about Brant Dunaway.

And she cried. She’d never felt so lost and alone.

Until she felt a hand on her arm.

Turning, she saw Logan standing there, his eyes as dark and rich as the land beneath their feet, his expression a mixture of sympathy and bitterness. He didn’t speak; didn’t offer her any pretty platitudes or pat condolences. Instead, he simply stood there beside her and let her cry.

And finally, when she could stand it no longer, when he could hold back no longer, he took her in his arms and held her while the red-gold September sun slipped reluctantly behind the Arkansas hills.

Chapter Three

“He used to bring me daisies on my birthday,” Trixie said later as they sat on a nearby hillside.

The shadows of dusk stretched out before them, darkness playing against the last, shimmering rays of the sun. Off in the distance, a cow lowed softly, calling her calf home for supper. Trixie stared across the widening valley, her gaze taking in the panoramic view of the beautiful burgundy-and-white Brangus cattle strolling along, dipping their great heads to graze the grasslands.

“He always did like wildflowers,” Logan answered. “Remind me to show you the field of sunflowers he planted just over the ridge. The wreath on his casket came from those.”

Trixie glanced over at the man sitting beside her. Logan had brought her such a comfort, coming back up here to sit with her. “Thank you,” she said at last.

“For what?”

“For not pushing me. For just being you.”

He snorted, then threw down the blade of grass he’d been chewing on. Glancing toward her, he said, “I thought me just being me was the reason you never came back here.”

Not ready to discuss that particular issue, she ran a hand through her hair and leaned her chin down on her bent knees. “I had a lot of reasons for not coming back here, Logan.”

He’d like to know each and every one of them. But he didn’t press her. That wasn’t his style. “Yeah, well, we all have our reasons for doing the things we do, sugar.” He looked away, out over the lush farmland. “I take full responsibility for what happened back then, Trixie.”

Shocked, she glanced over at him. Did he know about the baby, after all? “What do you mean?”

Logan looked back at her then, his dark eyes shining with regret and longing. “Our one time together—I should have stopped before things got so out of control.”

“I played a part in that night, too, Logan.” And paid dearly for it She shrugged, hoping to push the hurtful memories away. “Besides, it’s over now.”

“Is it?”

She looked down at her clenched hands, not wanting him to see the doubt and fear in her eyes. “It has to be. We were young and foolish back then and we made a mistake. We’re adults now. We just have to accept the past and go on.”

He nodded, then lowered his head. “Well, one thing is still clear—our lives are still very different. That much hasn’t changed. Just like then. You were the boss’s daughter, and I took advantage of that. I won’t do it this time around.”

Ignoring his loud and clear message, she reminded him, “No, you didn’t do anything I didn’t let you do.”

“Yeah, well, I could have been more careful.” His voice grew deeper, the anger apparent in his next words. “Then you saved my hide by begging your father not to fire me. The rich girl helping the poor, unfortunate stable hand.”

She realized where some of his bitterness was coming from. By asking Brant not to fire him after he’d caught them together, she’d only added insult to injury. “You needed your job. Your mother would have been heartbroken if Daddy had sent you away.”

“So you went away instead.” His eyes burned through her. “I’ve had to live with that all of these years. I’ve had to live with a lot of things.”

Trixie reached out a hand to his arm, wanting to comfort him. What would he do, what would he think if he knew everything? “Logan, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize! I’m the one who blew it!” Suddenly afraid of being this near to her, of being this intimate with her, he hopped up to brush the dirt off the back of his jeans. “C’mon. You must be hungry. Mama’s probably got supper on the table by now.”

Trixie took the hand he offered down to her, her eyes meeting his in the growing dusk. With a firm tug, he had her up and standing in front of him. Too close. Logan dropped her hand, then turned without a word to stomp away.

She followed, wondering if she’d ever be able to figure out Logan Maxwell. She’d seen him at the service this afternoon, watching her with that bitter expression on his face. And…she’d seen him with the children. He obviously cared about his little wards. Especially that little boy who’d clung to him the entire time. What a cutie. Trixie had only glanced at the child briefly and then he’d been lost in the crowd of people trailing by to pay their respects.

