“I’m sure as hell not the father of that baby.”

Tyler’s voice was cold and level. “Listen, Ruth, I never touched Jodie Hiltz. I’d hardly know the girl if I saw her on the street.”

Ruth glanced up at him, aching to believe him. But Jodie’s words were carved into her memory: “He’s so handsome without his clothes…he has a birthmark on his left hip…shaped like a map of Texas….”

Ruth moaned softly. She remembered the sweet pleasure of the previous night when she and Tyler had made love, laughed and teased.

“Show me Amarillo,” he’d whispered.

Ruth forced herself back to the present. She looked hopelessly at Tyler. “Jodie wasn’t lying. Please take me home. I have to start packing.”

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Margot Dalton

for her contribution to the Crystal Creek series.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Sutton Press Inc.

for its contribution to the concept for the Crystal Creek series.

Cowboys and Cabernet
Margot Dalton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Crystal Creek! In the heart of Texas Hill Country, the McKinneys have been ranching, living and loving for generations, but the future promises changes none of these good folks could ever imagine!

Crystal Creek itself is the product of many imaginations, but the stories began to take shape when some of your favorite authors– Barbara Kaye, Margot Dalton, Bethany Campbell, Cara West, Kathy Clark and Sharon Brondos–all got together with me just outside of Austin to explore the Hill Country, and to dream up the kinds of romances such a setting would provide. For several days, we roamed the countryside, where generous Texans opened their historic homes to us, and gave us insights into their lives. We ate barbecue, we visited an ostrich farm and we mapped out our plans to give you the linked stories you love, with a true Texas flavor and all the elements you’ve come to expect in your romance reading: compelling, contemporary characters caught in conflicts that reflect today’s dilemmas.

Margot Dalton’s fascination with the burgeoning Texas wine industry finds expression in this captivating tale of Tyler McKinney, the eldest McKinney offspring, and Ruth Holden, a Californian with a string of impressive credentials in wine making to her name, and a measured, analytical, thoughtful approach to growing grapes that puts our poor frustrated cowboy right off his feed!

And next month, watch for Amarillo by Morning, the story of Cal, Tyler’s younger brother. An entrepreneurial young Texas bootmaker in search of an endorsement gets way more than she bargains for when she is bombarded by the formidable charms of rodeo rider Cal McKinney….

C’mon down to Crystal Creek–home of sultry Texas drawls, smooth Texas charm and tall, sexy Texans!

Marsha Zinberg

Executive Editor,

Crystal Creek

A Note from the Author

When Harlequin editors first approached me about writing these books, I was really nervous. I’d never even been to Texas…how could I write books about the place? But when my husband and I finally traveled to Austin for a research trip, I was amazed and delighted to find that I felt right at home. The countryside is truly big and beautiful—just like the hearts of the people. And Texas ranchers are every bit as colorful, rugged and lovable as their counterparts on the Canadian prairies where I grew up. They have the same hospitality and generosity of spirit, and that deep love for the land and its traditions that unites farmers and ranchers all over the world.

Now, when anybody mentions the place, I just smile and say, “Yeah, I love Texas. I’m even learning to speak the language.”

Margot Dalton

Cast of Characters

AT THE DOUBLE C RANCH

AT THE CIRCLE T RANCH

AT THE LONGHORN

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE WINTER CLOUDS rolled into California’s Napa Valley during January, dark and heavy, brooding on the craggy hilltops and drowning the sheltered valley in mist and rain. The fields that had so recently been alive with color and motion now lay dormant, their acres and acres of grapevines resting neat and bare in long trellised rows, stripped of leaves and fruit, awaiting the new growing season.

By late afternoon the light thinned and faded, then slipped away behind piled masses of clouds. Night fell early, a dank smothering blackness that rolled across the hills in a solid ominous mass, blocking the moon and stars.

Don Holden moved restlessly across his dining room and pulled the drapes aside, peering out into the darkness. He looked at his watch and frowned, then glanced through the rain-splattered window again, his face drawn with concern.

He was a slender, handsome man in his midfifties with dark graying hair, mild brown eyes and a carefully trimmed beard. He wore casual brown corduroy slacks, a soft flannel shirt and a tan cardigan with suede elbow patches, and looked like a college professor or a respected artist or sculptor.

In actual fact, though, Don Holden was a businessman, a self-made entrepreneur with one of the most successful privately owned vineyards and wineries in the Napa Valley. He was firm in business dealings, incisive, knowledgeable and tough, well-known throughout the region for his rugged independence and his uncanny instincts for the wine-making business.

But tonight, in the privacy of his own dining room, Don Holden presented a somewhat less confident demeanor than his business colleagues were accustomed to seeing. In fact, the man’s expression was positively timid when he turned away from the window and glanced through the wide Spanish archway leading to the kitchen, then peered anxiously out again into the rainy darkness.

Somewhere nearby a door opened suddenly, admitting a gust of damp air and a cool breath of freshness. Don’s shoulders sagged with relief and he crossed the room quickly, smiling at the damp person who stood dripping in the entrance hall.

The newcomer stripped off a hooded oilskin cape to reveal a slim body in high rubber boots, jeans, denim jacket and faded Oakland A’s baseball cap.

