Acclaim for Sandra Marton’s stunning series

Marriage on the Edge:

“Sandra Marton pens an emotionally intense book about the evolution of love as she creates two dynamic characters, a passionate love story and intense scenes.”

—Romantic Times

More Than a Mistress:

“Readers will relish this explosive, intricate tale of love, romance and obsession between two dynamite characters.”

—Romantic Times

Harlequin Presents—

seduction and passion guaranteed!

Four brothers:

bonded by their inheritance, battling for love!

Jonas Baron is approaching his eighty-fifth birthday. He has ruled Espada, his sprawling estate in Texas hill country, for more than forty years, but now he admits it’s time he chose an heir.

Jonas has three sons—Gage, Travis and Slade, all ruggedly handsome and each with a successful business empire of his own; none wishes to give up the life he’s fought for to take over Espada. Jonas also has a stepdaughter; beautiful and spirited, Caitlin loves the land as much as he does, but she’s not of the Baron blood.

So who will receive Baron’s bequest? In this, the fourth book in THE BARONS series, a new character becomes a contender—mysterious stranger Tyler Kincaid….

Be sure to look out next for more fabulous stories about the Baron family in months to come.

The Taming of Tyler Kincaid
Sandra Marton

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS Tyler Kincaid’s birthday, and he had the feeling his present was waiting in his bed.

Atlanta sweltered under the oppressive heat of the July evening, but he didn’t mind. He’d lived in the South all his life and he liked the warm days and hot, sultry nights. He had nothing against finding a woman in his bed, either, especially a beautiful blonde like Adrianna. Under normal circumstances, a man would have to be crazy to object to that.

Tyler frowned as he slowed his Porsche outside the wrought-iron gates that guarded his hilltop estate.

But these weren’t normal circumstances.

If he was right and Adrianna was waiting for him complete with champagne, caviar and flowers, she’d entered his home uninvited. There’d been times he’d asked his mistress to spend the night, but he’d never given her or any woman access to his life—or to the security codes that unlocked the gates and the massive front door to his home.

And he damned well hadn’t made any plans to celebrate his birthday.

July 18 was just another day in the year, as far as he was concerned. He never so much as circled the day on his calendar. If there was anything special about the date it was because he’d realized, just this morning, that it was time to tell Adrianna their relationship was over.

The gates swung shut behind him. Ahead, a narrow road lined with magnolia trees led toward the big white house he’d bought on the same day he’d taken his company’s stock public eight years ago. By day’s end, Tyler had gone from being poor white trash to being a millionaire several times over. “An outstanding citizen,” the Atlanta Journal had called him. Tyler had saved the article, kept it in a scrapbook right next to the clipping dated ten years before that, when the same newspaper had said he was “an example of Atlanta’s lost youth.”

There was a nice irony there but that wasn’t why he’d kept both articles. He’d kept them, rather, as a reminder of how a man’s life could change with a couple of orbits of the planet around the sun.

“You’re a true cynic, Tyler,” his attorney had once said with a sigh of mild despair, but Tyler figured there wasn’t anything wrong with acknowledging that nothing in this world was ever quite what it seemed.

Especially a relationship with a woman.

He sighed, shut off the engine and looked at the house. It seemed deserted, except for the lights shining at some of the windows, but he knew those came on automatically, at dusk. They were part of his security system. His impenetrable security system, according to the outfit that had installed it.

“Impenetrable, my butt,” Tyler muttered.

To thieves, maybe, but not to the machinations of a determined, blue-eyed blonde.

There was no sign of her, no little green Mercedes convertible parked in the driveway. He’d expected that. Adrianna was bright as well as beautiful. His women always scored high, on brains as well as looks. She’d have found a place to tuck the car away where he wouldn’t see it.

How else could she hope to surprise him?

Tyler’s jaw tightened. He sat back in the leather bucket seat and spread his hands along the steering wheel.

The thing of it was, he didn’t like surprises, certainly not ones that involved his birthday, and definitely not when the surprise suggested a woman, even a beautiful, eminently desirable woman, was getting ideas about changing the status quo.

He’d made himself clear, at the start of their affair. People change, he’d told her. Their goals change, their needs change. Adrianna had smiled, interrupted, and said she understood.

“Darling, I promise you,” she’d murmured, “I’m not the least bit interested in fairy tales that end with forever-after.”

She wasn’t. That was one of the things he admired about her. She lived an independent life, a Southern belle in looks and background but a modern woman when it came to making her way in the world.

He’d made it clear he liked his privacy, too—meaning he wanted none of her makeup left in his bathroom, nor would he leave his shaving things in hers. There’d be no mutual exchange of house keys or security codes—she’d laughed when he’d said that, in that husky voice that had, in those first weeks, made his blood hum.

“Darling, you’re just the sort of man that turns me on. A gorgeous rogue, lover, that’s what you are. Why would a woman be foolish enough to want to tame you?”

Fidelity, for as long as the affair lasted, was all they’d committed to. That was all Tyler was still committed to…but, evidently, somewhere along the way, Adrianna had changed her mind.

Tyler opened the door of the Porsche and stepped out. Cicadas sang in the trees; the heavy scent of jasmine enveloped him. He looked up at the house, at his bedroom windows, and wondered if she were watching him through the silky curtains.

He imagined her, warm and naked and flushed from the shower. Or wearing the body-skimming black silk nightgown he’d given her. He had to admit, the sexual fantasy was a turn-on.

A tentative smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Okay, so she’d taken things a bit far but maybe he was doing the same thing. So what if she’d watched him enter the security codes and memorized them? That had to be the way she’d gotten in. And she’d probably gone through his wallet when he was asleep, checked his driver’s license to learn his birthday.

Was that so terrible?

It wasn’t. Not really. He could deal with it, he told himself as he climbed the steps to the veranda. Dealing with things was what he did.

Tyler could feel the tension easing inside him, now that he was willing to admit he’d overreacted. Okay. He’d open the door, step inside the marble foyer. Undo his tie, take off his jacket, dump his briefcase on the table. Then he’d go up to his bedroom, open the door, find Adrianna waiting for him in a room filled with roses, a flute of champagne in her hand and a silver bowl heaped with Beluga caviar beside the bed.

“Surprise, darling,” she’d purr, and he’d smile and pretend it really was a surprise, that he hadn’t expected her to be there, that his caterer hadn’t spilled the secret.

Actually it had been the caterer’s new, eager-to-please assistant who’d phoned him.

“Mr. Kincaid,” she’d said, “this is Susan. At Le Bon Appetit? I’m calling about that order you placed for delivery to your home this evening.”

Tyler, who’d been paying most of his attention to the Dow-Jones numbers racing across the screen of his computer, had frowned.

“What?”

“I’ve checked our records, sir, and I see that you always order Krug. I just wanted to be certain you actually wanted Dom Pérignon this time.”

“No. I mean, there’s been a mistake. I did not—”

“Ah. Well, sir, that’s what I thought. That there’d been a mistake, you know? The clerk must have gotten the order wrong.”

“No,” Tyler said, “the clerk did not—”

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Kincaid, “suggesting it was Ms. Kirby who made the error, but—”

Tyler had gone very still. “Adrianna Kirby ordered champagne to be delivered to my home?”

“And Beluga caviar, sir. And roses. And a cake. Oh, I hope that cake isn’t for you, sir. I’d hate to think I gave away a surprise.”

Tyler had closed his eyes. “No,” he’d said, “actually, you’ve been—you’ve been quite helpful.”

And, just like that, it had all fallen into place, the little signals he’d managed to ignore the past couple of weeks.

“Here’s a key to my apartment, Tyler,” Adrianna had said, folding his hand around the bit of metal, smiling when he’d frowned. “Oh, get that look off your face, darling. You don’t have to reciprocate. It’s just in case I’m in the bath or something, when you come by.”

And there was the way she’d taken to dropping by his office without calling first. She was in the neighborhood, she’d say, and wouldn’t lunch be lovely? The earrings she’d “forgotten” in his bathroom. Yes, and those soft little sighs of disappointment, whenever he rose from her bed and started to dress.

“You really could stay the night, darling,” she’d purr, even though she knew he never would.

“Hell,” Tyler muttered.

“Idiot” was too kind a word to describe him. And now, there was Adrianna, waiting in his bedroom to celebrate an occasion that was common to every creature on the planet, waiting for him with flowers and champagne and a handful of dreams he had no intention of sharing.