“Tell me about the children,” she said now as she hurried to catch up with him. “Grandfather said he’d explain. But I want you to.”

Logan stopped to whirl around and stare at her. “You mean, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That this ranch is now a part-time foster home for troubled kids?”

“What?” Shocked, she looked around as if searching for some sort of justification. “Well, no. No one bothered to tell me anything about that.” Sighing, she added, “I’m so tired of everyone trying to protect me. Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

Logan kept walking, but slowed his pace to a comfortable gait. “Your father wanted the ranch to be a place where people could come and learn about nature and about life. Through a program with the local church, he set up a foundation called The Brant Dunaway International Farm. We grow food and livestock for underprivileged countries, and we train volunteers to go into the villages of these countries and teach the locals how to live off the land. Most of what we produce here is shipped out of the country to help these people.”

Trixie had to let that soak in. Her father, the rowdy cowboy, doing missionary work for the church. “I don’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe you weren’t aware of it.”

“The only thing I heard from the lawyers was that I had inherited this land. Everything else got lost in the fog shrouding my brain.” Her head down, she added, “And well…I haven’t exactly kept in touch over the years.”

“Yeah, and who’s fault is that?”

Frustrated and unable to tell him her reasons for staying away, she said, “Could we just get back to the children?”

He shot her a hard look. “Ah, the children. Does having them here bother you?”

She didn’t miss the sarcasm in his question. “Well, no. I just want to know what’s going on.”

“These kids come to us through the church—from broken homes, from foster homes, from parents who’ve abandoned them, from law officers trying hard to save them. Most of them are juvenile offenders—petty stuff, like stealing from the local convenience store or vandalism. Small-time crimes that could lead to worse, if someone doesn’t intervene. They’ve seen some ugly things out there beyond our front gates.”

He stopped, taking a long breath. “We try to fix them—teach them pride and self-esteem, and how to be responsible and productive. We’re like a summer camp, only,” he glared over at her here, “only not for the rich and privileged few who can afford such luxuries. We cater to those who might never get a chance like this, and as corny as it might sound to someone like you, we try to teach them that there is some beauty and good in God’s world.”

“As hard as it might be for someone like you to believe,” she said, her words tight and controlled, “I do have a social conscience, and I do care about the other human beings existing on this earth alongside me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I just had no idea my father had such…such lofty ambitions toward saving the world.”

“He didn’t try to save the world, Trixie. He just tried to make a difference on his own little piece of earth. And he worked long and hard and gave a lot of his own money to accomplish his goals. Things here were just starting to turn around when he got sick.”

“He worked himself to death, didn’t he?”

Logan heard the anguish in her question, but couldn’t find any sympathy for her pain. It was too little, too late now. “Yeah, Brant worked hard, as hard as anybody on this place. It was like…it was like he was trying to work off all his demons, you know.”

“I do know,” she said, understanding more than ever what her father must have gone through. It didn’t help to know some of his pain had come from her own foolish actions. “I wish—”

“Too late for wishes, sweetheart,” Logan said as they reached the house. Then he stopped just before the screened back door, and turned to face her. “But…it’s not too late for you to continue with your father’s dream. That is, if you don’t sell this place right out from under us.”

“I haven’t made a firm decision yet,” she said on a defensive note.

He smiled then, showing her the dimples she remembered so well. “That’s all I needed to hear,” he said on a low whisper.

His whisper, so soft, so sure, and his nearness, so exciting, so frightening, told Trixie that she was in for a long, hard battle. And she wasn’t sure if she had the strength to fight both Logan and her guilt.

She only hoped God would show her the right way to deal with this.

Gayle Maxwell was a petite, dark-headed woman who, because of the hard life she’d had, looked older than her fifty-one years. Trixie watched Logan’s mother, physically feeling the woman’s disapproval of her presence there. Gayle had not been pleased all those years ago when Trixie and Logan had formed an instant bond; she apparently wasn’t pleased now to have Trixie back in their lives. And, Trixie had to remind herself, the woman was probably concerned that soon she might be displaced and unemployed. Well, Trixie was worried about that, too.