“For God’s sake, get those muddy boots off, girl,” Don said, trying to make his voice gruff, though he couldn’t quite hide the fond smile that tugged at his lips beneath his neat beard. “Look at you. You’re dripping all over the place.”

His daughter pulled off the boots and set them casually on a rubber tray beside the door, then removed her baseball cap to reveal a head of tumbled short brown hair and a face of gamine prettiness. Flushed with cold, dressed in casual clothes, Ruth Holden looked more like a thirteen-year-old than a woman of almost thirty, Don told himself. Her skin was creamy and perfect, just a trace of summer tan remaining, and her eyes were golden brown, warm with affection as she smiled at her father.

“Oh, quit fussing,” Ruth said mildly. “Here I am slaving away all day in the wet and cold, and do I get any appreciation for it? Not a bit.”

“You love it,” Don said, unmoved, leaning in the doorway and watching her. “You’d rather spend the day out there pruning and taking cuttings than doing anything else in the world. You know you’re just doing it for pure enjoyment. It’s still too early for pruning.”

Ruth chuckled and pulled off her denim jacket to reveal a blue plaid shirt buttoned warmly over a white turtleneck. “How come you’re so cranky, Dad?” she asked mildly. “You’re growling just like an old bear.”

Don rolled his eyes and threw a brief eloquent glance over his shoulder, then held out his watch.

Ruth peered at the time and gasped. She covered her mouth with a slim, dirt-smeared hand and gazed at the man in the doorway, her eyes wide and startled.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she murmured contritely. “I honestly had no idea it was getting so late. Is she really mad?” Ruth lowered her voice, glancing down the hallway just as her father had moments before.

Don nodded. “The atmosphere is getting quite tense,” he reported solemnly.

“Oh, my. I’ll just run real quick and wash.” Ruth held up her cold muddy hands for his inspection. “If she comes in, tell her I’ll be back in a flash.”

“Don’t dawdle, then.”

Ruth nodded and hurried off down the hallway while Don moved back into the dining room, grinning privately.

“Well, is she finally home?”

Don sobered hastily and turned to nod at the heavy gray-haired woman who stood in the archway glaring at him. “Yes, Mrs. Ward. She just came in. She’s washing up.”

“Well, about time, I must say. Some people have no consideration at all for some other poor people who have to work all day in the kitchen, trying to make a decent meal that’s practically burned to a crisp now because somebody else decides it’s just not important to come to meals on time.”

Mrs. Ward stood with hands on hips and feet firmly planted, delivering herself of this heavily emphasized and confusing statement with her steely eyes fixed on her employer’s face.

Don nodded again. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ward. I know it’s inconsiderate of us. We’ll both try to do better in the future.”

There was a charged silence in the room while the big woman lingered angrily in the archway.

“I’m really sorry,” Don repeated with a note of pleading in his voice.

The housekeeper continued to glare at him until she was apparently satisfied that he’d groveled sufficiently. Then she gave a curt nod and vanished down the hallway, her silver head glinting under lighted wall sconces, her ample rear churning indignantly beneath dark green polyester slacks.

Ruth edged hesitantly into the room, still in her jeans and plaid shirt, wearing a pair of casual leather moccasins. But her short hair was brushed till it shone, and she’d taken the time to dab on a bit of lipstick.

“Is she mad?” Ruth whispered.

“Of course,” Don said matter-of-factly. “She says dinner is burned to a crisp.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. I’m about twenty minutes late, that’s all.” Ruth glared rebelliously down the hallway at the closed kitchen door. “We really shouldn’t let her push us around like this, Dad.”

“You’re right. We really shouldn’t.” Don Holden and his daughter glanced at each other, then exchanged identical grins and rueful chuckles as they seated themselves at the gleaming oak table.

Mrs. Ward had been their housekeeper for the past fourteen years, and the Holdens were still just as terrified of her as they’d been at the start. She lived in a cottage a couple of miles down the road, on a tiny mixed farm of uncertain status with a timid, silent little Mexican who might or might not be her husband. Local gossips speculated endlessly about the mysterious couple, and frequently tried to extract information from the Holdens about their housekeeper.

In fact, Ruth and Don Holden had never even progressed to a first-name basis with this intimidating woman, and they had certainly never learned any intimate details of her private life. She arrived at work every morning on a stately old BMW motorcycle, a beautifully maintained 650 Boxer Twin that glistened like fine jewelry in the morning sun. Mrs. Ward rode, solemn and erect, on this startling conveyance, her steel-framed glasses glittering beneath the face shield on her helmet, her knitting and recipe books tucked away in the leather carrier bags.

She shopped carefully for groceries, worked efficiently all day, kept the big house spotless and served meals so varied and delectable that the Holden table was the envy of the valley.

“But,” as Ruth was occasionally heard to comment wistfully, “she’s not really all that warm.”

Don smiled, remembering, and watched as Mrs. Ward entered with the Wedgwood soup tureen. She set it down heavily in the center of the table, giving Ruth a glance of pointed disapproval, and lifted the lid to send fragrant clouds of steam wafting around the room.