Okay. Okay, he’d do the right thing, act surprised, even pleased. And then, in a few days, in a week, he’d gently put an end to things.

He punched in the code. The door swung open. Lights blazed on, and a hundred voices shouted, “Surprise!”

Tyler blinked in astonishment, took a quick step back and stared at the blur of laughing faces.

“Darling,” Adrianna shrieked, and flew toward him in a shimmering cloud of fuchsia silk, golden hair and Chanel.

“Happy thirty-fifth birthday, darling.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Surprised?”

His face felt stiff. “Yes,” he said. “Very surprised.”

Adrianna laughed and looped her arm through his. “Just look at his face,” she said to the crowd around them. “Tyler, dearest, I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

Everybody laughed, everybody but Tyler, who was working at keeping his smile locked into place.

“I doubt it,” he said.

Adrianna tossed her head so that her hair flowed over her bare shoulders.

“You’re wondering how I managed all this. The invitations. The food, the champagne, the flowers. The band.” As if on cue, music wafted down from the balcony that overlooked the great room. She looped her arms around his neck and began to move in time with it. Tyler forced himself to hang on to the smile and to move with her. “And the most difficult part, darling. Slipping your wallet from your pocket and going through it, to learn your actual birthday after you let slip that the big Three-Five was coming up.”

“Did I?” he said, wondering how, and when, and why he’d been so loose-lipped.

“At that dinner for the mayor last month, remember? Someone at our table was moaning about turning forty, and you grinned and said wasn’t it a pity he was such an old fogy, that you were only just approaching—”

All Tyler’s good intentions fled. “I wish you hadn’t done this, Adrianna.”

His mistress laughed softly. “You’re just annoyed that I peeked over your shoulder while you entered those codes.”

“Yes. And that you went through my wallet. And that you arranged this party.”

“Don’t you like surprises, darling?”

“No,” he said coldly, “I do not.”

“Well, then, next time, you can help me plan your party.” Adrianna smiled coyly. “We could even make it a special occasion, Tyler. After all, we’ll have been together more than a year by then.”

Tyler didn’t answer. He took her hand in his, put his other arm around her waist and whirled her in a head-spinning circle while he wondered just how long it would take for the night to end.

An eternity, that was how long. That was how long it seemed, anyway.

The last guests finally left, the last catering van departed. The house was silent, the big, expensively decorated rooms were empty, now filled only with the lingering traces of perfume and roses.

“I’ll take you home,” Tyler had said to Adrianna. He’d known his voice was expressionless, his eyes cold, but he’d done the best he could and now it was time to deal with reality.

Either Adrianna hadn’t recognized that, or she’d pretended not to.

“Let me get my things,” she’d replied, and vanished up the stairs.

He’d waited and waited, pacing the length of the foyer, telling himself to control his temper, that he could, at least, end this thing without a scene. After five or ten minutes, he’d scowled and gone upstairs.

Adrianna was in the shower. He could hear the water running in the bathroom.

Tyler had flung an oath into the darkened bedroom, jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers and settled in to wait.

Now he stood at the window, staring out at the inky darkness, the façade he’d maintained the past few hours crumbling more with each passing minute. All evening he’d smiled, he’d chatted, he’d shaken hands with the men and kissed the women’s cheeks when his guests had offered their birthday congratulations.

He puffed out his breath, watched it fog the glass. How generous would they have been with their good wishes, their handshakes, their kisses, if they knew the truth, he wondered. If the front door had opened and the boy he’d once been had come strolling across the marble floor, his defiant expression just daring anybody to try to throw him out.

The thought was so preposterous it almost made him laugh.

“Damned fine party, Kincaid,” the mayor had said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not every man gets to celebrate his birthday in such style.”

My birthday, Tyler thought. His mouth twisted. Who in hell knew if this was his birthday or not? The truth was, he might have come into this world yesterday, or maybe even the day before that. Babies that were dumped on hospital doorsteps didn’t come complete with birth certificates.

The Brightons, who’d raised him, had told him all about it. They told him how he’d been found and given to them. They’d told him, too, that nobody was sure exactly what day he’d been born, but that the authorities figured he’d been somewhere between one and three days old, when he was found.

When he was really little, he just hadn’t understood it.

“Everybody has a real birthday,” he’d said, and the Brightons would say yes, that was true. And he had one. Those same anonymous authorities had decided on July 18.

“But who was my mommy?” he’d ask. “And my daddy?”

Myra and James Brighton would look at each other, then at him. “We’re your parents,” one of them would say.

But they weren’t. Oh, they were kind to him. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say they didn’t mistreat him—but he knew they never loved him. He saw how it was, with other kids. How a father smoothed a hand over a son’s hair, how a mother pulled her boy close and kissed him.

Tyler’s life wasn’t like that. Nobody touched him, or kissed him. Nobody hugged him when his grades were good or even got angry when they weren’t.

And his name. Tyler’s mouth thinned with the pain of the memory. John Smith, for God’s sake. John Smith. How could a boy grow up with a name like that?

He’d wanted to change it but the Brightons said he couldn’t.

“It’s your name, John,” James Brighton said.

So it was. And he lived with it. With all of it. By the time he was ten, he’d stopped asking questions that never were answered. What was the point? The Brightons never adopted him, never gave him their name—and then, in one fatal moment, his entire life changed. The three of them were on a Sunday outing when a truck hit their car.

Tyler wasn’t so much as scratched. He stood by the side of the road, a policeman’s big hand on his shoulder, watching without a trace of expression on his face as his foster parents’ bodies were removed from the wreck and taken away.

“The kid’s in shock,” he heard the cop tell the social worker who came for him and maybe he was. But the reality was that deep down, he couldn’t mourn people he’d never known.

The state took him in. He was sent to live in a place with lots of other boys like him, kids nobody gave a damn about, kids with no future—

But even they had real names.

He took a lot of crap over his.

“John Smith,” the kids said with sneers. “Who’re you kidding? Nobody’s named John Smith.”

They were right, and Tyler knew it. On the day he turned sixteen—the day his bogus birth certificate said he turned sixteen—he took his first name from a chapter in his American history textbook and his second from a character in a TV movie.

The kids laughed and sneered even harder.

“Nobody names himself,” they said.

“I do,” Tyler had replied, and when they went on laughing, he bloodied some noses, beat one kid to his knees. No one ever laughed again.

From then on, Tyler Kincaid was who he was. It was Tyler Kincaid who danced on the edge of the juvenile justice system, not John Smith. Tyler Kincaid who finally got caught joyriding in a car he’d “borrowed” from a mall, Tyler Kincaid who lucked out—though he sure hadn’t thought so, at the time—and got sentenced to eight months at a place called Boys Ranch, where he learned something about horses and maybe even about himself.

At eighteen, he left the Ranch and enlisted in the Marines.

When he got out, he made the name legal, took a job at a working ranch, found he had a talent not just for horses but for understanding the relationship between capital investment and land. After that, he never thought about John Smith again—except once a year, maybe, when the day that was supposed to be the day of his birth rolled around. Tyler had learned to accept the date but he sure as hell didn’t have to celebrate it. What was there to celebrate on a birthday that might not be your own, a birthday that marked the time your mother, maybe your old man, too, had dumped you on a doorstep like a sack of garbage rather than acknowledge your existence?

“Nothing,” Tyler muttered, and reached for the half-empty champagne bottle he’d gone downstairs and snagged. “Not one damned thing.”

“Oh, dear.”

He swung around. The bathroom door was open; Adrianna stood limned by light in the opening. He had to admit, she was magnificent. All that long golden hair, the black silk nightgown barely containing her breasts and clinging to her body, touching her the way his hands would…if he let himself touch her. She stood with one long, shapely leg thrust out through the thigh-high slit in the skirt of the gown, her high-arched foot encased in a black silk slipper with a heel so high it made his blood pressure soar.

“Talking to yourself, darling?” she whispered.

She came toward him, her walk slow, her hips swinging. The scent of Chanel drifted to his nostrils; he knew from experience that she’d touched it to all her pulse points, and to the soft skin of her thighs.

Take her, his blood sang, bury yourself in her…but his brain reminded him, coldly, that taking her now would only delay the inevitable. Despite everything she’d done, she deserved better than that.