“Hello, Mrs. Maxwell,” Trixie said as they entered the long, paneled kitchen of the lodge. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to speak with your earlier.”

“Hello, Tricia,” Gayle replied, her lips tight, her red-rimmed eyes looking everywhere but at Trixie. “Sorry about Brant. We’ll all miss your daddy.”

“Me, too.”

Trixie knew Gayle had been avoiding her, but she wasn’t prepared for the woman’s evasiveness tonight. Gayle looked downright uncomfortable. Her movements were erratic and jittery. Her brown eyes darted here and there, as if she expected someone to burst into the room and interrupt their meal any minute. Maybe Gayle was still upset about Brant’s death. They had always had a close relationship.

Wanting to soothe the older woman, Trixie asked, “Can I do anything to help with dinner?”

Gayle turned back to the stove. “No, everything’s under control.” Over her shoulder she said to Logan, “I’ve already fed all of the children. Samantha’s with them down at the bunkhouse, helping them with their studies.”

Trixie watched as Logan nodded, then told her that Samantha was a trained counselor who helped out during the summer. “She’s also a qualified teacher. Some of the kids aren’t ready to go back into the mainstream just yet, so we homeschool them.” He glanced at her, then back to his mother. “Where’s…where’s Caleb?”

Gayle dropped the spoon she’d been holding with a clatter. “Down at the bunkhouse with the rest,” she said, her gaze holding her son’s.

Trixie didn’t miss the look that passed between mother and son, nor did she understand what was going on. She was tired and still stunned by her father’s death and having to be here again, but it was obvious that these two had mixed feelings about her visit to the ranch. Not wanting to ask too many questions too soon, she could only lift her brows in a questioning expression.

By way of an explanation, Logan turned to Trixie. “Caleb’s the youngest of the bunch, so he spends a lot of time up here with Mama.”

Trixie nodded. “Oh, the little boy you were holding at the funeral.” With a poor attempt at humor, she added, “Goodness, he looks too adorable to be a juvenile offender. What’s he in for?”

A dark look colored Logan’s face. “His mother abandoned him,” he said in a low, tight voice.

Trixie fell down on a chair, all the energy she had left quickly pooling at her feet. Logan’s words felt like a slap against her suddenly hot skin. Of course, he had no way of knowing how close to home his words had hit. “How awful,” she said, her words barely above a whisper. “He’s so young, so little.” So like the child I gave up.

Gayle turned then to stare over at her, the look on the older woman’s face full of fear mixed with contempt. “Your Daddy told the boy he’d always have a home here. That is, unless you sell it out from under him.”

“Mama, hush,” Logan said, shooting Gayle a warning glare.

Trixie stood up then, determined to be firm and fair in dealing with the Maxwells. “I haven’t made a decision regarding what to do about this place yet, Mrs. Maxwell. You see, I wasn’t aware of the foundation my father had set up here.”

“You would have been, if you’d bothered keeping in touch,” Gayle said over her shoulder. “But I guess you had better things to do with your time.”

Trixie’s gaze flew to Logan’s face. He looked uncomfortable, but it was obvious from his cold, restrained look that he agreed with his mother.

“You’re absolutely right,” she said, her heart breaking all over again to think that Logan felt this way about her. “I didn’t stay close with my father, and I have only myself to blame for that, but now I’m trying to piece things together so I can make the right choice.”

Gayle whirled then, her eyes full of distrust. “The right choice for all of us, or for yourself?” Before Trixie could answer, the woman barreled ahead. “I know all about your fancy degree, Ms. Dunaway. And I guess you’re about as qualified and entitled as anybody to make changes at this place. Marketing consultant, is it? Fancy education, fancy title, fancy everything. But that don’t make you smart. Not in my eyes, at least.”

Shaking her spoon at Trixie, she added, “Your daddy used to say that it’s better to be kind than wise and that true wisdom begins with kindness. Brant had both of those qualities down pat. Too bad his only daughter never learned them.”

