Baby’s Watch
Justine Davis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About The Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Copyright

Justine Davis lives on Puget Sound in Washington. Her interests outside of writing are sailing, doing needlework, horseback riding and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.

Justine says that years ago, during her career in law enforcement, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was at the time occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away—never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods of Washington state, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?”

Chapter 1

Cops, federal agents and the people who wrote glamorous stories about them, were all crazy. There was freaking nothing glamorous about undercover work, Ryder Colton mused as he stubbed out his last cigar.

In fact, he thought wryly, the only difference between his life right now and his life seven months ago was that now he was sitting in the dark in a stand of scrub brush, unable to leave, instead of in a cell at the Lone Star Correctional Facility, unable to leave.

Well, that and the cigar, he amended silently. He’d missed the taste of the Texas-born Little Travis cigars he’d gotten attached to when he’d started running with the older and greatly admired Bart Claymore at fifteen, and bummed them from him.

Bart was one of the men who’d left him holding the bag the night that had started him on the road to prison—an irony that wasn’t lost on him. Then there was the irony of his entire situation: that he, the bad boy of the Texas Coltons, was here pretending to be one of the good guys. Near the end—or so he hoped—of his search. A search that had brought him back to, of all places, the Bar None ranch. Now that was irony.

And irony was a word he’d never used in his life before now. He only vaguely remembered a discussion of it in some class in school, before he’d landed himself in juvie detention the first time. He must have paid more attention than he’d thought, because now, all of a sudden, it made perfect sense.

You’re smarter than you want to believe.

Boots’s words echoed in Ryder’s head. The first time he’d said them, Ryder had laughed in his face; he never would have pegged the leathery, prison-toughened convict as a do-gooder. But Boots Johnson hadn’t been the first one to tell Ryder he was smarter than he was acting. He’d heard the litany countless times before, from teachers, counselors, and family—especially Clay.

Ryder winced inwardly at the memory of his straight-arrow, stiff-spined brother. Clay had done his best when their mother had died, leaving the eighteen-year-old with a fourteen-year-old sister and a sixteen-year-old brother he had tried to take care of. Georgie had turned out okay, her only mistake was falling for that city slicker. But that had given her little Emmie, the pride and joy of her life.

His niece.

He remembered the moment when he’d told Boots about her.

So, you’re an uncle, the old man had said.

He’d blinked, opened his mouth to say “What?” then shut it again. Emmie had been born well over a year before he’d landed here, and until that moment he’d never thought of himself as an uncle. A relative. Connected.

Not that his sister would want her now five-year-old little girl connected to him. Georgie was too determined that her little girl have a good life, and somehow he doubted that plan would include an uncle convicted of a felony who’d been in the federal pen most of her young life.

He considered lighting another cigar and decided against it; he only had a few more, and they were hard to come by. If nothing else, he’d learned in prison that his live-as-if-there-were-no-tomorrow philosophy wasn’t always the best policy. And his motto—have your fun today—had landed him in a very tight spot.

Thankfully, the sky was getting lighter now, so he had to pack it in. He was tired from lack of sleep, also from the endless hours of sitting, watching, waiting for something that didn’t happen.

And thinking. Most of all, he was tired of the thinking, the contemplating, the pondering. His brother had been the thinker of the family—not him. But sitting out here all night long, there was nothing else to do.

And he knew now why he’d always avoided it. It was much easier to just live his life, doing what seemed like a good idea at the time…

“And look where that landed you,” he told himself as he buried the stub of his last cigar and headed back to the ten-year-old, battered pickup he was driving these days. They’d offered him a standard-issue, plain-wrap sedan, which he had wryly told them would stand out in Texas ranch country like a neon sign.

“Why don’t you just paint Narc on the side and be done with it?” he’d said, earning him a frown from Furnell, his main handler.

Handler. That’s actually what they called him. That had been the sourest bite in this whole stupid meal. Ryder Colton, the man who never let anybody, man or woman, “handle” him, not even his own family, was now owned by a dark-suited, overly tense type A. At least, he was for now.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, he wasn’t even watching for drug runners or murderers, nothing dramatic or exciting like that.

No, Ryder Colton, the bad boy of the Texas Coltons, was on baby patrol. Now there was some irony.

He got into the truck and started it, the smooth purr of the motor belying the battered exterior, exactly the reason he’d wanted it. He, the guy who’d worked so hard at not doing what his father had done, leaving a string of bastards across the country, was now trying to earn his way out of prison and a felony record by helping some über-secret government agency crack, of all things, a baby-smuggling ring.

If they’d purposely searched out someone less suited, they couldn’t have found him, Ryder had thought when they’d first approached him. Not only had he never had anything to do with babies, his life experience didn’t include any knowledge whatsoever of what it would be like for a loving parent to lose a child. He’d never known anyone like that.

Well, Georgie. He had to admit that his sister obviously loved little Emmie. But he couldn’t help thinking that was because she’d had the same experience he had, and was trying to make up for it. Or maybe she loved Emmie like she loved her horses, only…more. Maybe that was what it was like.

God, he was going slowly insane. He’d laugh if he weren’t so tired. And bored.

He drove carefully—and as quickly as possible—through Esperanza, on his way back to San Antonio, where he was staying. He hadn’t wanted to take the chance that someone in Esperanza might recognize him. While he looked a little different now—his hair was shorter and he’d filled out a bit—he’d been too well known, even notorious he supposed, in this little town to skate by unrecognized. It was much safer to lose himself among the million-plus population of the second largest city in the state.

The thought of doing it for real, taking this chance and just losing himself, dumping this crazy assignment he’d taken and making a break for it, starting over somewhere else, occurred to him, and not for the first time. East, to New York and the big city? Hell, he could lose himself forever there. Or L.A., maybe, warm, and thankfully dry weather, the beaches, paradise, right? He could lose himself there, too.

You can lose yourself anywhere. It’s finding yourself that takes effort. You throw yourself away often enough, and one day you don’t get it back.

Boots hadn’t been talking about New York or L.A., but his words echoed in Ryder’s head all the same. He didn’t think he’d forgotten one single thing the older man had ever told him.

He’d thought at the time that it was just typical of his misbegotten life that he’d find the first human being who really gave a damn about him—the real him, not the impossible ideal Clay had always expected him to live up to—in a place like the Lone Star Correctional Facility. And that it would be a reformed armed robber who’d drawn the max because two people had died as a result of his crimes.

But regardless of all that, for the first time in his life, he started to see the way he was living it as a waste. He’d never worried about that before, rarely thought about it, but somehow Boots made him care. Made him want to change, to try another way.