“Adrianna.” He cleared his throat, walked to the nightstand where she’d left her flute of champagne, picked it up and offered it to her. “We have to talk.”

“Talk?” She smiled, took a sip of the wine and eyed him over the delicate rim of the glass. “Seems to me we can do better than that, darling. Here I am, all ready for bed, and you’re still standing there in your suit.” She put down her glass. “I’ll help you, shall I?” Her hands went to his tie, to the first button on his shirt. “Let’s get you out of this and—”

“No.” Tyler caught hold of her wrists, drew down her hands. “Dammit, listen to me.”

“You’re hurting me, Tyler.”

He looked at his hands, saw them crushing her delicate bones. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly, and let go of her. “Adrianna. About tonight—”

“The party.”

“Yes. Right. The party.” Only minutes ago, he’d intended to end things between them by telling her she’d had no right to make the damned party, to invade his space, to presume things about their relationship that weren’t valid, but she was looking up at him, wide-eyed, her mouth just starting to tremble. Instead of anger, he felt a quick, almost overwhelming despair. “I know that you must have gone to a lot of trouble, arranging it…”

“And you wish I hadn’t.”

“Yes. I wish you hadn’t.”

“I don’t understand.” Tears rose in her eyes, threatened to spill down her cheeks. “I only wanted to make you happy, darling.”

“I know. But—” But what? Could a man really be angry at a woman for caring about him enough to want to give him a surprise party? “But,” he said gently, “I never celebrate my birthday, Adrianna.”

“That’s just plain silly.”

“It’s fact.”

“Oh, pooh.” The tears that had threatened vanished in an instant. She smiled and put her palms flat against his chest. “We’ll change all that.”

“No.” He caught her hands again, this time being careful not to apply any pressure. “No, we won’t.”

“Of course we will. Next year—”

“There isn’t going to be a next year, Adrianna.” He let go of her, ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Look, I’m trying my damnedest not to hurt your feelings, but—”

“My feelings? My feelings? Dammit, Tyler!” Her voice rose and he looked at her in surprise. He’d never heard her speak so stridently before. “Don’t you dare patronize me. You don’t give a rat’s tail about my feelings.” She lifted her hand, poked it, hard, into his chest. “You’re just angry because I got tired of waiting for you to move our relationship on to the next phase.”

Tyler’s green eyes grew cool. “There is no next phase, Adrianna.”

“Of course there is. All this nonsense, not letting me leave some of my things here, not ever spending the whole night at my place…” Her chin rose. “Acting as if letting me know those silly gate and door codes would violate national security.”

His gaze went from cool to frigid. “I told you, right upfront, how things were going to be.”

“No commitment. No forever-after.”

“The no forever-after was your contribution.”

“Maybe so. That was the way I felt, at the time—but I changed my mind.”

“That’s not my fault, baby,” Tyler snapped. “I kept my end of the deal.”

“And you’re known for that, aren’t you? For always keeping your end of the deal. Cool-headed Tyler Kincaid, never undermined by sentiment, in business or in his dealings with women.”

Tyler puffed out a breath in exasperation. “Look, there’s no point to this. I don’t want to quarrel with you—”

“No. You just want to tell me I overstepped my bounds, that I had no right to waltz into your house, into your life.”

“Dammit!” Tyler threaded his hand through his hair again. “Look, if I’d wanted a birthday party, I’d have thrown one for myself.”

Adrianna rolled her eyes. “Good God, what a sin! Arranging a party—”

“Don’t you get it? I didn’t want a party.”

“A party to which I invited a bunch of your friends—”

“They’re not my friends.”

“Of course they are!”

“They’re people I know, that’s all. They only bother with me because of what I can give them.”

“Which is precious little, Tyler.”

Tyler’s mouth thinned. “What in hell is that supposed to mean?”

Adrianna swung away from him and stalked into the bathroom. “That magazine article the other week called you ‘brilliant.’ Figure it out for yourself.”

He strode after her, watched as she stripped off the gown, pulled a T-shirt and jeans from her nightcase and put them on.

“I’ve set up deals for half the men who were here tonight,” he growled, “and the other half wishes I would. You think that’s giving them precious little, huh?”

“Is that what you think people want from you? Deals? Money? Power?”

Tyler stared at his mistress. She was fully dressed now, still wearing those high heels. Now, strangely, they struck him not as sexy but sad.

“Look,” he said, struggling to sound calm, “it’s late. We’re both tired. I think it’s best if I drive you home.”

“I’m perfectly capable of driving myself home, thank you.”

She was, and he knew it. Tyler shrugged his shoulders, folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

“Suit yourself.”

“I intend to.” Adrianna shot him a glittering smile. “It would never have worked, Tyler. I guess I always knew that, in my heart. After a while, whenever I looked at you, I’d see the look in your eyes that says ‘Keep Out,’ and it would have killed me.”

Her words drained the anger from him.

“It isn’t you,” he said softly. “Despite anything I said, it isn’t you.”

“Sometimes…” She drew a deep breath. “Sometimes, I wonder if there’s anybody inside you, Tyler. If you feel things, like the rest of us.”

“Adrianna…”

“The thing is…” she said, with a little laugh. “The thing is, I fell in love with you. And I know you could never fall in love with me.”

He thought of lying to her, of softening the blow, but he knew, too, that the one thing he could give her now was the truth. He reached out, tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear.

“No,” he said gently, “I couldn’t. I wish it were different. I really wish—”

Adrianna put her hand lightly over his mouth. “Don’t lie to either of us, Tyler. That isn’t your wish. We both know that I’m not the woman for you. I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

Tyler gave a mocking laugh. “I’m not looking for a woman. Not now, not ever.”

“Everyone’s looking for someone, whether they know it or not.”

“You’re wrong.”

Adrianna smiled gently, rose on her toes and pressed a light kiss to his mouth.

“Goodbye, darling,” she whispered.

Tyler watched her walk from the room. He sank down on the edge of the bed, listened to the distant click-click of those ridiculous high heels fading, then to the even more distant sound of her car. At last, he stood and walked slowly to the window.

The moon was setting, dipping into the branches of the old oak just outside his bedroom.

There was nobody inside him, Adrianna had said, but she was wrong. Tyler smiled bitterly. The boy named John Smith was still there, whether he liked it or not. There was an emptiness in his heart, a yearning sometimes that he couldn’t put a name to or get rid of by burying himself in his work, or even by pounding his gloved fists against the body bag at his gym.

She was wrong about him looking for a woman, too. How could a man look for a woman when he was still searching for himself?

He stood at the window for hours, watching as night gave way to dawn. At six, exhausted, he fell on his bed and slept. When he opened his eyes, it was after nine.

Tyler reached for the telephone.

“Carol,” he said, when his secretary answered, “you remember that private detective we used last year? The one who found out who was selling our research plans to our competitors? I’d like his name, please, and his phone number. No, no that’s fine. I’ll call him myself.” A moment passed. Then Tyler scrawled down the name and number his secretary gave him. “Thank you,” he said.

He disconnected, took a deep breath and dialed.

CHAPTER TWO

CAITLIN MCCORD had a passion for horses, dogs and kittens but, because she was a reasonably sane woman, she didn’t like them all in one place at the same time, especially if the dog was barking, the horse was rolling its eyes and the kitten was hissing like a rattlesnake.

The horse, a chestnut mare with the unlikely name of Charlotte, was beautiful, terrified and new to Espada. Caitlin had spent the best part of half an hour rubbing her velvet nose and feeding her carrots while she told her they were destined to be friends. When the mare nuzzled her shoulder, Caitlin smiled, led her from the stables to the paddock and saddled her.

That was when the dog, a black-and-tan hound with a clever nose and a foolish disposition, came wandering by.

“Woof?” said the dog.

The mare rolled her eyes and danced backward. Caitlin held firmly to the bridle, calmed the horse, shooed the dog and devoted another five minutes to telling her life was not as awful as she imagined. When the horse nuzzled her again, she decided it was time to ease herself gently into the saddle.

That was the moment the dog reappeared, this time in hot pursuit of a ball of hissing orange fluff.

Caitlin felt the mare’s muscles bunch beneath her thighs. The animal whinnied, reared and pawed the air before she brought it under control again.

Abel Jones, Espada’s foreman, had been watching the goings-on from his window at the eastern end of the stables. He stepped out the side door into the paddock and spat a thin stream of tobacco juice into the grass.