“Probably it’s stone cold and far too thick by now,” Mrs. Ward said with grim emphasis, addressing a spot somewhere just beyond Ruth’s shoulder. “It was perfect about a half hour ago.”

“But it smells wonderful, Mrs. Ward,” Ruth said humbly. “And it must be hot. Just look at all that steam rising from it.”

Mrs. Ward waved the steam away with a heavy, reddened hand and marched out of the room, her shoulders stiff with annoyance.

Ruth glanced after her cautiously, then held out her bowl for Don to fill with the big china ladle. He watched his daughter eating the hot soup, his face troubled as he lifted a silver spoon and dipped into his own bowl.

Don Holden knew that Ruth had suffered through the years from the lack of a mother figure in her life. Don’s wife, Thelma, had died when Ruth was just five, and Don had been so devastated by the loss, and so absorbed in restoring the tumbledown old winery and raising his young daughter that he’d never managed to build another serious relationship.

Sometimes he regretted that omission and wished that he’d provided a woman for Ruth during her growing up. He’d been wrenched with sympathy, years ago, when he noticed how his quiet teenage daughter tried to build a relationship with their forbidding housekeeper, hanging around in the kitchen while Mrs. Ward worked, and even on occasion shyly confiding in her. But then as now, Mrs. Ward had been as full of warmth as a mountain glacier, and just about as inviting.

Don frowned, watching while the housekeeper marched in with two heaped platters of Caesar salad, redolent with garlic and richly studded with croutons and anchovies.

Don looked hungrily at this delicious sight, and found himself, as always, beginning to forgive Mrs. Ward for her bad temper.

“Wonderful. Just wonderful.” Don smiled up at her. “What’s the main course, Mrs. Ward?”

“It’s burned to a crisp,” she said coldly. “Dry as old leather.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

“Baked salmon stuffed with wild rice, mushrooms and chestnuts,” she said over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen.

Ruth sighed in bliss and dug into her salad with greater intensity.

“Baked salmon,” Don repeated thoughtfully when his salad plate was empty. “What do you think, Ruthie? A nice Chardonnay?”

Ruth nodded abstractedly, chewing appreciatively on the last of the anchovies. “Probably,” she said at last, swallowing and looking up at her father. “Do we have one up here?”

“Well now, we just might,” Don said mysteriously. He got up and hurried over to the big antique sideboard where he took out two wine goblets and a bottle from a lower cabinet.

“Oh, my,” Ruth murmured behind him as Mrs. Ward entered with the fish course. The salmon rested in a creamy golden coating of perfect hollandaise, tender and flaky, exquisitely pink, delicately toasted around the edges and oozing a delectable rice filling.

“Ruined,” Mrs. Ward announced, her face grim. “Completely ruined.”

Ruth and Don both nodded solemnly, watching in respectful silence as the woman swept out of the room. Then they exchanged a glance and burst into laughter that they stifled hastily, casting nervous glances at the hallway.

“Burned to a crisp,” Ruth said in a fair imitation of Mrs. Ward’s haughty tone.

“Dry as old leather,” Don agreed, crossing the room and glancing at the tender pink fish. “Try the Chardonnay,” he added, handing his daughter a goblet brimming with clear pale wine.

She accepted it and sipped obediently, then nodded. “That’s nice,” she said. “Which one is it, Dad?”

Her father looked down at her in disbelief, moving around to seat himself at the opposite end of the table. “Ruthie, I can’t believe you don’t recognize this.”

“Why? Should I?”

“It’s our new Chardonnay. The one we’ve been waiting to sample. Johann said it was ready yesterday, and I thought I’d surprise you with it.”

“Oh.” Ruth sipped at the wine again, then tried to smile. “Well, I guess we were right, Dad. It’s really a lot better than the last one, isn’t it?”

Don continued to gaze at the slender young woman, his eyes darkening with concern. “Ruth,” he said gently, “is everything all right?”

“What do you mean? Oh, Dad, can you spoon up a little more of that sauce for me? Just there on the edge, please, and some more rice…”

“I mean,” Don said, filling her plate carefully, “that you just don’t seem like yourself lately. You seem kind of…depressed,” he finished awkwardly. “Not my cheerful optimistic girl at all.”

Ruth avoided his eyes, concentrating on the plate of food in front of her. “It’s probably the weather,” she said. “You know how blue I always get in the winter, with all these clouds and rain and no real work to do outside. It just makes me crazy, Dad, waiting and waiting for spring to come so the world can start again.”

“I know, but this year things seem different, somehow,” Don persisted gently. “Is it something to do with Harlan?”

Ruth’s cheeks tinted delicately and she flashed a glance at her father, then looked quickly down at her plate again. “Harlan is no longer part of my life,” she said without expression.

“Yes?” Don looked with sudden alertness at his daughter’s glossy head. “Since when?”

“Since forever, I guess,” Ruth said with a bleak smile. “I mean, that relationship was doomed from the beginning. But it was officially laid to rest last night.”

“I see.” Don hesitated, sipping the delicious pale liquid. “By whose choice?”

“Oh, mine, absolutely,” Ruth said. “Harlan would have been very content to marry me, move us both into a nice house with a three-car garage and have two-point-one children. He says he’s ready for…quote…that particular stage in one’s life.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not with him,” Ruth said helplessly.