He’d just never figured it would be such damn hard work. And he wasn’t thinking about the job he’d taken on. That was the easy part.

He shook his head wearily, and drove on into the rising sun.

Ana Morales stood on the front porch of Jewel Mayfair’s precious Hopechest Ranch house. She rubbed at her aching back with one hand as she gazed out over the ranchland bathed in the morning sun. To the east was San Antonio, she knew, although she had not ventured into that city the whole time she had been here. She could not risk it.

To the north was the vast, rolling, beautiful hill country of Texas. She would like to see it someday; she had heard so much chatter about everything from inner-tubing down the Guadalupe River to Saturday nights at the state’s oldest honky-tonk. She smiled with a linguist’s pleasure at the word; and Americans thought Spanish was odd!

Her pleasure at the word faded as she wondered if she would ever get to explore her love of languages again. Becoming a teacher had been her dream since childhood…and now here she was, nearly ready to bring a child into the world herself.

And by herself.

She turned to go back inside, back to the room Jewel had given her, no questions asked, at Ana’s request; the room that looked out onto this porch—and gave the occupant a chance to see anyone who arrived. Before being seen herself.

She had been useful here. She had found purpose, something to focus on as she waited for the precious life within her to come into the world. And she had found someone else to worry about, she admitted; Jewel had been kindness personified to her, but Ana knew Jewel was deeply troubled. Too often, when Ana got up in the nighttime hours, suffering from the inability to find a comfortable position for her expanded body, she would find Jewel already up and walking the house. Sometimes Jewel had clearly been up for a while, sometimes she had the slightly wide-eyed look that told Ana she had been jolted awake by one of her nightmares.

It was those times that Ana felt rather small; this woman, who was working so hard here to provide the hope of the ranch’s name to troubled kids, had had so much tragedy in her life. And yet she found solace in her work here—although not peace.

Or sleep.

Ana instinctively smoothed a hand protectively over the mound of her belly; she could not begin to imagine the horror of losing this child before it had a chance to live, as Jewel had lost hers. This life within her had been the impetus for everything she had done in the past seven months, since the day she had first suspected that she was pregnant.

“Getting heavy, that little one?”

Ana whirled around as quickly as she could, given her current bulk, chastising herself for getting so lost in her thoughts that she was caught off guard. That Jewel sometimes moved like a wraith around this place was no excuse in her mind.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It is all right,” Ana assured her. “I was actually just thinking about you. Did you finally get to sleep last night?”

“Some,” Jewel said, but her weary brown eyes beneath the tousled cap of golden-brown hair told Ana that “some” had not been enough.

Doctor, heal thyself, Ana thought, although strictly speaking she knew Jewel was a psychologist, not a physician.

“Is there any more word?” Ana asked, turning to the subject that concerned her most; the very thought that a baby-smuggling ring was operating in the area terrified her. More than once she had thought she should move on, take her unborn child to a safer place, but she knew the folly of that; she had found shelter here, in a climate where most looked upon her as an enemy, just another illegal come to milk the American system. Of course, she was nothing of the kind.

She was secure here at the Hopechest Ranch, and it was simply up to her to keep her baby safe.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Jewel answered. “But Adam will probably stop by later, and then I’ll know for sure.”

Ana smiled at the woman seventeen years her senior, and painfully wiser. “He is visiting more and more, Deputy Rawlings.”

At first the sheriff’s deputy had made Ana nervous, given her shaky immigration status. But the tall, strong man with the perfectly groomed dark hair and the always razor-creased uniform seemed only to have eyes for Jewel, which suited Ana just fine. Jewel deserved some happiness and his attention provided her benefactor—and herself, she admitted—with firsthand information on the ongoing investigation.

Jewel smiled, but absently. “Yes, he is.”

“You do not like him?”

“Of course I do. He’s been very kind to me.”

“But…?”

“I’m not ready for that.”

She didn’t clarify, and Ana didn’t ask. She had her own problems and wasn’t about to counsel anyone in an area where she had made so many mistakes herself. She had trusted where she shouldn’t have, and now she was paying the price. That one of the men she had trusted had been her own father didn’t absolve her. Once she had found the evidence of his true character, it seemed the signs had been so clear she couldn’t forgive herself for having missed them.

As for Alberto…she could not forgive herself for that, either.Yes, he was smooth, convincing, but so was her father.

Her baby kicked, mightily, as if the thoughts of traitorous men were unsettling to more than just her. She smiled as she put a hand over the spot.

“Kicking?” Jewel asked.

“Yes,” Ana said, her smile widening. And then, suddenly remembering, her smile vanished. “Oh, Jewel, I am so sorry. It must be terribly hard for you to have me here, to see me, with my baby.”

Jewel waved her to silence. “It’s all right, Ana. I will never get over the loss of my baby, but I don’t expect the world to stop turning and other women lucky enough to be pregnant to hide, just to spare my feelings.”

Ana studied the benefactor who was rapidly becoming a friend. “You are very wise,” she said.

“What I am,” Jewel said frankly, “is very tired.”

“I know,” Ana said. “Is there anything I can do for you? Something else I can take over, so you can rest? Perhaps you might have better luck sleeping in the daytime?”

If Jewel was offended at the suggestion, or bothered by Ana’s knowledge of her sleepless nights, she didn’t let it show.

“I’ll let you know. Thank you.” A smile flashed across Jewel’s face. “Unless you want to go riding with the older girls over at the Bar None this afternoon. I’m sure Clay can find a nice, gentle horse for you. You haven’t left the ranch since you got here.”

Ana was sure by Jewel’s laugh that her fear must have shown in her face.

“Even if I could get this—” she gestured at her own bulk “—into a saddle, I wouldn’t. Horses and I…no.”

“You’re in Texas now, girl. Better learn to love them.”

“I do,” Ana said. “They’re beautiful creatures. But I prefer to admire them from a distance.”

“You’ll get over it,” Jewel predicted. “It’s in the water. And soon,” Jewel warned her with a smile, “I’m going to make you take a break and have some fun.”

Ana retreated to her room after that, wondering if the word fun would ever again be in her lexicon. It seemed a very, very long time since she had done anything but worry and plan and pray.

She stretched, trying to ease her aching back. If Jewel wouldn’t take her advice about a nap this afternoon, perhaps she herself would. Along about three she was usually beginning to feel the strain of the extra weight she was carrying. Her feet would swell, her back would throb, and there would be nothing more welcome than to lie down for a while.

Except then there would be no distraction, nothing to keep her from dwelling on the unpleasant facts of her situation. She was twenty-two, unmarried and not likely to marry. She was about to become a mother, with a past in shambles behind her. But she was determined to build a life for herself and her baby.