“Ornery critter, that horse.”

“She just needs to run off some steam.”

“Manuel ain’t doin’ nothin’ much this mornin’.” Able spat another stream of juice down toward his boots. “He’ll take her out, if you like.”

Caitlin shot a grin in Abel’s direction. “And spoil my fun?” She leaned forward, ran a gloved hand over the chestnut’s quivering, arched neck. “I’ll do it. Just toss me my hat—it fell off when this little girl tried to make like Trigger.”

The old man bent down, plucked the Texas Rangers baseball cap from the dust, dusted it against his thigh and handed it up. Caitlin pulled the cap on, tucked her dark auburn curls up under it and tugged the brim down over her eyes.

“Open the gate, please.”

“Sure you don’t want to give Manuel somethin’ to do?”

“Open it, Abel.”

The foreman grunted. There was no mistaking an order, even when it was issued in a quiet voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and flung the gate to the paddock wide. Horse and woman shot through in a blur.

“That there mare’s a wild one,” Manuel said, coming up alongside. “Think the señorita can handle her?”

Abel’s narrowed eyes stayed locked on the receding figures of horse and rider. “She’ll handle the mare, all right.” He worked the mouthful of chewing tobacco into his cheek, spat and wiped his pepper-and-salt mustache on his sleeve. “It’s a stallion’s gonna give her trouble, someday.”

Manuel gave the foreman a puzzled look. “We got a new stallion? Nobody told me about it.”

The old man laughed. “It’s what they call a figger of speech, kid.”

“A what?”

Abel sighed, reached for a pitchfork and thrust it at the boy.

“Go muck out the stalls,” he said, and stomped away.

Tyler Kincaid was driving a battered old Chevy pickup along an unpaved road that undulated through the Texas countryside.

He’d paid some old geezer four hundred bucks for the truck after the plane he’d chartered had flown him to a small airfield just outside town. The P.I. he’d hired said there was a private landing strip on the Baron ranch but Tyler had decided that a man reconnoitering a situation was better off doing it without drawing too much attention to himself. That was why he’d dressed inconspicuously, not in a suit and tie but in weekend clothes—faded jeans and a cotton T-shirt. He’d even resurrected his old Stetson and his roper boots from the back of his closet.

Tyler had figured he could rent a car someplace near the airstrip but he’d figured wrong, which was how he’d ended up with the Chevy. The old truck groaned and rattled like the bucket of bolts it was, and there was dust kicking up through the holes in the floorboard and settling like tan snow on his boots but according to the map in his bag, he didn’t have far to go. It was only another ten or twelve miles to the Baron ranch.

The radio worked, anyway. Tyler fiddled with the dial, settled for a station playing the kind of country music he hadn’t listened to since his years breaking horses in the hot Georgia sun, first at Boys Ranch and then on his own, after he’d left the Marines. The sentimental songs were made for the hard life of a cowboy. Right now, he just wanted them to take his mind off what he’d set out to do because he suspected that if he thought about it too long, he might admit he was making a mistake.

Why pay a private investigator to dig into the circumstances of his birth and then go out on his own? It was foolish, maybe foolhardy…but this was his life. If anybody was going to find the answers he sought, it was going to be—

The engine hiccuped, made a noise like a sick elephant and came to a convulsive stop.

Tyler frowned, did a quick appraisal of the dashboard gauges. Gas was okay and so was the oil. The engine temperature read normal. He waited a couple of seconds, then turned the key.

“Dammit,” he said, and flung the door open.

It was hotter than blazes with the sun beating down. A chorus of insects filled the silence with a melody of their own devising.

Tyler walked to the front of the pickup and lifted the hood, springing back as steam spewed into the already humid air. He mouthed an oath, waited until the cloud dissipated, then leaned forward and peered at the engine. It was a mess. Rust and dirt, frayed wires and worn hoses…It was years since he’d done much more than pump gas into his Porsche but he reached right in. There were some things a man just didn’t forget. Things like how you really couldn’t expect to get very far with a radiator that leaked like a sieve, and a temperature gauge that had evidently packed it in a long time ago.

Tyler slammed the hood shut, wiped his hands on his jeans and tried not to think about the old codger back at the airstrip, who had to be looking at his four hundred bucks and laughing his head off.

“Hell,” he said, and then he sighed. It was his fault, nobody else’s. Any man who’d lost touch with reality enough to think he could breeze into a town that was little more than a wide spot on the road, flash some hundred dollar bills and expect not to be taken, was a jerk.

Now what?

He stepped away from the truck, looked back toward where he’d been and then ahead, toward where he was going. The view both ways was the same, nothing but a rolling, dusty road that stretched from horizon to horizon with tall grass waving on either side and trees backing up the grass. He was halfway between nowhere and no place. It was a great title for a country ballad but not a very useful location otherwise.

Tyler stomped back to the truck. He snatched his hat from the front seat and put it on, yanked the map from his bag and checked it. The road went on straight for a couple of miles before taking a sharp right. According to the P.I., he’d see the wrought-iron gates and longhorn logo that marked the entrance to Baron land just before it did.

Going ahead was the only logical choice. If life had taught him anything, it was that taking a step back was never an option.

Tyler folded the map, tucked it into the bag and looped the straps over one shoulder. He tipped the wide brim of the Stetson down over his eyes and started walking toward Espada.

Three weeks of digging, and all the P. I. had come up with was the name of the ranch where John Smith had been born. Well, it was something. At least he knew now that John Smith had begun life not in Georgia but in Texas.

That was how he thought of the boy he’d been, as if he and Smith were two separate people. The skinny kid with the ropy muscles who’d had to fight for his place in the world was a stranger to the successful man who had everything he could possibly want.

A jackrabbit zipped across the road ahead, moving so quickly it was almost a blur. Maybe the rabbit had places to be, Tyler thought with a tight smile. If the rabbit didn’t, he surely did yet here he was, walking a dirt road in Texas when he had a life to live, a corporation to run…and, if he chose, a relationship to mend. Adrianna had phoned and left a message. It hadn’t taken much reading between the lines to realize she’d be willing to take him back, on his terms.

The thing of it was, he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted.

She was lovely, and charming, and he’d enjoyed the time he’d been with her, but the affair had run its course. He was willing to admit that was his fault but what Adrianna had said about him wasn’t true. There was nothing the matter with him. He did feel things. If he never spoke of love, it was simply because he couldn’t bring himself to lie.

He liked women, liked their soft laughter and their scent, but that didn’t mean he was going to pretend there was more to the best of male-female relationships than a few months of companionship, good times and sex.

Sex was something he never lied about. It was a need, a powerful one, and if you shared it with a beautiful, interesting, willing woman, it was one of the most pleasurable things in life.

A smile curled across the corner of Tyler’s mouth. Finding women to adorn his arm and warm his bed had never been a problem.

For now, though, he was going to concentrate his energies on an enigma named John Smith. And Smith was an enigma, one not even the detective he’d hired had been able to unravel.

“I have to tell you, Mr. Kincaid,” Ed Crane had said, when they’d met for breakfast the prior week, “this is one of the toughest investigations I’ve ever done.”

Tyler’s eyed had narrowed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Crane had replied, around a mouthful of buttermilk gravy, “all I know is what’s in that report I sent you this morning.”

“Humor me,” Tyler said, with a smile that made the phrase a lie. “I haven’t had time to do much besides glance at it. Smith was born in Texas?”

“Uh-huh.”

“On a windblown acre of dusty soil?”

“No, sir, Mr. Kincaid. We’re talking about a ranch the size of a small country.” Crane offered his best good old boy smile. “Anywhere but Texas, this Espada would be flying its own flag. Cattle, horses, oil wells—this isn’t any windblown acre. It’s a miniature kingdom.”

“A kingdom,” Tyler said slowly.

“Yes, indeedy. Ruled by an old hard-ass name of Jonas Baron. The guy was eighty-five last summer, he’s on wife number five, he’s got three sons and a stepdaughter—a kingdom and a king, sir, that’s the setup at Espada.”

“And John Smith was born there.” Tyler eyed Crane over the rim of his coffee cup. “To whom?”

Crane’s smile faded. “Well, that’s the problem. We haven’t been able to turn up a record so far. But there are some strong possibilities.”