“Poor Harlan.” Don shook his head, though if the truth were told, he wasn’t really all that devastated by this piece of news.

“Dad, he’s so boring,” Ruth said with a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. “I mean, he and his friends are so horribly predictable. They all say the same things, do the same things, buy the same things, and I swear to God they have the very same conversations every time they get together. They talk about their golf games, their stock portfolios and their new cars, and then they sit around and gossip about each other. It’s just deadly.”

Don nodded, his face carefully noncommittal. “Maybe,” he said, setting down the wine goblet and toying with the heavily engraved handle of his butter knife, “you just need a holiday.”

“A holiday? Where would I go?”

Don cleared his throat. “Well, how about Texas?”

“Texas?” Ruth stared at her father as if he’d suddenly taken leave of his senses. “What would I do in Texas?”

“Well, for instance, you could pay a little visit to the McKinneys, spend some time on the ranch and see how they’re—”

“Why would I want to do that?” Ruth interrupted. “I’ve never even liked the McKinneys all that much. They’re your friends, Dad, not mine. And now J.T. has this new little fluff ball of a child bride…”

“She’s thirty-five years old,” Don said mildly. “And she’s an investment banker. Hardly a fluff ball, Ruthie.”

“Well, I just hope you don’t get any ideas,” Ruth said, glancing at him severely.

“About what?”

“About following the example of your old friend J.T. McKinney and bringing home some woman my own age to be my stepmother.”

“Not likely,” Don told her with a wolfish grin. “Bear in mind that you’re almost thirty, my girl. I’d want somebody a lot younger and fresher than that, if I were to get involved again.”

Ruth chuckled and her face lightened a little. “Isn’t this salmon just the most wonderful thing you’ve ever tasted? By the way, Dad,” she added, reaching for the salt, “why did you suddenly start thinking about visiting the McKinneys?”

Don cleared his throat again and tried to look casual. “Well,” he began, “actually, J.T. called last night, and we talked for quite a while.”

“Really? You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t see you. It was after midnight when you got home, and then this morning you were already up and out in the yards before I left for Sacramento.”

“I just felt so restless,” Ruth confessed. “After last night, all I wanted this morning was to get out there and work with the vines for a while.”

“Even in the rain?”

“Even in the rain,” Ruth said. “Besides, if I waited for it to stop raining,” she added bitterly, “I’d be in the house for a month. I’d have to take up knitting or something.”

“Knitting is a fine womanly art,” Don said cheerfully, toasting her with his wineglass.

Ruth gave him a lopsided grin, her delicate face animated by a flash of the old sparkle. “Yeah, right,” she said with amiable contempt, sipping her wine.

Don smiled back at her, encouraged by this welcome change of mood.

“About J.T.,” his daughter prompted. “What did you two discuss last night?”

“Well, let me see. Apparently his honeymoon is progressing well, the staff and family are all finally adjusting to his new wife, young Cal is still deeply involved in rodeo, Lynn’s shocked the whole countryside by getting interested in Thoroughbreds rather than quarter horses, and Tyler’s still thinking about opening a winery on the Double C.”

Ruth choked and took a hasty gulp from her water glass, then stared at her father in stunned amazement.

“Your mouth is hanging open,” Don told her gently.

Ruth closed her mouth and continued to gaze at him, her clear brown eyes wide with shock.

Don smiled and foraged thoughtfully among the scattered remains of fish and rice on his plate, looking for mushrooms.

“I don’t believe it,” Ruth said finally. “You’re making it up.”

“Why wouldn’t you believe it? This is not a completely new idea, you know. Texas has been developing a wine-making industry for years.”

“Chateau Bubba,” she said scornfully.

“Come on, Ruth. You know perfectly well that Texas Cabernet—”

“Has been served at state dinners at the White House,” Ruth interrupted wearily. “I know, I know. It just seems so…rotten, somehow.”

“Rotten?” Don gave his daughter a curious glance. “Why?”

Ruth shifted restlessly in her chair, gazing out the dark, rain-smeared window. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I mean, Texas already has everything, right? They have oil, gas, beef, grain, textiles…every primary industry you can think of. Why do they have to horn in on our thing? Wine making is practically all we have out here.”

“Ruth, the domestic wine market is expanding at a tremendous, unheard-of rate. There’s room for everyone, you know. We’re certainly not going to suffer from the competition.”

“I know,” Ruth said, her eyes dark with rebellion. “But it still doesn’t seem right to me. People shouldn’t go into the wine industry just to make a whole lot of money. They should do it because they love it.”

“That’s a pretty idealistic attitude.”

“Well, how are the McKinneys planning to go about this? Just buy the best equipment, pay all the best people to come work for them and then, every time there’s a problem, throw a whole wad of money at it?”

“That seems to be the Texas style, all right,” Don said with a grin.

“Maybe so, but it sure won’t work in this business. You’d better tell your friends that, before they get in too deep.”

“Why don’t you tell them?”

“Me?” Ruth asked blankly.

“That’s what I was thinking. Why don’t you just fly out there for a little visit, see how advanced their plans are and what advice you can give them about the business?”