She had never felt more alone.

And then the baby moved again. Ana set her jaw and her courage.

She was not alone. She had a tiny, helpless human being depending on her. A child she already loved beyond measure. She would make sure that child had a chance.

She would do whatever she had to to make that happen.

Chapter 2

By the time he reached his small, nondescript motel room, Ryder was feeling the too-familiar sensation of physical weariness coupled with being mentally amped up. It would be another day of restless sleep. He was definitely a night owl and used to sleeping in daylight—that was, according to Clay, one of his biggest failings—but doing nothing made him crazy.

“Buenos dias, mijo.”

With his key—no modern card key for this old place—still in the door to his room, he looked over his shoulder to see the source of the “Good morning.” It was Elena Sanchez, the tiny, round woman who ran this place with her husband, Julio. They’d been married, she had told Ryder at one point, nearly fifty years. The concept of being with one person that long boggled him.

“Hola, mamacita,” he said, teasing her about her tendency to mother him, even though she’d only known him a week. She also had amenably adapted her cleaning schedule to his, so that she never disturbed him when he was trying to sleep, but his room was always scrupulously clean; he appreciated that.

“You have been out all night again,” she said.

“Working,” he told her; something about the woman and her easy concern for a stranger made him want to reassure her.

Yeah. Like she’d be really reassured, considering how she feels family is everything, knowing you were out spying on your own brother’s ranch. Better yet, tell her you’re doing it because it got you out of prison, that ought to stop her worrying in a hurry.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“I just got here,” he explained.

“Then you come eat with us. There is plenty.”

“Thank you, but—” He stopped as she waved him to silence. And realized with a little jolt that he liked her worrying about him. That revelation put him off his game, and she won.

“You must eat,” she said briskly, and bustled off, leaving him shaking his head at how neatly she’d trapped him. There was no way for him not to join the couple at their breakfast table yet again without being, in Elena’s eyes, unforgivably rude.

And when the hell did you start worrying about being rude? he asked himself.

He supposed he could chalk that up to Boots, too. For all his rough edges, the man worked hard at doing what he’d never been able to do on the outside—be a decent human being. And that had included befriending a wild, out-of-control kid who’d landed in the adjoining cell.

Ryder’s idea of learning hadn’t included Boots’s lectures, but with him in the next cell, he hadn’t been able to avoid hearing the man. He’d taken to working on his collection of prison-style weapons. This, at least, he saw the need for; the looks and youth that had been a benefit on the outside earned him attention he could do without in prison. He learned fast, and was starting with a shiv made out of a toothbrush handle, since he wasn’t allowed a belt with a buckle to hone to an edge. The work helped him tune out Boots’s seemingly endless supply of reasons to turn his life around.

And that had included, later, convincing him to take the chance he’d been offered to clear his record and get out of prison before he was hardened beyond redemption.

A chance to do something good with his life.

A chance to help put away some guys doing some very nasty things.

A chance that had ended up with him coming full circle, back to Esperanza, where he’d grown up and gotten into trouble in the first place.

A chance that landed him, after following a trail that led all over the Southwest, where he was now. Spying on the Bar None ranch.

Home.

Not that he’d ever felt that way. All he’d ever felt at the Bar None was out of place. And a disappointment to his big brother. His little sister had been better; she had enough fire in her to understand Ryder’s restlessness.

And look where that got her, he told himself. With a kid at eighteen, after she fell for some handsome, sweet-talking city dude. He’d have thought his sassy little sister would have been too smart for that, but some women were just suckers for a pretty face.

Lucky for you, he thought with a wry grimace, knowing that, except for the city part, he could have been talking about himself. He’d loved—well, in the here today, gone tomorrow sense—and left more than one woman, although after Georgie had turned up pregnant at eighteen he’d taken the lesson to heart and been very, very careful. Up until then he figured if a pregnancy ever happened he’d do just what his father had done—have nothing to do with it.

But after seeing what Georgie, the one sibling he could almost relate to, had gone through, the last thing he ever wanted was a baby to muck up the works, so he’d taken every precaution. His plan from early on had been to have as much fun as he could for as long as he lived, and that included taking advantage of how much women were attracted to him. That they weren’t the kind of women who stayed didn’t matter; he wasn’t that kind of man, either.

“You are quiet this morning, chico,” Julio said after they’d eaten, one of Elena’s usual vast spreads of eggs, beans, and fresh tortillas made and patted out by her own hands.

Ryder wasn’t sure how to respond. “I say fewer stupid things that way,” he finally answered.

That earned him a smile from the usually taciturn Mr. Sanchez. “More should do as you do.”

By way of thank you—and habit; there had been no one to clean up after them in their house, whether they were Gradys or Coltons—he helped clear the table. And he was thankful; the full, warm meal might help him actually get some sleep before he had to start in again.

Back in his small but clean and tidy room, Ryder took a quick shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached into the nightstand drawer and took out his pay-as-you-go cell phone. He had the other one, the one they’d given him to use, the one they paid the bill on. But there were some things Ryder preferred to keep private, and his talks with Boots definitely fell into that category, for both their sakes. The convict had gruffly made him promise to stay in touch, which, according to him, meant to take the weekly call Boots made.

That was a lot more staying in touch than Ryder was used to, but he hadn’t been able to say no to the older man. Not after everything he’d done. So for the past seven months, when the phone rang on Wednesday mornings, he answered it.

Right on cue, the cell rang.

“How goes it, boy?”

“Not backward,” Ryder said dryly.

Boots chuckled, that raspy, wry sound Ryder always associated with the older man. He could picture him, on the phone in the dayroom, lean, wiry and leathery. After fifteen years in prison, his ability to laugh at all was a marvel. Ryder thought his own three years had leached all humor out of him, and left him with only that new appreciation of irony.

“Sometimes,” Boots said, “that’s the best you can hope for.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Depends on who’s doing the grading. You always did want more faster.”

Boots didn’t point out that that very trait had been what had landed Ryder in trouble so many times—okay, most times—in his life. Perhaps he assumed it was obvious, even to Ryder, that he didn’t have to.

Perhaps it was that obvious. Ryder jammed a hand through his thick, dark, and still shower-damp hair.

“So no progress?”

“I’m running out of cigars,” Ryder said. “Is that progress?”

“Of a sort,” Boots said with another chuckle.

Ryder had to consider his words carefully. After all, he wasn’t supposed to be discussing his new “job” with anyone. But since Boots already knew about it—he’d been with Ryder when the men in the dark suits and the government-issue sunglasses had shown up in the first place—Ryder didn’t figure he was giving away any state secrets talking to him, as long as he was careful.