Tears pricked at Trixie’s eyes, but she refused to let Gayle or Logan see her pain. After all, she couldn’t just blurt out that she’d had a child out of wedlock with Logan and that her father had stopped talking to her afterward, and that was the reason she’d been forced to stay away from the ranch.

“Well, maybe I can learn all about kindness and wisdom while I’m here,” she said in a quiet voice. “And I assure you, I won’t make a hasty decision until I’ve weighed all of the facts.”

Mustering what little dignity she had left, she carefully walked around the table, then edged her way to the open back door. “I’m not really very hungry, after all. If you’ll both excuse me, I think I’d just like to go for a walk before I go to bed.”

Then she was out the door, out in the night air. The wind hit her skin, cooling the heat that radiated from her face, soothing the humiliation that radiated from her soul. From inside, she could hear Logan arguing with his mother, bits of scattered words echoing out over the trees. Was he arguing in her defense, or was he simply warning Gayle to tread lightly while the wicked witch was on the premises?

Trixie didn’t bother sticking around to find out which. Instead she headed down the sandy dirt lane to the stables, her feet taking her where her mind wanted to be. From the single security light shining out over the trees and shrubbery, she found her way to the looming structure to seek shelter from all of her problems, just as she’d done that summer so long ago.

As Trixie entered the corridor of the long building, a slender mare, a working quarter horse, greeted her with a soft whinny and a toss of her white mane.

Reaching out to rub the nose of the chestnutcolored animal, Trixie cooed softly. “Hello, girl. How ya doing?”

The animal nudged her hand in response.

Looking around for a feed bag, Trixie said, “Let me see. I’ll bet we can find you some sort of snack.”

For the next few minutes Trixie stood letting the mare eat the mixture of oats, bran and hay she’d found nearby. As she watched the animal munch, she remembered other times she’d done this same thing, always with Logan by her side. He knew everything there was to know about horses, and he’d learned it all from her father. Again she felt that stab of jealousy and resentment whenever she thought about Brant and Logan, here together like a father and son.

“Maybe I should have been born a boy,” she said to herself, knowing in her heart that Brant had loved her once just the way she was. No, she couldn’t hold a grudge for something she had forced her father to do. She had asked Brant to allow Logan to stay on, had begged him not to fire Logan.

“It’s all my fault, Daddy,” she had said at the time. “I…I flirted with him. I wanted to be with him. If you send him away, Gayle will go with him. Then they won’t have a place to live. Please, Daddy, don’t do this. I’ll go…I’ll go back to Dallas, and I promise I won’t have anything to do with Logan again.”

She’d always believed she’d done Logan a favor. Now she had to wonder if instead she’d done him a great disservice by fighting his fight for him. But in the end it didn’t really matter. She’d made the best decision, based on her love for Logan at the time.

Now she had the power to destroy everything that was left between them. She wanted to be rid of her past. That was why she’d been determined to sell this place. And now she’d come face-to-face with that past again, but there was so much more to have to deal with, so much responsibility being thrown on her shoulders.

Her first instinct was to run as far away from this place as she could possibly get. If she got involved in Brant’s dreams for this ranch, she’d be up to her eyeballs in something that might quite possibly become an overwhelming burden. Yet if she didn’t at least think about keeping the ranch and continuing her father’s work here, she’d never forgive herself.

Was she up to the task? Could she face down the secrets of her past with Logan, for the sake of her father’s dream and for the sake of these children who’d been entrusted to his care?

Without warning, little Caleb’s cherubic face came to mind. She couldn’t get the picture of the little boy who’d been clinging to Logan out of her head. What would happen to Caleb if she sold the ranch?

How could she make such an important decision when she was so very tired and confused? The big mare snorted, her brown eyes giving away no secrets as she nuzzled Trixie’s hand with her wet nose.

“Guess I need to pray hard,” Trixie said to the animal. “That’s what Granddaddy always tells me to do when I have a problem.”