“Did J.T. ask for me to come?”

Don hesitated, recalling his old friend’s troubled voice on the phone. “Not exactly,” he confessed. “Actually, I invited Tyler to come and stay here with us for a few weeks, have a look at our operation.”

Ruth shook her head. “That’s crazy, Dad. There’s nothing to look at at this time of year but a whole row of casks. And he’d get awful weary,” she added with a fond teasing smile, “of listening to that boring lecture you give the tour groups six times a week.”

“It is boring, isn’t it?” Don said cheerfully. “But the tourists seem to enjoy it.”

“Oh, pooh. They just enjoy the wine tasting. They’ll suffer through any dry old lecture to get their hands on those free samples.”

Ruth was silent a moment, obviously deep in thought. Her father waited for her to speak as he cleaned his plate with care.

“What’s the climate like in Texas?” she asked finally.

“Which part? Texas ranges from tropical seacoast and eastern woodlands to grassy plains and western desert. Take your pick.”

“I mean where the McKinneys live. Near Austin, isn’t it? I can hardly remember anything about the ranch, it’s been so long since I was there.”

Don nodded. “The Hill Country. It’s a nice area. Close to a region four, I’d say.”

Ruth looked at her father in surprise. “Really? They have a heat summation that high?”

“Oh, I’d think so. There’s a lot of hot sunny days in Central Texas.”

Ruth frowned in concentration. “If they’re region four,” she said slowly, “then with some hybrid plants along with vinifera they could choose between table wines or dessert wines, right? That degree of sugar content gives them a lot of options.”

Don nodded again. “A good portion of the Texas industry seems to be centered farther west around Lubbock, where it’s hard to assign a heat summation. But their wineries show a lot of flexibility, and Austin actually has a slightly more moderate climate. Certainly they have less danger of hail than over at Lubbock.”

Ruth nodded again, her brown eyes sparkling with interest. “Worse and worse,” she said. “That means the whole thing is actually feasible. What does J.T. think about this little project? Somehow I can’t imagine him involved with anything but horses and cows.”

“Well, he’s not wild about it,” Don said honestly. “In fact, he sounds quite reluctant. I guess his wife was too, at first, but apparently Tyler’s won her over and now they’re both pushing poor J.T. to get the project off the ground.”

Ruth grinned. “For the sake of your old friendship, I guess the kindest thing would be to give J.T. some support, right? One of us could go out there in a semi-professional capacity, throw all kinds of cold water on the whole proposal and then just come back home.”

“I think J.T. might be very grateful for that,” Don said with a solemn twinkle.

“So, why don’t you go?” Ruth asked.

“I don’t need a holiday,” Don said, topping up his wineglass. “I’m not the one who’s breaking up with boyfriends and grumbling about the weather all day long. Besides,” he added, “I have my tour groups six times a week.”

“I could lead the tour groups.”

“Certainly not. You don’t take it seriously enough.”

“Wine making? Come on, Dad. Nobody takes this business more seriously than I do.”

“No, I meant tourism,” Don said with a grin. “You don’t have the proper level of respect for the importance of the tourist, my girl.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Ruth confessed. She was silent a moment, resting her elbow on the table, chin cupped thoughtfully in one hand. “Maybe I will,” she said at last.

“Go to Texas?”

“Just to see what they’re planning, and give your old friend some backup. Texas cowboys really shouldn’t try to make wine, Dad. I think I’ll just go out there and tell them so. Let the dragon lady know that I’m too full for dessert, okay?”

With a sudden rush of energy Ruth bounded from her chair and whirled across the room to drop a kiss on the top of her father’s head, then vanished down the hallway in a blur of faded denim and blue plaid, leaving Don gazing after her in bemused silence.

While the rain hissed softly against the tall, leaded-glass windows, Don Holden sat alone in the quiet dining room and sipped his wine, wondering ruefully if he’d done his old friend any favor by suggesting this little holiday.

THE HOLDEN HOUSE was built in the manner of a traditional Spanish hacienda, a low pillared square surrounding a central courtyard. The decor was cool and rustic, with dark polished wood floors, clean plastered walls and bright splashes of color in the woven Indian rugs and wall hangings.

Ruth’s rooms were tucked away in a quiet corner of the house—a bedroom, bath and small sitting room with glass doors opening onto the courtyard. She wandered into the sitting room and shut the door carefully, her burst of energy already fading, replaced by a flood of doubt and a fresh wave of the lassitude and depression that had dogged her so much of the time lately.

For a moment Ruth stood restlessly by the windows and gazed out at the flowing darkness, then looked back into the room as if seeking comfort. But for once the gracious furnishings, the carefully chosen watercolor prints on the walls and the beautiful Navaho rugs did nothing to lighten her mood.

She went over to punch a disk into her player, and the cool liquid sounds of classical guitar spilled through the quiet rooms. Ruth adjusted the volume, then looked around with a questioning air.

“Hagar,” she called, sinking down to lie full-length on her small couch. “Hagar, where are you? I need you, sweetie.”

Pleasantly muscle-weary from her long day of physical labor in the cold and rain, she propped her moccasined feet on the opposite arm of the couch and adjusted the pillows behind her head, then smiled as a huge orange Persian cat came padding out from the bedroom, yawning voluptuously.