“It’s strange. To be out there, but…not to be. To have to hide.”

He’d managed to let Boots know how the trail he’d been following had led him to, of all places, his brother’s Bar None ranch.

“You don’t think he’s involved, do you?”

At the very thought of straight-arrow Clay being involved in anything illicit, Ryder had to smother a laugh. “No way in hell,” he said succinctly. “I’m the problem child in that family.”

“Were,” Boots said gently.

“You’d be hard-pressed to convince my brother of that, I’m guessing.”

“I won’t have to,” Boots said. “You will. Once you’re free of all this.”

This was old ground; Boots was determined that Ryder would reunite with his family, once this was all over. Ryder had tried to tell him Clay had washed his hands of him, and once Clay made up his mind, it took heaven and earth to change it. While Ryder believed in earth—at least the six feet of it he expected to be under before he was forty—heaven? No.

Somewhat to his surprise, Boots, a deeply religious man now, didn’t push it on him. He believed enough for both of them.

“I’ve got to get some sleep, if I’m going to go out and play spy again tonight.”

“You’re not playing,” Boots reminded him. “If this is for real, it could be dangerous.”

Ryder couldn’t quite imagine baby smugglers as armed and threatening.

As if he’d read his thoughts—Boots was good at that, even over the phone—the man chided him gently. “You’re not taking this seriously enough, Ryder. Don’t let the nature of the contraband fool you. There’s a lot of money at stake in this venture. Probably more per ounce than any you’ll ever come across.”

He’d never thought of it that way. He really had no idea how much it cost to buy a kid, and he hadn’t asked. Maybe he should. Because Boots was right; where there was money, there were men who would fight to get it and keep it.

“Something’s coming,” Boots said. “You watch your back.”

“You been talking to the Boss again?” Ryder teased; Boots spoke to God as if he were a poker buddy sometimes, making what he called “suggestions,” most of which of late seemed to involve the salvation of one Ryder Colton. And no matter how much Ryder tried to talk the old man out of it, Boots never gave up on him.

More than I can say for my brother, he thought as Boots ignored the jibe.

“More the other way around. Just a feeling, Ryder. Be watchful.”

With that Boots’s phone time was up, and the call ended.

That was what drove him craziest about Boots and his beliefs, Ryder thought; no matter what happened later, the man would nod wisely and say, “I told you.” If what happened was something good, it was straight from his God. If it was something bad, God’s intervention had lessened the blow.

Yet, Ryder thought as he pulled the thankfully room-darkening curtains of the small motel room closed, he couldn’t deny that the man’s pure, shining faith had had an effect on him. He’d fought it, resisted fiercely, but Boots’s quiet determination to save him from himself had made inroads.

He’d finally decided that the principles underlying Boots’s beliefs were good no matter what the foundation. And when Boots had laughed and told him he didn’t have to believe to live by them, the result was the same—Ryder had felt a sudden sense of relief he’d never known before. And in that moment he’d determined to give it a shot, for the sake of the man who had seen something in him worth saving, a man who would never see the outside again, but still found hope.

To his surprise he slept well, for nearly seven hours. More than enough to keep going. He got up, dressed, grabbed his last box of Little Travis cigars and headed out. He wasn’t hungry yet; Mrs. Sanchez’s hearty breakfast was still holding. So he headed instead to the local library branch.

It wasn’t as foreign territory to him as he supposed many might think, given his capacity for trouble. There had been times when he’d wanted information, and had wanted to get it without his big brother hanging over his shoulder. Esperanza’s tiny library was just that, tiny, and his presence would be noticed—and reported on to Clay within hours—so he’d avoided that. But there were other towns, other libraries, and he spread it around.

His official cell phone rang as he pulled into the parking lot of the library.

“You didn’t check in,” a stern voice said.

“I did,” Ryder countered. “I left a message. Not my fault you didn’t answer. I needed sleep.”

His alternate handler—an agent named Gibson—apparently decided to let it go. “Developments?”

I’m about out of cigars and my ass is tired of sitting all night in the dark, waiting for nothing, he thought. But he knew better than to bitch, at this guy in particular. He was a little more human, and sometimes even unbent enough to commiserate with the frustration Ryder felt. Ryder didn’t want to blow that.

“Nothing. No movement, no sign of movement, and nobody who shouldn’t be around. They go lights out around here early, and it stays that way.”

Work started very early on a ranch, and Clay Colton was serious about work. Ryder had chosen to ignore his brother’s work ethic and this had always been the biggest bone of contention between the two brothers.

That, and the fact that Ryder had been born for trouble.

“The biggest thing that’s happened around here is people keep getting married,” Ryder said. “The sheriff, his brother…”

Ryder clammed up before he let slip something that gave him away. It wouldn’t do to mention that he knew his ex-sister-in-law was back on the ranch, or the even bigger shock of learning that his little sister had married some overtense suit.

As far as his handlers knew, he had no family. None of them really wanted to claim him, so he’d done the same. On anything that had required listing next of kin, he’d put “None.” And that’s how it would stay. For all he knew, that’s why they’d picked him for this job. Maybe Boots was right, and this was more potentially dangerous than he’d realized.

Not that it mattered. He could get blown away tomorrow, and it would barely cause a ripple. Boots might shake his head sadly, but that was the truth. No one else would really care. Not that he expected them to; there was something inherently wrong with him. If even his own father and brother wanted nothing to do with him, why would anyone else?

“We need to get this wrapped up,” Gibson said. “The Colton campaign is on its way to San Antonio soon, and we do not want to try and run this operation with all that going on.”

The casual reference gave Ryder a jolt. He’d been so focused on his little bit of work here, the bigger happenings in the world hadn’t even registered. Not that he ever paid much attention to politics, not even presidential politics.

He wondered what that cool, commanding voice on the other end of the phone would think if he realized that he was speaking to a man who was, technically if not officially, the nephew of the man who could well become president of the United States.

Wasn’t there some branch of the feds who investigated all the family members of people who aspired to the highest office? It only made sense. And the fact that Joe Colton’s ne’er-do-well brother had fathered a crop of kids outside his marriage wasn’t exactly a secret.

For the first time, it hit Ryder that he was, by blood, connected to a very famous family. Not that they would claim him any more than his own father had, but still, if he were mercenary enough…

He could almost see Boots’s frown. Could hear the old man’s stern warning that that way lay hellfire. Could even hear himself answering, “Don’t worry, Boots. That’d mean I’d have to claim Graham Colton as my father, and that ain’t ever going to happen.”