She let the mare finish the last of the mash, then dusted her wet hand against her pants before she walked on through the stables. When she came to the little tack room, Trixie stopped and closed her eyes against the intensity of her memories, the smell of saddle soap and horse sweat blending together in her mind. It was here in this very room, where Logan had first kissed her. She’d fallen in love that summer—her first love. But it wasn’t meant to be. Now she had Rad and her life with him was all planned out. Everyone said they made a perfect couple.

Trixie closed her eyes. Help me make the right decision, Lord.

When she opened her eyes, Logan was standing in the doorway watching her, his own eyes devoid of any condemnation or judgment. For just a moment, it was as if time had stopped and they were back there, young and carefree and exploring the raging emotions coursing between them. But Trixie had to remind herself that that time was over.

Logan, however, had other considerations on his mind. He walked toward her with a purposeful look on his face, then took her into his arms without a word. Before Trixie could voice a protest, he kissed her, long and hard, stealing the breath right out of her body. Then he stood back and held his hands on her arms, his eyes bright with hope and longing.

“Stay awhile, Tricia Maria,” he said, his breath ragged from the effect of the kiss. “Stay and see for yourself all of the good we’re doing here. You owe me that much at least, before you decide what to do about this place.”

“Is that why you kissed me?” she asked, her heart pumping, her voice raw with pain.

Logan’s mouth came close to hers again. “No, I kissed you because I wanted to, because I couldn’t stop myself. But I’m asking you to stay because I intend to fight you on this. I won’t let you sell this place without at least putting up a good struggle. You said you’d consider everything and take in all the facts before you made a choice.”

“I did say that,” she admitted, thinking he was one smooth operator. “And I can’t make an informed decision without seeing how this place operates.”

He leaned close again, his breath fanning her face. “Then you’ll stay?”

She swallowed back the fear coursing through her system. Somehow she knew her answer would change both of their lives. “Yes, I’ll stay,” she said, her gaze holding his.

“Fair enough.”

Logan let her go then, turning to get away from the overpowering urge to pull her back into his arms. He hoped he’d done the right thing by asking her to remain here for a while. He didn’t really have any other choice. Somehow, he had to make Trixie see that this place could make a difference, not just in the lives of all of those children, but in her own life, also.

He would do that much at least for Brant’s sake.

Even if it meant having to tell Trixie the truth at last.

Chapter Four

“Mother, I’ve made my decision. I’m only going to stay a few days, so don’t worry.” Trixie tried once again to convince her mother that she wasn’t being impulsive, then listened as Pamela’s shrill words shot through the phone line.

“Well, I am worried, young lady,” Pamela said with an impatient huff. “You have no business hanging around with that…that field hand.”

“Logan is the foreman of this ranch,” Trixie reminded her mother, anger causing her to grind the words out. “He’s very capable of showing me what’s going on here.”

“Oh, he’s capable, all right. Apparently you’ve forgotten just exactly what that man is capable of doing.”

Trixie closed her eyes, willing herself to stay calm. They’d had this argument before. Pamela did not believe Logan Maxwell was good enough to even speak to her daughter, therefore she couldn’t dare acknowledge that he’d done much more, without laying the blame at his feet completely.

“No, Mother, I haven’t forgotten anything about Logan. But I’m asking you to trust me on this. I’m not here to stir up things with Logan again. I’m here to make a decision—an important decision—regarding what to do about this ranch.”

“Sell it!” Pamela shouted. “It’s that simple, Trixie. Harlan has left it up to you, and that’s what needs to be done. No decision necessary.”

“I disagree, Mother,” Trixie replied, her tone firm and controlled in spite of her trembling hand holding the phone. “Since neither the lawyers nor you told me the whole truth about this situation, I’m now forced to investigate things for myself. And that means I have to stay here longer than I’d planned.”

Trixie had already called her office and her assistant was prepared to cover matters there. She also had her client list with her, so she could handle any emergencies that came up, if necessary.

“Everything is under control,” she told her mother.

Except my heart and your temper, Trixie thought.

“And what about your engagement party?”

“I’ll be back in Dallas in plenty of time to tie up the loose ends for the party.”