Tyler put down his coffee cup. “Such as?”

“I’d rather wait until I have all the facts, sir.”

“And I wouldn’t.”

Crane cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a housekeeper, woman named Carmen. She was pregnant that winter, would have delivered just about the middle of the summer.”

Tyler nodded, waited to feel some reaction but didn’t. Whoever his mother had been, she’d dumped him fast enough. Only a fool would feel anything for a woman like that.

“Possibilities, you said.”

“Yes, sir. There were a couple of married ranch hands working at the place that summer, one, maybe two, with wives who were expecting.”

Tyler smiled stiffly. “A fertile place, this Espada.”

Crane grinned. “Yeah.”

“Anyone else?”

“Jonas Baron’s wife—wife number one—was expecting, too. But that one’s easy to rule out.”

“Yes. You already said, Baron has three sons.”

“He does, Mr. Kincaid, and they were all born after the year you specified.” Crane reached for another biscuit, thought better of it and let his jowly face settle into more serious lines. “Besides, the baby and Mrs. Baron both died in childbirth. The two of them are buried out there, on the ranch.”

“Which leaves us with the housekeeper and the cowboys.”

“That’s right, sir. So, what do you think? You want me to keep on digging?”

For a moment, Tyler had been tempted to tell the man to end the investigation. His mother was either a housekeeper or the wife of an itinerant cowboy. Either way, she’d abandoned him with less thought than most people gave to an old shoe. Not that it mattered. He’d done just fine on his own. He wasn’t even sure exactly why he’d started this search. He’d been in a strange mood the night of his birthday, that was all.

On the other hand, he’d never been able to resist a puzzle. It was part of the reason he’d succeeded in business. What made people take one path, instead of another? His mother had given birth to him, then dumped him on a doorstep. Why? Why hadn’t she turned him over to an adoption agency? And why would a woman rise from the bed where she’d just delivered a child and go all the way to Atlanta to get rid of it?

“Mr. Kincaid? Shall I keep going? Another couple weeks, I’ll have a better fix on things. You just need to be patient.”

Patient, Tyler had thought. It was a logical suggestion, easy for a man to make when it wasn’t his past that was being uncovered but after thirty-five years, what was the rush? But there was a rush; he didn’t understand it but he could feel it, in his belly. So he’d nodded, told Crane to keep on digging. The meeting had ended, Tyler had returned to his office and buried himself in work.

An hour later, he’d given up pretending. How could a man work when his head was filled with pictures of a place he’d never seen and images of three faceless women, one of whom was probably his mother? He’d called in his personal assistant and his first vice president, told them he was going away for a while and that he’d keep in touch by e-mail and phone. They’d both looked surprised but he knew they wouldn’t question him. Nobody ever questioned Tyler Kincaid.

“Fine,” his P.A. said.

His vice president shook his hand and wished him a pleasant vacation.

Tyler hadn’t bothered correcting him. There wasn’t much he could have said that wouldn’t have made him look even more surprised, so he’d smiled and said he’d certainly try. And here he was, trudging into a gully on a dusty road in the middle of nowhere, his shirt stuck to his skin with sweat, looking for answers that probably wouldn’t matter a damn once he found them.

“Hell,” he said, and came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the slope. Was he crazy? Who gave a damn about John Smith? He’d ceased to exist years ago. What did it matter if—

“Look out!”

He heard the hoofbeats and the cry almost simultaneously, spun around and saw a horse crest the top of the slope and fly toward him. Tyler flung himself out of the way and the animal thundered by with only inches to spare.

Tyler went down in the brush at the side of the road, then he scrambled to his feet. The horse and its rider, a boy who didn’t look as if he had enough muscle to control a pony much less a horse that looked as high-strung as this one, were drawing up a couple of dozen yards down the road. The horse turned, blowing hard. The rider rose in the saddle and looked at him.

Tyler waited for some word. An apology. A question. Are you okay? seemed like a good start but the boy didn’t speak. He sat down again, straight as a ramrod in the saddle, while the horse blew and snorted. The kid was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead so he couldn’t see his face, but every inch of the boy’s posture indicated contempt.

Tyler drew in a breath, enough to calm his runaway heart rate. Then he plucked his hat from the dirt, knocked off the dust and jammed it on his head as he moved into the center of the road..

“You damned near ran me down,” he yelled.

The horse tossed its head. The boy said nothing. Tyler tucked his hands into his back pockets and walked toward them.

“Hey, kid, did you hear me? I said—”

“I heard what you said.” The boy’s voice was low. There was an edge to it that suggested he was accustomed to giving orders. “You’re trespassing.”

“This is a public road.”

“It’s a private road. Or am I supposed to believe you opened the gate three miles back, walked under the arch and never noticed?”

Tyler frowned. He hadn’t come through any gate that he knew of though he supposed it was possible, considering how lost in thought he’d been.

“Well? Is that your story, cowboy?”

Tyler’s frown deepened. The kid’s voice had an interesting quality to it, one that sent a funny sensation dancing along his spine. A couple of dark auburn curls had escaped from the baseball cap he was wearing. No, not dark auburn. Red, and chestnut; maple and even a touch of gold…

Holy hell. He must have been out in the sun longer than he thought. It would be a hot day at the North Pole before he cared one way or another about the sound of a boy’s voice, or the color of his hair.

The horse whinnied and danced sideways. “Did I say something that amuses you?” the boy asked coldly.

“I didn’t see any gate,” Tyler said, just as coldly. “Not that it matters a damn. Public land or private, you haven’t the right to—”

The boy touched his knees lightly to the chestnut’s sides. The horse took half a dozen steps forward. Tyler had been away from horses for a long time but the animal had a look that said it had a touchy disposition and, probably, a hair-trigger temper.

“If the gate was open, it’s because some no-account left it that way and I assure you, I’ll deal with him.”

“Yeah,” Tyler said slowly, his eyes locked to the rider’s shadowed face, “I’ll just bet you will.”

“You just turn around now and head back out the way you came.”

The presumptive quality of that throaty voice, the command issued by a skinny boy who couldn’t have been a day older than, what, sixteen, seventeen, made Tyler’s muscles knot.

“You’re pretty good at giving orders,” he said softly. “What happens when you run into a man who won’t take them?”

The boy hesitated, then touched his knees to the chestnut’s sides again. The horse moved closer, as much a weapon now as if the boy had picked up a stone.

“You mean, what happens when I run into a fool that doesn’t use the brain he was born with?”

“Yeah,” Tyler said, and in one quick move he reached up and grabbed the boy by the front of his T-shirt. The chestnut whinnied and danced away but Tyler hung on and hauled the kid from the saddle…

Except, as soon as he’d dragged him halfway down the length of his body, he knew it wasn’t a boy at all.

It was a woman.

A slender woman, but one who had all the right parts in all the right places. Round, high breasts that pressed against his chest. Rounded hips that meshed with his. An incredible mass of silky auburn hair that fell to her shoulders when her baseball cap dropped to the grass. Enormous hazel eyes, the irises shot with green and gold, stared into his; delicate bones and surprisingly hard muscle twisted under his hands.

“Damn you,” she gasped, “let go of me!”

Her skin was hot, and so was the smell of her. Sweat, horse, summer meadows and woman…she smelled of things he’d once known and things he’d never had, and the feel of her against him, of those soft breasts and narrow hips, of that tilted pelvis and the long, endless legs, turned him as hard as stone.

She felt his erection. She had to. He had her trapped against him. He saw her eyes darken, saw her mouth tremble. What the hell are you doing, Kincaid? he asked himself coldly, but even as he asked it, he wondered what would happen if he tumbled her down into the soft grass, how long it would take to strip the clothes from her, touch her, turn the anger and growing fear in her eyes to need…

Tyler dropped his hands from her and took a step back.

“A woman’s an idiot,” he said roughly, “to take on something that’s too much for her to handle.”

Caitlin’s heart was slamming against her ribs. Was he talking about the horse or about what had just happened between them? All her talk about this being private land was just that. Talk. What did a man like this care if he were trespassing? She was alone out here. And even though she was strong and fit, she’d be defenseless against a man like this. She’d felt all that tightly leashed power, that almost-terrifying maleness…and she’d felt something else, too, something even more frightening. For a heartbeat, as he held her, she’d felt like a sleeping cat coming slowly awake under the expert stroke of a man’s hand.