Hagar was a big fluffy Viking of a cat with a wild russet cloud of fur that rayed out all around him in bright splendor. Ruth adored him, loved the regal air and noble carriage that hid an unusually gentle and loving soul.

Mrs. Ward, however, hated Ruth’s cat with cold passion because of the silky orange fur that he deposited everywhere. Frequently the housekeeper muttered dark veiled threats about Hagar’s personal safety, driving Ruth almost wild with protective outrage and causing even more conflict and tension between the two women.

“You know what, Hagar?” Ruth said, smiling down fondly into Hagar’s brilliant green eyes as he sat by the couch. “You really are a Viking, aren’t you? I should make you a little tiny hat with a pair of those Viking horns on it, shouldn’t I? That would really suit you.”

Hagar yawned again and leaped lightly onto Ruth’s stomach, pausing to turn around deliberately a few times and knead Ruth’s shirt with his gentle blunted claws before sinking in a huge orange mass on her abdomen and resting his chin on folded paws.

Ruth sighed in gratitude, stroking the comforting furry warmth of her cat and brooding about the way she felt these days. Even this beautiful suite of rooms, which had always been the place she loved more than anywhere else on earth, didn’t seem able to soothe her anymore. She felt so restless and agitated all the time, full of nagging doubts and strange nameless yearnings.

Partly this was because of the deteriorating relationship with Harlan, followed by its inevitable demise. Not that Ruth really expected to miss Harlan very much, but the breakup still tended to accentuate her solitude, and the terrifying swiftness with which her life was passing by.

Most of Ruth’s college friends already had growing children, mortgages, houses full of furniture and settled suburban lives. Ruth, on the other hand, still lived in the same place she’d spent her whole life, except for the year she’d been in Paris working on her master’s thesis. Her earlier studies had been at Davis University, so close to the Holden winery that she was able to come home every weekend.

She sighed again. Hagar glanced up at her, licked her hand with urgent sympathy and subsided once more, purring like a plump energetic dynamo as if hopeful that the sound might be soothing to his mistress. Ruth stroked his soft fur with a gentle absent hand, gazing at the ceiling and thinking about the McKinneys.

She didn’t really like J.T. McKinney, never had, though she was fair enough to recognize this as a completely unreasonable emotion. When her father’s old friend came to visit, striding through the quiet rooms of their house with his tanned handsome face, his rolling cowboy gait, his beautiful handmade riding boots and jaunty Stetson hat, Ruth always felt a small surge of resentment.

In J.T.’s presence, her own beloved father seemed to shrink mysteriously, to diminish somehow until he looked pallid and small. Ruth, who adored her father, felt a defensive flood of concern for Don whenever his colorful friend came to the West Coast, bringing gifts and laughter and rip-roaring stories of Texas past and present.

And now J.T. was planning to go into the wine-making business, to usurp the one area where her father held undisputed mastery. And with all that family money at his disposal, Ruth thought bitterly, he’d probably make a success of it, too.

She frowned, trying to recall what she knew about J.T.’s son Tyler, who apparently was the driving force behind this winery idea.

Like her, Tyler still lived with his father, fully absorbed in the family business, and Ruth was fairly certain that he’d never married. In fact, none of the McKinney children had managed to find partners yet. J.T. and Don frequently commiserated with each other about their backward offspring.

But Tyler McKinney hadn’t seemed all that backward on the one occasion she could recall meeting him, Ruth thought with a brief wry grin.

That had been about nineteen years ago, the summer she was eleven and Tyler was fifteen. Don Holden had accepted an invitation to spend a two-week summer vacation at the McKinneys’ Texas ranch, and Ruth had been allowed to take along her friend, a precocious thirteen-year-old with the unlikely name of Mimsy Muldoon. Mimsy’s parents operated a small winery just down the valley, and she and Ruth were passionate best friends for several years.

Ruth could still remember the pain of that summer, caused in large part by the burning envy she felt for the McKinney children with their warm happy family, and especially the gentle soft-spoken mother who loved them so much and treated them with such tenderness.

But worst of all had been Tyler’s attitude. A lanky brash adolescent, he’d been obviously charmed by golden-haired Mimsy, who had a ripely mature young body and a flirtatious manner beyond her years. Ruth had spent a lot of miserable afternoons watching the two of them frolic in the family swimming pool.

She remembered her suffering and embarrassment as she hid her own gangly undeveloped body under baggy T-shirts, huddled with her book in a poolside chair while handsome, dark-haired Tyler flirted with her best friend. Grinning boldly, he ducked Mimsy and chased her across the pool and pretended to be terrified of her swimming prowess.

With a sudden blinding flash of total recall, Ruth saw Tyler pulling his muscular young body out onto the concrete ledge, standing arrogantly with feet apart as he laughed down at Mimsy, throwing his dark head back to send sparkling droplets arching into the hot Texas sun in a shower of rainbows.

“Jerk!” Ruth had muttered under her breath, glaring up at him from behind the pages of her book.

Ruth smiled now at the memory and looked down at Hagar, whose emerald eyes were closing in bliss as Ruth stroked his silky ears.