“You have obligations, Trixie. It’s expected—”

“I know, I know,” Trixie interrupted. “People will talk and think the worst, and you might miss an opportunity to have your picture in the society pages.”

A long sigh. “Tricia Maria, that was low and uncalled for.”

“Mother, I’m sorry. Just let me do what has to be done and I’ll be home at the end of the week.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“Well, I didn’t get over it the first time.”

Trixie sat silent for a minute, counting to ten until the sting of her mother’s deliberate reminder had passed, then said, “No, Mother, neither of us did. And that’s something you’ll never let me forget, isn’t it?”

Realizing she’d been cruel, Pamela tried to make amends. “Darling, I just want you to be happy. And Rad is such a wonderful man. I just want you home, to try on your gown for the party and to help me get all of this organized. You know I’ve reserved the entire country club, and of course I’ve invited so many people. Why, I’ve hired a firm just to address and mail out the invitations, and then I’ve got the caterers and the florists to deal with. I could really use your help, since this is all for you, anyway.”

Automatically forgiving her mother’s barbs and ignoring the excited pitch of Pamela’s line of conversation, Trixie replied, “You’ll do a great job on the party. You’ve always been one of the best hostesses in Dallas, whether it’s for me or anyone else. And I promise I’ll be there soon.”

The compliment soothed Pamela’s fragile ego enough that she gave in. “Oh, all right. Just shed yourself of that place, once and for all, so you can get on with your life.”

Trixie hung up, wondering if Pamela had a clue as to what her daughter really wanted out of life. For years now, Trixie had let her mother steer the reins of her existence. And Pamela had taken full advantage of Trixie’s disinterest, guiding her to what she believed to be all the right places and all the best people. Trixie had allowed it out of guilt, mostly, and because she herself didn’t have the strength or the ambition to really care.

Now, however, Trixie felt the tides of her future changing. It had taken her father’s death to cause her to see the light. She’d missed out on so much; she could have been here, by his side, helping him to realize his dream. It was such a big, lofty dream, yet with such a simple concept. He wanted to help others; he wanted to be fair and good and kind and nurturing. And Brant Dunaway had been all of those things. Too late, Trixie saw that now.

Now she was ready to take charge, to make her own decisions, to take a chance. She’d lived in fear over the past eight years, allowing her domineering mother to call the shots. Now, after discovering a whole new side to the father she’d lost touch with, she was willing to go on faith.

But what if she made another mistake?

A knock at her bedroom door brought her head up. Too late to worry about that now. She’d agreed to stay. She wouldn’t go back on that promise, no matter how much her doubt nagged at her, right along with her mother, to go back home.

She opened the door to find Logan standing in the upstairs hallway, his hat in his hand, his feet braced apart as he stared down at her. Giving her a quick once-over, he said, “Didn’t you bring any working outfits?”

Looking down at her short-sleeved, flowerembroidered blue cotton shirt and matching walking shorts, Trixie shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t bring the proper ranch hand attire. Any suggestions?”

Logan squinted, then made a face. “Well, it ain’t what you’re wearing, that’s for sure.”

Trixie frowned. What she was wearing consisted of the best in designer casual wear. “Should I change?”

He snorted, then dragged her out into the hallway with a hand encircling her wrist. “What, into something even more ridiculous than that? No, I kinda like it, even though it’s way too fancy for slopping hogs.”

Trixie pulled back, her eyes going wide. “Slopping hogs? I’m here to observe, Logan. I don’t plan on getting up close and personal with any farm animals.”

He urged her on ahead of him, his cowboy boots clicking on the planked landing. “Oh, and how are you going to get a feel for this operation if you don’t get some hands-on experience?”

Not liking the glee in his tone, Trixie cast a glance at him over her shoulder. If he thought she was going to do physical labor, he was in for a big surprise. “Can’t I just watch and still get a feel?”

“Better to get down-and-dirty,” he said, his grin telling her that he planned to make her time here a real learning experience.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” she chided as they marched down the open, planked stairway. “Is this your way of getting revenge on me?”