That much was the truth. No amount of money or famous family would make him do that. He might feel a bit of wistful sadness about losing his brother and sister—they’d once been a tight-knit group—but his father meant less than nothing to him.

As he meant less than nothing to his father.

“Don’t forget to check in when you’re in place tonight.”

“Yeah,” Ryder said absently, locking the truck as he headed for the library. He could have asked how much money they were talking about here, but caution won out; he didn’t want them thinking he was pondering going over to the other side.

He didn’t think his recruiters had believed him when he’d told them, just as he had told the court at his trial, that he’d never intended to smuggle illegals into the country. That he’d merely been paid to drive a truck, that as far as he knew was full of computer equipment. No one had believed him back then.

In fact, it had barely bothered him that he’d ended up in prison for something he hadn’t intended to do. As he’d told Boots later, when the man had begun to talk to him about his future, he’d done enough intentionally to land him here anyway.

“It’s just karma catching up with me,” he’d said. “No big deal.”

“But a big chance,” Boots had said, already launching into his crusade to salvage Ryder’s life.

Ryder hadn’t been listening to the older man, though. Not then. This situation wasn’t going to change anything, not really. To his way of thinking, it was just a speed bump on his racetrack, and he’d be back at full tilt as soon as he got out. Older and wiser, maybe. Hopefully wise enough to keep from getting caught next time trouble irresistibly called his name.

Once he’d spent a couple of hours in the library researching, he was a little stunned at what he’d found. At how much people would pay for a child they knew nothing about. At how long this had been going on, seemingly forever. At how many ways it happened, from the simple theft straight out of a hospital nursery, to unethical doctors who arranged black market adoptions, to unscrupulous lawyers who facilitated all of it.

He was stunned most of all at the fierce desire for a baby that drove it all.

He headed back out to the ranch to start another evening of surveillance and endless waiting. He made his usual circuit to check the tunnels suspected of being used by the ring, but his telltales—small things he’d placed that would be pushed aside or stepped on unknowingly by anyone who went through the openings—were undisturbed, as they had been for days now. This obviously wasn’t a high-volume operation.

Or he was on the wrong track altogether, which he didn’t like contemplating.

When he was done with his inspections, he settled in in a key spot and waited for full dark before moving in closer to the ranch.

Once more, Ryder found himself sitting and watching, with nothing to do but think. He tried all sorts of distractions, from taking Boots’s theory and trying to figure in his head what a six-pound baby would cost per ounce at the going rate, to deciding what approach to use on that cute waitress at the diner down the street from the motel. Nothing seemed to work very well. And he kept coming back full circle, thinking about the family who’d cut him off.

Although, to be fair, he’d done the same thing.

Was he luckier to know his family? Luckier than a kid who’d been sold, but at least to people who wanted him? Or worse, stolen, maybe from a parent who actually loved him? He wasn’t sure.

As darkness fell around him again, Ryder worked his way slowly down toward the new building that had been put up since he’d been gone, the building he suspected might be a stop on the smugglers’ route. How different his life might have been if he’d been stolen as a baby. Better? Maybe. Easier? Probably.

But then he felt a jab of guilt. Clay had sacrificed a great deal, trying to keep them all together. Ryder hadn’t ever wanted to admit that, but he couldn’t deny it any longer. Clay had tried harder than anyone had any right to expect. It wasn’t his fault that his little brother was a screwed-up mess. But knowing Clay, he probably blamed himself. Ryder grimaced inwardly.

The only language you seem to understand is trouble. And when it calls, you come running.

No sooner had the words formed in his mind than he heard it. A low, agonized whimper of sound.

He froze. Instantly his brain discarded the possibility that it had been a baby’s cry; this was someone older, an adult. He tilted his head, trying to triangulate the sound.

Inside the house.

It came again, harsher this time, a cry of pain and anguish that stabbed at him.

A woman. It was a woman.

Instinctively he took a step forward, then stopped himself.

The only language you understand is trouble. And when it calls, you come running….

His thoughts taunted him. Somewhere in the back of his mind a little voice told him to walk away, all the while laughing, knowing he wouldn’t.

Knowing he couldn’t.

Trouble was calling.

And, God help him, he was going to answer.

Chapter 3

Ana knew she was in trouble. Jewel had taken the Hopechest children into town for a treat, a movie and then ice cream at Miss Sue’s. Although Jewel had asked her to accompany them, Ana’s back had been aching fiercely all day. She had seized the chance for some quiet in the empty house; with Macy Ward, the recreational therapist at Hopechest, away on her honeymoon with the sheriff’s brother, Fisher Yates, Hope chest was completely deserted—and peaceful—tonight.

She had dozed fitfully through the ache and awakened after an hour to the empty house. She had panicked, knowing now the reason her back had been aching so.

The baby.

When the first contraction ripped through her it caught her off guard and she screamed. The sound echoed off the walls of the deserted house, and she bit her lip in the effort to stop another cry.

As the pain ebbed, for a brief moment she allowed herself to hope it was only a false alarm. Surely she would not be so unlucky as to give birth at the worst possible moment, when she had no one here to help?

And why would this surprise you? she asked herself sternly. Your judgment in life has been so sterling thus far.

Slowly, she sat up, relieved when she was able to do so. Her water had broken, she couldn’t deny that, but perhaps the baby would wait at least until Jewel returned. She thought about calling the Bar None, but she was certain Jewel had mentioned that Clay Colton was out with his ex-wife.

It seemed like an odd thing to her; she could no more imagine going back to Alberto Cardenas than she could imagine stopping this baby from coming. Not now that she knew he was as bad as her father. But she knew not everyone was as unlucky—or unwise—as she was.

On that thought, a second contraction hit, shocking another cry out of her. This time she had the presence of mind to look at the clock; timing was important, was it not?

Tears brimmed in her eyes and she told herself it was the pain. She would not cower and whine, she simply would not. Determined, she tried to stand. If she could walk, perhaps she could stave this off until help arrived.

Her first steps convinced her of the folly of that notion. She made it to the chest of drawers a few feet away before another pain struck, sending her to her knees; she barely managed to cling to the heavy piece of furniture and keep from falling.

In the process she pulled over the small statue of a roadrunner Jewel had so kindly given her when she had arrived here. She had seen it in the library and exclaimed that it reminded her of home. Thinking that Ana was homesick, Jewel had offered the piece. Ana had accepted it, temporarily, thinking it would serve as a good reminder of all the reasons why she had left.

The statue shattered on the tile floor, having just missed the colorful rug in front of the chest. Ana barely had time to regret the miscue before another pain hit. She did not have to look at the clock to know it was too soon; the pains were too close together to pretend.

Her baby was coming.

She was alone.