“You know, Tyler McKinney really was a jerk, Hagar,” Ruth told her cat solemnly. “I wonder if he’s changed at all.”

Hagar yawned in drowsy contentment, revealing his sharp white teeth and the pink interior of his mouth. Ruth felt her spirits begin to rise a little. She gazed at her closet doors with thoughtful speculation, wondering what the weather was like in Central Texas these days and how many clothes she should pack.

CHAPTER TWO

WINTER SUNSHINE, as pale and sparkling as good champagne, spilled over the rolling hills and valleys of Central Texas. The cool afternoon light sparkled on the bustling city of Austin, glinted on lines of brisk-moving traffic and brightened the windows of downtown high-rise office buildings.

Inside Austin’s Mueller Airport Tyler McKinney shifted restlessly in a hard vinyl chair and glanced up at the arrivals board, checking on the business shuttle flight from Abilene. The plane was already a half hour late and the arrival time had apparently been shifted back again. Tyler muffled a groan, aching with frustration and impatience.

Of course, he told himself, trying hard to look on the bright side, it was probably better that the flight was delayed. This way, he wouldn’t have to search for ways to entertain the woman until it was safe to take her home.

“Don’t you dare turn up here with her before four o’clock,” Cynthia had warned him darkly, her beautiful face comically stern under the navy-blue bandanna that she’d tied over her hair. “If you do, Tyler McKinney, I swear I’ll skin you and set you out for the coyotes to finish off.”

“My, my! Such gruesome violence,” Tyler had teased her wickedly. “And from a Boston blue-blood, at that.”

“Oh, shut up,” Cynthia muttered, swatting his arm with a wallpaper roll and whirling off down the cluttered hallway.

Tyler grinned, remembering.

All the women were in an uproar over the renovations currently under way at the Double C. And, being women, they wanted to have it all. They wanted the place redecorated, but they also wanted to impress the visitor from California with how elegant and smooth-running the household was.

“But, darling,” J.T. had protested mildly over his breakfast coffee, “it just can’t be helped, can it? She’s bound to notice that things aren’t exactly neat as a pin around here these days.”

“I know that,” Cynthia said. “But if Tyler can hold her off till four o’clock this afternoon, at least the painters will be gone and we can lift some of the drop sheets in the lower rooms, get the paint cans out of the hallway and the ladders put away….”

Tyler grinned again. He couldn’t deny that it was entertaining to see his usually poised stepmother getting a little flustered. For some reason it mattered terribly to Cynthia, this hastily planned visit from Ruth Holden, who was the daughter of one of her husband’s oldest friends. There seemed to be something mysteriously female about Cynthia’s anxiety, some kind of need to prove herself as mistress of the place….

An expressionless, disembodied voice, announcing that the flight from Abilene would be slightly delayed, interrupted Tyler’s thoughts.

He groaned again and shifted his broad shoulders wearily, wondering if the plane had even left Abilene yet. If it hadn’t left, wouldn’t they know? And if it had, shouldn’t they know when it was going to arrive? Abilene, for God’s sake, was only a few minutes away by air.

Maybe the plane had been hijacked. Tyler chuckled suddenly, his quirky imagination supplying him with an image of a hard-bitten Texas farmer, calf halter in one hand and pitchfork in the other, holding the crew at bay and demanding to be flown to Fort Worth for the Fat Stock Show.

When he laughed, his tanned sculpted face lightened and his dark eyes sparkled warmly. Tyler McKinney was a tall man in his midthirties with a lean muscular frame, dressed in jeans, riding boots and tweed sport jacket over a casual open-necked white shirt. His pearl-gray Stetson lay on the seat across from him, and his crisp dark hair kept falling down across his forehead no matter how many times he brushed it back.

A small child wriggled quietly in the seat next to Tyler, a boy about three years old with a manly clipped haircut that was neatly parted and slicked back with a wet comb. The little fellow, waiting with his mother and baby sister in a stroller, was trying hard to be good, but Tyler could see that the long delay was starting to get to him as well.

The child gripped the metal chair arms with his small hands and slid way down on his spine, legs stiffly extended, seeing how low he could go without falling off the chair. His mother, who was busy with the baby, whispered to him sharply and he sat erect, peeking up at Tyler with cautious interest. Tyler grinned down at the child, slipped him a couple of peppermints from a roll in his jacket pocket, then returned to his thoughts.

His face darkened as he brooded over the impending arrival and what his responsibilities were going to be toward this visiting scientist. “You’ll pretty well have to take care of her,” his father had told him casually. “The girls are busy with all this damn decorating, so they won’t have much time to entertain her.”

“Me?” Tyler said blankly. “What am I going to do with her?”

“Well, talk about wine making, of course,” J.T. told his son impatiently. “You’re the one who wants to start this business, aren’t you? And she’s an expert. She’s a qualified chemist with a list of college degrees as long as your arm.”

“Oh, great,” Tyler had muttered rebelliously, feeling about eight years old. “That’s just what I need, to spend a week listening to some California scientist with thick legs and a mustache, lecturing me about temperature variations and pH levels.”

“I haven’t seen Ruth Holden for quite a few years,” J.T. said with an amiable grin. “But near as I recall, she didn’t have thick legs or a mustache.”