“Maybe,” he readily admitted as they reached the long, spacious Western-style den. “Of course, if I wanted to really chap your hide, I could just kiss you again.”

The minute he said it, the teasing light went out of his eyes to be replaced with something deeper and much more intimate. Maybe he was remembering that kiss they’d shared last night in the tack room. It had certainly caused her to remember other kisses and other such teasing conversations.

But since she’d just assured her mother that nothing was stirring between Logan and her, she felt obligated to fight him off. “I’ll take the pigs,” she retorted, half serious, half afraid he’d really kiss her again, just as punishment.

Logan shook his head, his dark eyes flashing. “Now, that sure makes me feel good about my kissing abilities.” Then he turned completely serious again. “Maybe we should make a pact, though—to keep this strictly business.”

Trixie saw the brief flash of need warming his dark eyes. Nodding her head, she said, “Good idea. Just show me the ranch, Logan, and I’ll make a decision by the end of the week. Then I’ll be out of your hair one way or another.”

Wanting confirmation, he asked, “So does that mean if you decide to keep the place, you’ll give me complete control on how to run it?”

“That depends,” she replied. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. If she kept the ranch, she’d have to put in an occasional appearance, to make sure the operation was run according to Brant’s wishes. That could prove to be very awkward, especially if he tried to kiss her every time they were alone.

“On what?” Logan asked, his gaze direct and questioning.

Hoping to keep things light for now, she retorted, “On whether you make me slop pigs or not.”

Logan managed a smile as he watched her move through the den to the kitchen. One week. One week of torment and torture, one week of having her near, and knowing she had to go back to her world and the man she’d pledged to marry. One week to convince her that she couldn’t sell out her heritage. One week to show Tricia Maria Dunaway that she shouldn’t sell out, or sell herself short, either. She could do this; she could gain a lot from this ranch. If she was willing to give a little.

And…he could do this. He could do what he had to do to keep this ranch, and his secrets, intact.

But as he watched her now, standing there in her expensive, baby blue ensemble, sipping coffee like a princess as she looked out over the blossoming dawn, Logan knew being with Trixie again would be one of the hardest things he’d ever had to suffer through.

Trixie looked at him then, her blue eyes a perfect match to her fashionable outfit, her cool attitude a perfect example of his notion of all she represented. He had no way of knowing she was a bundle of nerves and that sweat moistened the crisp cotton of her button-up blouse. He had no way of knowing that she was thinking this would be one of the hardest weeks of her life.

“Does Logan make you all work this hard every day?” Trixie asked Marco a couple of hours later.

They stood inside the hog pen, filling a trough with fresh water for the many sows and what looked like thousands of squealing, pink-nosed piglets. In spite of the chaos of animals and teenagers, the place was neat and tidy. The tightly wired fences stretched in symmetric order across the expanse of the paddock, and the animals looked healthy and well fed, their stalls full of fresh hay and clean, cool water.

Trixie only hoped she hadn’t mixed up too many piglets when they’d moved the babies and cleaned the stalls earlier. How was she supposed to know which pig went with which sow, anyway? “That man put me in here on purpose. Well, we’ll show him, huh, Marco?” That is, if she hadn’t orphaned some poor piglet already.

Marco grinned, his black eyes squinting together as he stared up at his new blond-haired friend. “We call him the pigmeister,” he said, his words meant for her ears only. “Mr. Logan wants us to learn responsibility,” he added, his tone changing to somber as he reconsidered calling his boss/foster parent a derogatory name.

Trixie smiled down at the youngster. He was really sweet, if not somewhat street-wise. As were all of the half dozen children staying here. They ranged in age from sixteen to seven, from what she could tell. Kind of a patchwork family of personalities. And each one had a story to tell. Being a captive audience, she’d listened all morning, her heart opening with each child’s tale.

Abusive parents or no parents at all, truancy charges, and some more severe charges, such as petty theft and robbery, colored each story and quickly, effectively turned her apathy into sympathy. These children needed some firm guidance in their young lives. She was proud of her father, and Logan, for providing it.

Now, she grinned back at Marco. “Mr. Logan seems like a tough taskmaster to me, but I guess it builds character, huh?”