She was going to have to do this herself. Somehow.

And she would, she told herself fiercely. She’d gotten her baby into this, it was up to her to handle it. She—

Her self-lecture broke off at a sound from the porch. For an instant she felt relieved until she realized she had not heard the ranch van pulling up the driveway, or heard the door open to the garage, which was next to her room.

It was not Jewel.

It was not anyone who had arrived openly by car. And while it was possible, even a frequent occurrence, that a visitor would arrive on horseback, she had not heard that either. And at this hour of night, that did not seem likely.

No answer she could come up with was good.

A tall shadow shot across the tile floor, hiding the gleam of the broken pieces of the statue. Ana choked back the scream that rose to her throat. She grabbed the largest, sharpest shard of the shattered roadrunner. It was not much, but it was all she had to protect herself and her baby.

As the shadow moved closer and she found herself staring up into the eyes of a tall, dark, menacing stranger, she thought she was going to have to defend the two of them.

Trouble, he’d expected.

A very pregnant woman, he hadn’t.

He’d done his homework on this place, this Hopechest Ranch. He’d been a little taken aback when he’d learned that the Hopechest Foundation that funded it was the pet project of Meredith Colton, who was his aunt. And potential first lady.

But he hadn’t heard even a rumor that the place helped illegals. He considered the woman’s obviously Hispanic appearance and wondered if she had run away from home. Everything he’d read had indicated the place was a home for troubled teens, not pregnant ones. Although maybe the two sometimes went hand in hand.

It occurred to him momentarily that he might well have been considered one of those teens not long ago. But he’d never thought of himself as “troubled,” just determined to have fun. There’d been too little fun in his life, and he’d been set on making up for that.

And then it hit him. Was he perhaps closer than he’d realized to his goal? Had he inadvertently stumbled onto yet another aspect of the investigation, something they didn’t even know?

Was this pregnant woman here not just to have her baby, but to get rid of it? Was it already bought and paid? She didn’t look or act the type, but what did he know about that? Perhaps her protective posture was to save her investment, not her child.

The woman on her knees doubled over, and he heard the moan she tried to hold back. She was dressed in some flowing cotton gown in a pure white that gleamed in the moonlight. She was clutching something in her hand, something that looked like a piece of broken pottery. Suddenly she straightened slightly and waved it at him with an unsteady hand.

“¡Salir de aqui!” she said, her voice slightly steadier than her hand.

As she told him to get out of here, he realized she had some idea of using that little shard as a weapon. He nearly laughed aloud, but she was so clearly frightened he quashed the urge.

“No tengas miedo,” he said, although he doubted that simply telling her not to be afraid would alleviate the problem. After all, from her point of view he’d turned up out of the dark, she was clearly alone, and in pain…

In labor.

Belatedly it hit him.

My God, she was having that baby now.

Even as he thought it she cried out again, hunching protectively over her swollen belly.

“Damn,” he muttered. “You’re going to have that thing right now, aren’t you?”

“That thing is a baby!” she snapped in perfect English.

He held up his hands at the sudden fierceness of her tone. “Sorry,” he said. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“It is coming, yes,” she said, and suddenly the fierceness vanished, replaced by an almost tangible fear. Ryder realized how young she was, even younger than he was. Twenty, maybe twenty-two?

“Now?”

He was more than a little scared himself. He didn’t know a thing about this process, and at the moment wished he had stayed where he belonged, out there on that fruitless, useless stakeout.

“Right now,” she said grimly, doubling over once more.

“Damn,” he said again.

He bent to try to help her get up, but she pulled away from him. Instead she grabbed the edge of the heavy, carved chest beside her, and tried to pull herself to her feet. She fell back to her knees as another pain apparently hit.

Close together, those pains, he thought. That meant it really was imminent, didn’t it? He’d seen movies, read stories…

But this was real life, about to happen right in front of him, and he was the only one here. No empathetic woman to take over. He should have paid more attention to his sister, but the very idea made him nervous and he’d avoided the subject entirely.

What if he called Georgie? Would she even talk to him? As far as his family knew, he was still in prison, he guessed. By now even Georgie, his sometimes partner in mischief as children, had probably washed her hands of him. She’d somehow turned very serious when she’d had a child to think about. Children really did change everything.

The woman moaned, shifting on the floor as if trying to escape the pain. The movement took her into the shaft of moonlight that came through the front window of the room. And he realized with a sudden jolt that she was lovely. Her long, dark hair fell in thick waves well past her shoulders. Her eyes were just as dark and caught the light enough to show him they were wide with pain and brimming with moisture.

She moaned again, and the helpless sound of it galvanized him. He didn’t know if it was some instinctive male gene that drove him toward protecting a woman in her most helpless yet miraculous time. Or maybe something more personal. He only knew he couldn’t just leave her like this. She needed help, and he was the only one around.

Unluckily for you, chica, he thought to himself.

He scooped her up off the floor. It was clumsy, because of her bulk and the effort not to hurt her any more, but once he had her he was a little surprised; he’d thought she would be heavier, what with the baby. It hit him that he was carrying one person back to the bed, but before long there would be two. The idea rocked him. He’d never been this close to a birth before.

“You must have done something to get ready for this,” he said.

“There are…blankets and things…in the trunk.” She made a gesture toward the heavy trunk at the foot of the bed. He went to it quickly, lifted the lid, found the things she’d mentioned. He got out the pile of soft cotton cloths, spotted a pair of scissors in a sealed package and grabbed those, too.

Cord, he thought. You had to cut the cord, right?

God, he was way out of his depth.

“There’s no one to call?” he asked her, wanting to be absolutely certain before he committed to this.

“No one…could be here…in time.”

She was panting now, and he wondered if she’d taken some class in special breathing—didn’t they always say stuff about that?—or if it just happened naturally.

He laid her gently down on the bed. She cried out as another pain seized her. He reached over and turned on a bedside lamp, turned back and forgot to breathe for a moment.

She was more than pretty, she was beautiful. Her wide, dark eyes were huge, gleaming in the light. Her skin was a light, luscious olive tone—smooth, flawless, glowing. Her lips were full, soft, and slightly parted as she tried hard not to moan; he could see the ferocious effort she was making. It jogged him back to reality, and the urgent matter at hand.

“I don’t know anything about this,” he told her. “You’ll have to tell me what to do.”

“And you think…I know?” Her laugh wasn’t bitter, but it wasn’t amused, either. And for the first time he wondered how she’d gotten into this situation. He couldn’t quite believe she’d done it intentionally, getting pregnant to sell the baby. It was feasible. But something in her dark, exotic eyes, and the way she looked up at him, made that impossible for him to believe, at least right now.