Heat rushed under her skin. She covered it by bending down and retrieving her cap. When she looked up again, her face gave nothing away. The only way to handle the situation was to show no fear, even though her heart was still banging like a drum.

“I assure you,” she said crisply, “I can handle the chestnut. As for you—if you turn around right now and walk on out, I won’t report you.”

“Report me?” He laughed. “Damn, but you’re good at this, lady. We’re in the ass-end of nowhere, and you’re making threats.”

“We’re on private land, as I’ve already told you. And I make promises, not threats.” Caitlin looked him over, from head to toe. He was a drifter. The battered old hat, the worn boots, the very fact that he was traveling on foot through the hot Texas countryside…but there was something about him. It wasn’t just his looks: The long, muscular legs. The narrow hips and broad shoulders. The face that was handsome in a dark, dangerous way. It was more than that. The way he held himself, maybe, or the way he looked at her out of those emerald-green eyes. There was an authority to him—and that was ridiculous. Drifters had no authority, no aura of command…

“Do I pass muster?”

Her gaze flew to his. He was watching her from under his sooty lashes, arms folded, his expression unreadable. She could feel herself blushing again but she fought against it and against the desire to turn away from that penetrating stare.

“Texas is filled with men like you,” she said.

“Really.” He shifted his weight, tucked his hands into his back pockets. “And what kind of man is that?”

“You’re broke, you need a job, a place to sleep and eat.”

Tyler started to laugh but thought better of it. Behind her, the chestnut eyed them warily, its reins trailing through a bed of wildflowers.

“And?”

“And, we don’t hire drifters. You’re not going to find work at Espada.”

He jerked as if she’d slapped him. Espada. Of course. He’d been so damned caught up in playing games with the woman…

“Espada,” he said softly. His eyes met hers. “You’re Caitlin McCord. Baron’s stepdaughter.”

This time, she was the one who looked surprised. “How do you know that?”

“Everybody knows it,” Tyler said, cursing himself for the slip. He shrugged lazily. “People talk. After all, Espada’s the biggest spread in the county.”

“Then you must also know that what I told you is true. We don’t hire—”

“Baron’s the man I’ve come to see.”

“You can’t. He’s not here.”

“I’ll wait.”

“He won’t be back for days.”

“And I just said, I’ll wait.”

“It’s a free country. You want to wait, wait, but not on Baron land.”

She swung away from him. It was a gesture of complete dismissal. Tyler stared at that straight back, the stiff shoulders, and his composure snapped. He reached out, grabbed her arm and swung her toward him.

“Dammit,” he growled, “don’t you turn your back on—”

The sudden movement, or maybe the anger in his voice, were too much for the nervous horse. The chestnut jerked back, tossed her head and reared. Caitlin didn’t see it happen but she might as well have. She felt the whisper of air as the animal moved, saw the flash of awareness in the drifter’s eyes, and then he yelled a warning, caught her by the shoulders and tumbled her to the ground, rolling her out from under those slashing hooves.

They lay in the grass, tangled together, his hard, long body pinning hers beneath it.

“You okay?” he said, and when she nodded, then managed a shaky “yes,” he scrambled to his feet and made a grab for the mare’s reins.

Caitlin stood up, dusted off her bottom and watched. The chestnut whinnied, fought, but the stranger hung on, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching under his T-shirt. The horse was strong but the man was stronger. After a few minutes, the animal trembled and calmed. The stranger rubbed the mare’s throat. He stroked the trembling neck and spoke softly.

The chestnut’s body shuddered, then became still. She pressed her head to the man’s shoulder.

“She’s okay now,” he said quietly.

Caitlin cleared her throat. “Yes. I…I…Thank you. She’s new, you see, and scared…”

“She’s new and scared, and needs to know who’s boss.” The chestnut blew softly. “Isn’t that right, girl?”

“You—you seem to know horses.”

The stranger’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “What else would a man like me know, Ms. McCord?”

Women, Caitlin thought. That was what a man like him would know. A tremor raced through her, and she looked away.

“So, what do you think? Can you use an extra hand who knows his way around horses?”

Caitlin ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. “Look, I’m—I’m grateful for what you just did, mister, but—”

“Kincaid. My name’s Tyler Kincaid.”

He held out his hand. She looked at it, looked at him, told herself it was ridiculous to feel heat sweep over her skin again.

“Ms. McCord?”

Slowly she put her hand in his. His fingers clasped hers tightly. They were warm and strong, but she already knew how gentle they could be. She’d seen the way he stroked the mare. Would he touch a woman’s skin the same way?

Color flew into her cheeks and she jerked back her hand. “All right,” she said briskly. “I’ll give you a week’s trial. The ranch is a couple of miles beyond that ridge. Talk to Abel. He’s our foreman. Tell him…Hey. Hey, Kincaid! What are you doing?”

The question was pointless because he’d already done it. Tyler Kincaid had swung into the saddle. Now, he was holding his hand out to her, as if the horse and the land were his and she were the trespasser.

“You wouldn’t ask a man to walk in this heat, would you?”

He gave her a slow smile, the sort that made it clear she’d seem incredibly foolish to say yes, she would, if he were the man in question.

With a hiss of breath, Caitlin put her hand in Tyler’s and swung up into the saddle behind him. He’d saved her from injury or worse but she’d made a mistake, she knew that now, even if it was too late to do anything about it.

“Hang on,” he said, which she had no intention of doing. But he leaned low over the horse’s neck, whispered something and the animal took off like the wind. Caitlin had no choice but to wrap her arms tightly around Tyler’s waist as they raced toward Espada.

CHAPTER THREE

THE woman had been easy to convince—but then, it was she who’d come up with the story, not he.

By the third morning of his employment at Espada, Tyler was almost ready to believe the tale himself. Once, a long time ago, a lifetime ago, he’d been an itinerant cowboy, wandering from ranch to ranch, taking a job here, another there, doing whatever needed doing so he could put a meal in his belly.

That was the man he’d been, the man Caitlin McCord thought he was. And he, lacking any better entrée to the Baron kingdom, and to whatever secrets it might hold, had accepted the scenario.

The only person who didn’t buy into it was the foreman.

Tyler knew those keen old eyes had not missed the way he and Caitlin McCord had come riding in together on the horse, and certainly not the way she’d jumped from the saddle, her face pale, her eyes cold.

“This is Tyler Kincaid,” she’d said to the old man, as Tyler strolled after her. “Give him a job, a bed and a meal.”

She turned on her heel and stalked off toward the main house, shoulders set, spine rigid. Tyler watched her go and thought how remarkable it was that a woman could look so stiffly unyielding when she felt so softly feminine in a man’s arms.

“Kincaid.”

The old man’s voice had sounded rough as gravel. Tyler looked at him.

“Ms. Caitlin ain’t an employee. She’s family.”

The warning was clear.

“And she’s offered me a job,” Tyler said, smiling politely.

“So she has.” The old man’s face was expressionless. “Name’s Jones,” he said, and spat into the dirt. “Abel Jones. I’m the foreman here.”

Tyler nodded, started to stick out his hand and thought better of it.

“Where’d you work last?”

“Here and there,” Tyler answered, with a lazy smile.

“You ain’t from these parts.”

“No,” Tyler agreed, “I’m not.”

“Southerner, ain’t you?”

“Yeah. From Georgia. But I was born in Texas.”

It was the first time Tyler had said such a thing, or even thought it. The old man stared at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“Fancy duffel you got there,” he said, jerking his whiskered chin at Tyler’s bag.

Tyler didn’t blink. “Nylon. Lasts longer than canvas.”

“Uh-huh. What can you do?”

“Rope, ride, fix whatever needs fixing. And I’m good with horses.” God, he’d said those same words more times than he wanted to remember, a thousand years ago.

“Ms. Caitlin wants you hired on, so be it.” The foreman’s eyes turned flinty. “Jes do your job and we’ll get along fine.”

Tyler recognized the warning that was implicit in the simple words. But he said nothing, simply nodded and followed a kid named Manuel to the bunkhouse, where he was assigned a room.

“You want me to show you around?” the kid asked.

“No, that’s okay. I want to put my stuff away first.”

Abel was waiting for him, shovel in hand when he came out, but Tyler ignored it.

“I’m hungry,” he said shortly. “Haven’t eaten in a long time.”