“That’s what he tells us when we whine,” Marco said, giggling as several thirsty sows bumped each other to get to the fresh, cool water. “Only, Miss Trixie, we don’t have to work all day long. As long as we do our assigned chores and attend the Bible study classes, we get free time each day.”

“Great,” Trixie replied, the sweat beading on her forehead making her wish she had some free time right about now. She was wilted and sweaty, not socialite material at all. “And what do you and your friends do for fun?”

“We head down to the swimming hole,” Marco said before running away to take care of more important pig business.

“That sounds like heaven,” Trixie said to a pinkeyed sow who wanted first dibs on the water supply. Trixie obligingly moved out of the six-hundred pound animal’s path, her eyes scanning the pen for Logan. He’d pushed her through the gates, told her to follow Marco’s instructions, then had conveniently left.

As she stood there, wondering what the sharply dressed, sharp-minded women of the Metroplex Marketing Professionals would think of her now, she had to laugh. Right this very minute she didn’t care what anyone thought. She was dirty and smelly and sweaty, and her white leather sandals would never be the same, but it felt kind of good to be back out in the thick of things—as long as she watched where she stepped.

Shaking her head, she grinned down at the thirsty sows. “Hold on, ladies, there’s plenty of water for everyone.”

“You’re having way too much fun,” Logan said from behind her, echoing her thoughts precisely.

Her grin turned into a grimace as the wind shifted. Giving him a level, daring look, she said, “Did you expect me to burst into tears and beg you to come in here and rescue me?”

“That would have been the highlight of my day,” he said as he stepped through the gate and. stalked toward her, a look of grudging admiration on his face. He should have known she’d rather die than give in to him. Trixie had always enjoyed a good challenge. Well, he wasn’t quite finished with her just yet. “Looks like you’ve done a passable job here. Ready to move on to worming sheep?”

Trixie turned off the water hose, then stared across the trough at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. Has to be done, and as always, we could use an extra hand. You get your choice of which end you want to hold, though.”

Her groan echoed out over the squeals and grunts of the hogs and pigs. “Logan, need I remind you that I’m still officially your boss? I think I’d just like a shower, then a tour of the ranch and a thorough report on the operation. And I think you’ve had enough fun at my expense for one day.”

He watched her, his gaze rich with an unreadable emotion before he became glib again. “Testy, aren’t you? What’s the matter, Tricia Maria, break a nail or something?”

Swaying against the bumps of the sows, Trixie glared over at him. “Okay, I’ve had enough. I did what you asked—I hung out in the pig pen. And I don’t mind lending a hand, but I won’t stand around and take orders from you just so you can enjoy watching me make a fool of myself.”

Logan quit smiling then, his expression hardening. “Why not? You certainly made me look like a fool all those years ago.”

“Oh, is that what this is all about?” she asked, her hands on her hips as she leaned toward him. “You weren’t the only one hurt by our brief encounter, Logan. I certainly paid a high price for my one indiscretion.”

He inched closer, nudged by grunting snouts. “Oh, did you, now? Funny, I don’t see it that way. You seemed to have bounced back pretty quickly, from what I’ve heard.”

“And just what did you hear?” she asked, her breath stopping. Was he suspicious, or just being cruel?

“Your daddy kept tabs on you, Trixie. College, parties, the good life. You picked right up where you left off.” He turned quiet, his eyes scanning her face. “I was just…a minor distraction while you slummed with the ranch hands.”

His words hurt more than she’d allow him to see. Coming toward him, she tried to pass by, but his hand on her arm and the many grunting sows urging her forward only brought her straight into his arms. Trying to steady her, Logan held her with both hands now.

She looked up into a set of eyes as rich and deep and centered as the mountains behind them. “Is that really how you see me, Logan? As some socialite who used you, then dumped you?”

“Didn’t you?”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to show him her pain. And she certainly couldn’t tell him the truth. “How can you even think that? I didn’t have any other choice. I had to go back to Dallas.”

“Did you really? I think you had several choices, Trixie.”

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