And it didn’t really matter right now. Whether she was involved in the smuggling ring or not didn’t change what was about to happen. Working on some combination of stories heard and movies seen, he did what seemed reasonable, starting with rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands in the bathroom just down the hall.

“How old are you?” he asked when he came back.

She looked startled, then wary.

“I’m only asking because my sister got pregnant four years ago. She was only eighteen.”

The woman smothered another moan, then answered. “I am twenty-two.”

Better, he guessed. But not much. “She fell for a smooth-talking city boy. He deserted her.”

It wasn’t a question, nor was there any emotion in the flat assertion.

“Is that what happened to you?” he asked softly. “He deserted you, when he found out you were pregnant?”

He found himself hoping she’d say yes, that she was here because she simply had no choice, not because she had the soul of a mercenary.

“No,” she said, her tone still flat. “It was I…who ran.”

Ryder blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

A sharp cry broke from her, and he realized the pains were coming closer together, and even he knew what that meant. No more time to try and find out who this woman was or why she was here, what her motives were.

“Hot water,” he muttered. They always talked about that, too, didn’t they?

“No…time.”

He realized she meant that literally.

“The baby…is coming.”

Now. She meant right now.

Ryder stifled the urge to run. Her hands flailed wildly, as if seeking purchase. He grabbed them, startled at the strength in them as she cried out yet again.

“It’s all right,” he said, squeezing her hands. “We’ll get through it.” Somehow, he added silently to himself.

He had no plan; he worked strictly on instinct. He kept up a stream of encouraging words, trying to distract her—and perhaps himself—from the embarrassingly intimate position they found themselves in. He wasn’t sure it helped, but when he paused she asked him to keep talking.

Until it started to actually happen.

He’d had no idea birth was such a messy thing. He’d always had some image that the kid slid out and got wrapped in a blanket and handed over. But this was wet, bloody and shockingly brutal. He didn’t know who to marvel at more—the woman going through it, or the child for surviving it.

If, of course, it did.

It was when he first spotted the baby’s head emerging that his gut truly knotted. Dark hair, nearly as dark as his own. He was a little startled. He thought babies were born bald.

The woman screamed then. It was a rending sound, and he touched her gently, trying to soothe her.

“It’s coming,” he said, even though he realized that no one knew that better just now than she did. “It’ll be over soon.”

She seemed to take heart from that, and sucked in a breath.

“Can you push?” he asked diffidently, wondering if that was just a stupid cliché, too.

She grunted then, a primal, earthy sound. Then again, and again.

Women, he thought. You heard about what they went through in childbirth, but until you saw it, you didn’t really realize how tough they were.

To Ryder, it seemed to happen fast then, although he suspected it wouldn’t be wise to say so to the straining woman. He should be paying more attention to the baby, and shifted just in time to see a tiny pair of shoulders emerge.

It did happen fast then. He reached to support the tiny thing she was expelling.

The moment he touched it, the “thing” became real to him. He stared down at the baby who barely filled his two hands. So tiny, so helpless…but it was a life, another human being, a fellow inhabitant of this glorious planet, and he’d helped it arrive.

This was big, he thought.

Huge.

How could something so incredibly small, so fragile and delicate, make him feel like this?

“It’s a girl,” he whispered. “A little girl.”

The woman made a sound he couldn’t begin to describe. She sounded exhausted, but there was something else in her voice when she instructed, “You must cut the cord.”

He winced, even though he knew that. He followed her brisk instructions, glad she was able to walk him through it. She might be young, but she’d clearly done her homework on this.

Or maybe women were just born knowing, he thought, despite her earlier claim to ignorance.

“I just leave it like that?” he asked, looking doubtfully at the stub of the cord still attached to the baby who appeared to be, to his amazement, looking around. Her eyes were brown, he thought, a little numbly. Dark, rich, espresso brown, like her mother’s. Her head looked a little funny, misshapen, but he guessed that was normal.

“It will fall off of its own accord later,” the woman said. “You must clean her. Her mouth, nose, so that she breathes easily.”

He did his best, aware that he was shaking slightly. And when the tiny child in his hands let out a protesting wail, he found himself grinning; things were working fine, it seemed.

“She’s got lungs,” he said, feeling a bit loopy, as if he’d downed one tequila too many. To his surprise the new mother laughed, as if she hadn’t just been through hell.

When she was clean and dry, he wrapped the baby awkwardly, but with a need for gentleness unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He took a last look down into the tiny face.

“Give her to me.”

The new mother’s voice was shaky, and when he looked from daughter to mother he saw fear in her eyes. She reached out, as if she were afraid he would refuse to hand over the baby. Ryder wondered suddenly if she knew what was going on around here, and had the sudden thought that she might suspect him of being connected to the baby-smuggling ring.

Well, she’s right, isn’t she? he told himself.

Then he put the baby into her mother’s outstretched arms. The look that mother gave him nearly stopped his heart cold.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

For the first time in his life with a woman, Ryder was speechless. All he could do was look at her, and at the tiny bit of humanity he’d just helped bring into the world. He didn’t know how he felt, only that whatever it was, it was more intense than he’d ever experienced before.

And on some level, somewhere deep inside him, he knew he would never be the same again.

Chapter 4

Maria.

Ana held her baby close, savoring the feel of her, the smell of her, the miracle of her.

She had thought of other names, but when the time had come there was no other. Maria. Her mother deserved the tribute; it was not her fault that Ana’s father had not been the man she had hoped. For a long time, Ana was grateful her mother had died before she’d learned the full extent of her husband’s dishonesty and evil. But now, she could only feel sad that her mother was not here to see this precious child, her granddaughter.

So she would do the only thing she could; she would name her after her grandmother and give her the life she deserved. Somehow, she would do this. She would ask for no help, no charity, she would make her own way, for herself and her baby girl.

No help…

“A hospital,” the dark stranger said. “You and she need to see a doctor.”

Ana shook her head. She trusted no one, especially now. She had heard too much about the local baby smuggling, had pumped Jewel daily for information, information she’d given sometimes reluctantly, for fear of frightening the soon-to-be mother.

“I am not going anywhere.”

“But what if there’s something wrong?”

“There is nothing wrong. She is beautiful. Healthy. You can see that.”

“But what about you? That was…you need—”

“No.” It sounded cold and heartless to her ears, when all he’d done was express concern about her. She hastened to add, “I—and my daughter—thank you for what you did. But you must go now.”

He looked nonplussed. She supposed it was rude, but what did rudeness matter when she had her baby to protect? She knew Jewel would be back with the kids soon, then she would have help she trusted.