Well, it wasn’t a lie. He’d had breakfast hours ago. Half a grapefruit, a croissant, black coffee. His usual morning meal, sufficient when a man faced a few hours spent riding a desk and then lunch with a client but not very substantive when you were going to ride horses or clean up after them, he thought grimly, looking at the foreman and the shovel.

The old man nodded. “You don’t look much like you’ve missed a meal.”

Tyler forced a smile. “Care to listen to my stomach growl, Pop?”

“Name’s Abel. All right, go on up to the main house, to the back door. Tell Carmen to feed you.”

The house on the rise was big and imposing, but no more so than Tyler’s own home back in Atlanta. He concentrated on the irony in that in hopes it would keep him from thinking about the banging of his own heart as he rapped on the door, then stepped inside to confront the woman who might have borne him.

Carmen was round. Round face, round body—even her shiny black hair was round, braided and twisted high on her head in a coronet.

And she was not his mother. Tyler knew it, the minute she turned from the stove and smiled at him.

“Señor?”

“Abel sent me,” he told her, while his heartbeat returned to normal. “He said it would be okay if you fixed me something to eat.”

She smiled even more broadly, sat him at a massive oak table and fed him huevos rancheros, homemade biscuits and cups of fragrant black coffee until he thought he’d burst.

“The men who work at Espada are lucky to have you to cook for them. Your children, too,” he said casually, because he needed to be certain, even though he already knew.

“Ah, my children,” Carmen said happily, and told him all about Esme, her daughter, who was twenty and in her second year at the university, and about her son, Esteban, who was a doctor in Austin.

“Dr. Esteban O’Connor,” she said, and chuckled. A blush colored her dusky cheeks, making her look younger than her years. “The child of my youth—and of a youthful indiscretion.”

Tyler smiled. “And how old is this child of your youth?” he said, even more casually, and Carmen told him that Esteban was going to celebrate his thirty-fifth birthday next month.

Tyler had nodded, tried to ignore the sudden emptiness inside. It wasn’t a surprise; he’d known, hadn’t he, that this warmhearted woman wasn’t his mother? She’d never have given him life, then abandoned him.

“That was a wonderful meal,” he’d said. “Gracias, Carmen.”

He’d dropped a kiss on her cheek and gone to find Abel, who’d set him to work.

Work was what the old man had given him, all right, Tyler thought now, grunting as he unloaded feed sacks from the back of a pickup truck. Hard work, too, as if hoisting heavy sacks and shoveling manure were tests he had to pass before he could be trusted with anything as important as risking his neck trying to break a horse.

All the time he worked, whatever the job, he kept his eyes open, alert for something, anything, that might give him some clue about his birth, about how his mother—his parents—had fit into the enormous puzzle that was Espada. He knew it was foolish, that he’d left this place when he was only a day or two old. What memories would a newborn infant have? Not a one. He understood that.

Still, he looked at everything as if the most simple thing could be the key to unlock the mystery of his past.

And then, on the third morning, Caitlin McCord came strolling toward the stable and he knew he’d been kidding himself. Part of him had been searching for clues to John Smith’s birth—but part of him had been watching, and waiting, for her.

He felt as if someone had landed a hard right to his jaw.

She was beautiful. How in the world had he ever mistaken her for a boy, even at a distance?

It was a hot day. China-blue sky, brutal yellow sun, with no breeze or a cloud to ease the sizzling temperature. He was sweating and so were the other men. Even the horses were feeling the heat, but Caitlin looked untouched by it.

He drank in the sight of her. She was wearing a sleeveless blue T-shirt and he could see the musculature of her arms, the strength of them, and he wondered why it was that he’d never before thought how sexy that could be. She was wearing jeans, as he was, but hers were a faded blue, almost white at the knees and hems. They fit her snugly, cupping her bottom, skimming the length of those incredibly long, long legs as lovingly as a caress. Her hair was pulled back from her face but a couple of auburn curls had escaped at her ears and on her forehead.

Tyler drew in his breath.

She looked, he thought, like a cool, clear drink of water—and he was a man dying of thirst.

He tossed the last sack from the truck, then straightened up. She was going to pass within a couple of feet of him and the truck but her gaze never drifted right or left. His belly clenched. She was going to walk right on by and pretend he wasn’t even there.

To hell with that, he thought, and jumped down in front of her.

“Good morning.”

Caitlin stumbled to a halt. “Good morning,” she said coolly, and started around him. Tyler moved along with her.

“Nice day,” he said.

“Very.” She took a step to the right. Tyler took a step, too.

“Mr. Kincaid—”

“Well,” he said lazily, “isn’t that something? When I was trespassin’ on your property, you called me ‘Kincaid,’ but now that I’m gainfully in your employ, I’ve graduated to ‘Mr.’”

Caitlin flashed him a look. “It isn’t my property, Mr. Kincaid, nor are you in my employ. This ranch belongs to Jonas Baron.”

“You’re his stepdaughter.”

“Exactly.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, but I don’t see the difference.”

“I am not a Baron, Mr. Kincaid. That means I hold no legal interest in Espada and never will. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Is there a reason you’ve been avoidin’ me, Ms. McCord?”

Caitlin flushed. “I haven’t been…I don’t like being made fun of, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Forgive me, Ms. McCord. I wasn’t makin’ fun, I was makin’ an observation.”

“Here’s an observation for you, Kincaid.” Her hazel eyes flashed as she looked at him. “I find it interesting that you seem to have developed a drawl in the last couple of days. And you can ditch the ‘forgive me’s’ and the ‘beggin’ your pardon’ nonsense. Expressions like those are lies, coming from you. I don’t think you’ve ever apologized to anybody in your life.”

Tyler tried to look wounded. “I’m a Southerner, Ms. McCord. We’re all gentlemen. Would a gentleman lie to a lady?”

He saw her mouth twitch but she stopped the smile before it got started. “You didn’t talk that way when we met, Kincaid.”

He grinned. “Maybe I was trying to impress you.”

“Maybe you were trying to convince me you were something you’re not.”

Tyler’s dark brows lifted. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, Abel doesn’t think you’re who you claim to be, and I’m starting to think he’s right.”

“Because of the way I talk?”

“Because of the way you act, Kincaid. Everything about you says you’re not the drifter you pretend to be.” Her nostrils flared. “And because you’re the first hand we’ve ever hired who has a cell phone in his duffel bag.”

Tyler bit back the curse that rose to his lips. “And you’re the first employer who’s gone through my things.”

“One of the men saw you using it.” She put her hands on her hips and looked into his eyes. “Or are you going to deny the phone is yours?”

“No point denying it.”

He reached past her for his shirt, which he’d left hanging on the tailgate. The scent of him rose to her nostrils, a combination of sun and man, and his arm brushed lightly against hers. Caitlin felt her heartbeat stumble, which was ridiculous. She didn’t trust Tyler Kincaid, didn’t like him—and she surely didn’t enjoy standing this close to him when he was half-naked. Lots of the men worked shirtless on a day like this but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have had the decency to cover up before he spoke to her instead of putting his body on display.

At least now he’d put his shirt on, rolled up the sleeves, smoothed down the collar. Dammit, why didn’t he do up the buttons? She certainly had no wish to look at the dark hair on his chest, or follow it as it arrowed down toward his belly button, over those hard abdominal muscles…

“Ms. McCord?”

There was a little tilt to the corner of his mouth and she knew, she knew, he’d done it deliberately, put himself on exhibit as if she gave a damn what his body looked like, or how many women had known the pleasure of it.

“Lots of things are against the law,” he said softly. “This isn’t one of them.”

She flushed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, owning a portable phone isn’t illegal.”

Caitlin straightened her spine. “You’re not a drifter,” she said flatly.

Tyler answered with a shrug.

“Why did you say you were?”

“You were the one who called me that, lady. Not me.”

“You didn’t try to correct me, Kincaid.”

“Correct you?” He laughed. “‘You want to wait,’” he said, mimicking her, “‘wait, but not on Baron land.’ You were into your Lady of the Manor routine. I figured correcting you would only have landed my butt in jail for trespass.”

Her color heightened but she kept her chin up and her indignation intact. “Who are you, then? And what do you want at Espada?”