She did not, could not dare trust this man. She didn’t know why he was here, how he had happened to arrive just as she needed help. For all she knew, he was one of them, had been watching her, a pregnant woman obviously alone, thinking perhaps to steal her baby as so many others had been stolen, ripped from the loving arms of their mothers and sold as if they were packages of cereal.

“You don’t trust me, do you?” he said softly.

“I do not trust anyone,” she said. “A lesson I should have learned earlier.”

He studied her for a moment, and then, to her surprise, nodded. “Wise choice.”

His voice was soft, gentle, but it held a harsh undertone that stirred something in her. Who was this man who had strode in out of the moonlight and helped her without questions? What had he been—what had he done—to sound like that? Was he truly one of them? Was her baby still in danger from him?

“Go,” she said, her voice sharp as her fears grew in proportion to the exhaustion that was growing, threatening to overwhelm her at any moment.

“I can’t just leave you here alone.”

“I will not be alone for long. People will be back here soon.”

“You don’t have to lie to get me to leave.”

“I am not lying. The woman who runs this place, she will be back with her charges soon. They only went to town for an outing.”

He lifted a brow at her, and she wondered what she’d said. Her English was, she knew, nearly perfect. She’d worked hard at that in college, intending to put it to use teaching in a bilingual school.

But sometimes, she realized it was too perfect; local idioms and slang peppered the talk of others, but her collegetaught skills stood out, marked her as different. But she’d long ago decided she would rather be different that way; if she was going to be judged, as people were, by the way she spoke, better too well than not well enough. That had always been her way. She saw no reason to change it now.

“Go. Please.”

He hesitated a moment longer, looking down at her. He towered over the bed, so tall, long-legged and strong, she thought. His eyes were dark, piercing, and she couldn’t help feeling he saw more than she wished. His jaw was stubbled with slight beard growth, as if he hadn’t shaved since this morning. His hair was even darker than her own, and fell in a silky if shaggy sweep over his brow when he leaned forward. She wanted to run her fingers through it and push it back.

That thought sent a stab of shock and fear through her. She needed this man gone. She obviously was not thinking clearly in the aftermath of this life-changing experience. The very last thing she should be doing at this moment was finding a man attractive. Especially a man she knew absolutely nothing about.

Of course, she had thought she knew everything about Alberto as well.

“Go,” she said again. “Please.”

“You swear to me that there will be help here soon?”

His concern moved her against her will. “I swear. And I repeat, I do not lie.”

She meant that. Small, kind lies to avoid hurt feelings were one thing, although she preferred to avoid those as well. But big lies about things that mattered had shaped then destroyed her world. She hated them.

For another silent moment, her rescuer, the man who had helped deliver the baby squirming in her arms, stared down at her. And then, sharply, he nodded.

“Be well,” he said, in a tone she couldn’t describe, some combination of command, awe and benediction. She had the oddest thought that this time had been life-changing for more than just herself. But this handsome American seemed too strong to let something affect him that much.

And then he was gone, disappearing back into the darkness as silently as he’d appeared, surprising her that a man of his size could move so quietly. It was unsettling, someone that big should make more noise, she thought. And in her exhaustion her imagination began to come up with reasons why a man like that would learn to move so stealthily—and none of them were good.

She was relieved that he had gone. She had half expected him to grab her baby out of her arms, proving himself part of the ring she so feared and that the local authorities were so diligently searching for.

But she could not deny he’d been a godsend. She did not want to think about what she would have done had he not appeared out of the darkness.

But she also did not want to think about what she would have done had he refused to go back into that darkness.

She cuddled her baby close, running through her mind all that she had studied: when to feed her, how she would know when she herself was ready for that, all the things she’d so voraciously read in preparation for this day. The pain she’d just endured was nearly forgotten already, although the gentle, encouraging touch and words of the dark stranger were not. She thought she would never forget those, or him. One day it might be a fascinating story to tell her daughter, about the unknown man who had come to their aid, and then vanished into the night.

Perhaps in time she would wonder if he had even been real, that tall, dark man. She smiled at her own silliness, a little surprised that she was still capable of such fantasy. Perhaps she was already preparing stories to tell her child at bedtime.

Instinctively she began to sing quietly to Maria, a sweet little lullaby her mother had sung to her.

Duérmete mi niña,

Duérmete mi sol…

Not that she actually wanted her little sunshine to sleep just yet, she was still too caught up in the wonder of it all. At last, she held this miracle in her arms, and she felt she must do something motherly, something to show this tiny human being she was loved and welcomed, even if she was lacking one of her parents.

“Better no father than an evil one, mija,” she whispered, determined that the baby would hear English as much as Spanish as she grew and learned to speak.

Yes, it would be different for Maria. She would grow up speaking both, at home in both tongues in a way her mother would never be. But it was what she’d wanted, Ana told herself. She was alone, isolated by choice from the family she’d once been close to. The family she’d once trusted.

You must remember who they really are, she told herself. She couldn’t help thinking some of them had to know what she had only recently learned, how vast were the criminal dealings her father was involved in. Once she herself had found out, the evidence was so obvious she could not believe she had missed it for so long. The older ones, her father’s brothers, sisters, the ones she could no longer think of as aunts and uncles, they must have known.

Had they indeed known, and conspired to keep it from her? Or had no conspiracy been necessary? Was she such a naïve fool that they had managed to keep the truth from her with no such effort?

The baby stilled, seemingly calmed by the sweet song. Ana held her even closer. She closed her eyes, shifting in the bed. The big man had seen to her comfort in an unexpectedly gentle manner, cleaning her, changing the bedclothes, and disposing of the mess of the birth quickly and efficiently. For a man who claimed to know nothing about the process, she thought he had handled it with remarkable aplomb. Her mother had often told her how her own father had been worse than useless. She liked the idea that her gallant stranger was much more of a man than her wicked father. She wondered what that stranger was thinking now, if he’d already put them out of his mind, if what had been a miracle to her was simply an odd occurrence to him.

He probably thinks you’re just another illegal looking for a handout, she thought.

She told herself it didn’t matter what he thought, not when she herself knew the truth. She was an intelligent woman, she had an education to offer, and she was going to start a new life for herself and her daughter. She would do it herself, without charity or handouts. Anything given to her, she would repay, in some form, as she was helping here at Hopechest Ranch in return for Jewel’s hospitality and kindness.

No matter what it took, she and Maria would make their way, and have a good life.

“I promise you, mijita. You will be safe, you will have good things, you will grow and learn, and above all else you will be loved.”

Ana settled in to wait, wondering what Jewel would think when she returned to find the population of her beloved Hopechest Ranch increased by one.

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