He hesitated. He could tell her the truth, tell her the reason he’d come here, but the survival instincts he’d honed years before, that had kept him in one piece at the State Home and then in covert operations in the steaming jungles of Central America, were too powerful to let him make such a mistake. There were secrets here; he was certain of it. There was something in the way Abel looked at him, in the way Caitlin spoke of her role at Espada…

“Kincaid? I asked you a question. What do you want?”

He looked at the woman standing before him. Her eyes were almost gold in the morning sun; her hair was a hundred different shades of red and mahogany and maple. Her mouth was free of lipstick, full and innocent-looking, and he wondered what she’d say, what she’d do, if he told her that what he wanted, ever since he’d laid eyes on her, was to take her in his arms, tumble her into the grass, strip off that cold and haughty look, and the boyish clothes with which she camouflaged a woman’s body, and ignite the heat he knew smoldered in her blood.

Hell, he thought, and turned away.

“I told you what I wanted,” he said roughly. Grunting, he hoisted a feed sack on his shoulder and walked into the stable. “I want to talk to Jonas Baron.”

“About what?”

Tyler dumped the sack and headed out the door. “It’s none of your business.”

“Everything about this ranch is my business.”

“You just told me otherwise. You’re not a Baron, you said, remember?”

“I run Espada, Kincaid. Maybe you’d better get that through your head.”

It took all his determination not to turn around and show her that she might damned well run this ranch but she didn’t run him. This was a woman who needed to be reminded that she was a woman, and he ached for the chance to give her that reminder, but he knew it would be a mistake. Instead he decided to take the wind out of her sails.

“That’s fine,” he said easily, “but my business with Baron has nothing to do with Espada. Now, if you’re done questioning me, Ms. McCord, I’ve got these sacks to deal with and the stalls to muck out, so if it’s all the same with you—”

“Stalls? What about the horses?”

“What about them?”

“Why aren’t you working with the stock?”

“Ask Abel. I’m sure he’s a font of information.” He brushed past her on his way out the door.

“I told him you’re good with horses,” she said as she followed him back and forth. “And he knows we have a horse that needs gentling—oof.”

“Sorry.” Tyler caught her by the elbows as she tottered backward.

“That’s—that’s all right…”

Her heart rose into her throat. His hands were still on her. His eyes glinted like jewels in the shadowed darkness of the stable. And, as she looked into their green depths, she saw something that sent her pulse racing.

“I’ll speak with him,” she said. “With Abel. About putting you to better use.”

A smile curved his mouth, one so sexy and dangerous that it made her breath stop.

“Good.” His voice was soft and slightly husky. A shudder ripped along her spine as he looked down at her mouth, then into her eyes. “I’d like to be put to better use.”

“With—with the horses.”

The smile came again, lazy and even more dangerous. “Of course.”

Caitlin knew she was blushing and hated herself for it, hated this insufferably egotistical male even more for causing her face to redden.

“Let go of me, please.”

“Ever the lady,” he said, in that same husky whisper. “Except, I don’t believe it. I think there are times you’re not quite the lady you pretend to be.”

“I am always a lady,” she said coldly.

“In that case…” His hands slid up her arms and clasped her shoulders. “Maybe it’s time somebody showed you what you’re missing, Ms. McCord.”

“Kincaid.” Was that breathless little voice really hers? Caitlin cleared her throat. “Kincaid, take your hands off me.”

“I would,” he said lazily. “But that’s not what you really want, is it?”

“Listen, you—you arrogant, egotistical—”

“Kincaid? Kincaid, where in hell are you?”

Abel’s voice, and the echo of his footsteps on the cement floor, cut through the building tension. Tyler let his hands fall from Caitlin’s shoulders. He stepped aside and she slipped past him, just as the foreman stepped into the stable.

The old man looked from her to Tyler. “Is there a problem, Ms. Caitlin?”

“Yes.” Caitlin shot Tyler an angry look. “Yes, there is. I want you to tell this man…to tell him…” She looked at Tyler, whose gaze had not left her, and her throat tightened. “Starting tomorrow, let him work with the horses. With the new mare that’s afraid of her own shadow. You hear me, Abel?”

Abel’s bushy brows shot up, but he nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see to it.”

Caitlin stood leaning against the railing of the small corral, watching Tyler and the horse and wishing she’d followed her instincts and fired him. But she’d called Jonas in New York, and Jonas had told her to let him stay on.

“Man’s up to somethin’, Catie,” Jonas had said. “You keep him there till I get back. Just you watch yourself, you hear? Don’t turn your back.”

She’d been careful not to do that. In fact, she’d made it a point to keep an eye on Kincaid. Just now, others were doing the same thing, including Abel, leaning on the rail beside her.

“Man’s got good hands,” he said, and spat into the dust.

“Yes,” she said, with an indifferent shrug. She didn’t want to think about those hands, about how they’d felt on her. “He seems to.” She cleared her throat. “I was wondering if you had any ideas about putting Lancelot to stud.”

“Did you ask him what he’s doin’ here? Man like that ain’t no drifter.”

“He’s here to talk with Jonas.”

“And to shovel manure?” Abel snorted. “I don’t think so.”

“Look, Abel, Tyler Kincaid isn’t our problem. He wanted a job, we gave him a job, and he’s doing it, isn’t he?”

“Suppose he is. But he asks a lot of questions.”

“Questions?” Caitlin looked at the foreman. “About what?”

Abel lifted his shoulders. “This, that. Everythin’. Asked Carmen to tell him about herself, her kids. Asked a couple of the older men if they’d been workin’ here long, what they knew of the old days, how it was on Espada then.”

Caitlin smiled despite herself. “Dangerous questions, huh? I mean, a man’s definitely up to no good if he wants to talk about the old days, or if he takes the time to ask Carmen about her son and daughter.”

“Just figured I’d let you know what’s going’ on, Ms. Caitlin. Everythin’ ain’t always what it seems.”

“I appreciate that,” she said gently. She looked at Tyler, watched the mare come forward daintily to sniff at the hand he held out to her. “He’s probably just a cowboy that’s got some get-rich-quick scheme he’s dying to tell Jonas about.” She smiled. “And we both know how Jonas will deal with that.”

The foreman chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. Tyler Kincaid’ll be out of here so fast it’ll make his head spin.”

Caitlin turned back to the corral as Abel sauntered away. She stepped up on the bottom rail and watched Tyler’s performance.

That was what it was, all right. A performance, but she had to admit, it was enjoyable. Tyler had a gentle touch, strong hands and a sense of authority. The mare was responding to all of it.

Just as she had.

The thought made her uneasy, and she forced it from her head.

The sun had climbed higher; it was a blazing fist of yellow, punching through the blue sky. Tyler had left his shirt on and it was soaked through. Caitlin could see the muscles move and bunch beneath the wet fabric. Her face heated; she looked sideways at the men lining the fence but all their attention was on the man and the horse. Some of the men called out good-natured words of advice.

Tyler looked at them, smiled, even grinned—but he never once looked at her.

It annoyed her, though she knew it was silly. Why should he look at her? Still, it ticked her off. A while ago, she’d accused him of being arrogant because of the way he’d spoken to her. Now, she was thinking of him as arrogant because he refused to acknowledge her presence. She was being an idiot…except, dammit, he was being arrogant. She knew it. Did he think it was a turn-on? Caitlin thumbed her hair behind her ears. Not for her, it wasn’t. She’d grown up watching her mother succumb to a seemingly endless succession of men whose egos were bigger than their IQs. Even Jonas, who was as smart as a whip, thought he could strut through life with only his arrogance to guide him.

If Tyler Kincaid thought the same thing, he was in for a nasty surprise.

Eventually the mare was trembling with exhaustion. Tyler rubbed her ears, whispered to her, then jerked his head toward Manuel, who was watching with the others.

“She’s had enough for today,” he told the boy. “Take her inside. Give her a good rubdown and some of those special oats she’s so fond of.”

Caitlin waited for Manuel to point out that Tyler could take the mare inside himself, that he was nobody to give orders, but the boy nodded and did as he’d been told. The same thing had happened when Tyler began working with the mare. One of the older men had been standing around, smoking. Tyler had asked him to get the mare’s tack and Pete hadn’t hesitated, even though he was as independent in spirit as most cowboys.

There was an art to giving men like this orders, and some basic rules.

Rule number one was that one ranch hand didn’t give an order to another but the men seemed to have forgotten that. Tyler asked a man to do something, the man did it. It was as simple as that.

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