“I’ll bet,” Tyler said grimly. “I’ll just bet.”

He didn’t really know why he’d formed such a negative mental image of the woman. Maybe it was his recollection of that one time he’d seen her, years ago. He remembered her as a mousy quiet child with a skinny awkward body and teeth covered in ugly braces.

Of course, she’d really suffered badly in comparison with her friend. Tyler smiled, remembering the ripe body of that other girl, the silly blond one. Misty? Molly? Whatever her name was, she’d certainly made an impact on his raging young hormones.

No wonder little Ruth Holden, sulking in a chair behind a book, had seemed so homely and unappealing. Tyler could just visualize the kind of woman she’d turned into. He pictured her with thick ankles and a severe look, her colorless hair hanging lank and unwashed around her ears. She’d be wearing thick glasses and carrying a clipboard at all times, and she’d probably be dressed in a white lab coat over a baggy gray flannel skirt.

This image had grown so real to him during the past few days, ever since he heard about the woman’s impending visit, that now, as Tyler glanced frequently into the arrivals area, he expected to see her come marching up the ramp, clipboard and all.

But the lounge was mostly empty, except for a few long-suffering people who were still waiting for the flight from Abilene.

Tyler became aware of a small movement beside him, a sudden charged air of expectancy.

The little boy was gazing up at him with wide eyes, holding out his hand. A tiny object rested on the small damp palm, and Tyler bent closer to look. It was a futuristic warrior figure, beautifully detailed, complete with small swords and laser guns.

Tyler nodded solemnly and smiled down into the sparkling blue eyes, understanding that the figurine was just being displayed for his enjoyment, not offered as a gift.

“That’s real nice,” he murmured to the child, who grinned happily.

Tyler smiled back and dug into his jacket pocket again, taking out his keys and snapping a small object off the key ring. It was a tiny leather saddle, no bigger than the end of his thumb and intricately crafted with miniature swinging stirrups and a little horn and cantle. He placed the saddle on his hard callused palm and held it out for the child’s inspection.

The boy gasped and stared at this enchanting object, then looked up at Tyler again, holding his breath and putting two fingers automatically into his mouth.

“Take it,” Tyler whispered. “You can have it.”

His seatmate gazed at him with astonishment and growing wonder. A small hand crept out cautiously and touched one of the little stirrups in an agony of longing.

“Michael!” the harried young mother said abruptly, turning away from her crying baby in the stroller. “What are you doing?”

“It’s all right, ma’am,” Tyler assured her with his most engaging grin. “I told him he could have it.”

The woman glanced uncertainly at the tall, handsome rancher, then at her little boy, who was now holding the miniature saddle, his face pale with tension.

“Well, all right,” she said reluctantly. “Michael, say thank-you.”

“Sanks,” the child whispered, drumming his feet on the chair and gazing ecstatically at the tiny object in his hand. He balanced the saddle on one small finger and set the stirrups swinging gently, his pink face rapt with happiness.

“You’re welcome, cowboy,” Tyler said cheerfully. The woman smiled, then gathered her children and hurried toward a short cheerful man in a crumpled suit who stood waiting by the entry gate.

While Tyler watched, the young father gathered the baby into his arms, kissed his wife and caressed the shining head of the little boy, who was joyously hugging his legs. The man bent to hear what his son was saying, then knelt and studied the tiny saddle that was held up for his inspection. He listened, smiled briefly over the child’s head at Tyler and turned back to his family.

Tyler smiled automatically in return, feeling a familiar vague sorrow as he watched this small tableau.

Nobody would ever know how much Tyler McKinney longed for children of his own, how deeply he yearned for the love of a small son like that little fair-haired child. This emotion was something Tyler hid from everybody, even his family and closest friends, most of whom considered him ambitious, cold and clearheaded, probably even a little ruthless.

But Tyler knew himself better, knew that he had great depths of tenderness to give the right woman, though he’d never managed to find the one he dreamed of. Dark or fair, short or tall—her looks didn’t really matter—but she’d have a sweet voice and gentle hands and a tender caring manner similar to his mother’s. Tyler knew this was an old-fashioned picture, and that women just weren’t like that nowadays. But still, he longed to find a woman who fulfilled his fantasies, who’d give him love and support and some little children to hold.

But his soul mate never seemed to come along, or else he’d just never found time to search for her. Tyler had been so busy during his college years, driven by his need to excel both scholastically and athletically. Then there’d been the absorbing interest of his new position as a full partner in the ranch, trying to use his training in business to develop methods of making the huge unwieldy operation more efficient and profitable.

And then, as he was trying to contend with the economic slide that followed the sudden crash in oil prices and threatened to drag the whole state of Texas into poverty, Tyler suffered the dreadful agony of his mother’s death.

The past five years in his life hadn’t been a real good time to think about building a relationship, Tyler reflected bitterly. In fact, there’d hardly been time to think about himself at all. Mostly he’d just passed those years putting one foot in front of the other, getting from day to day as best he could, hoping for some kind of light at the end of the tunnel.

Lately, Tyler had begun to hope that he’d found that light. His idea of building a winery on the Double C had thoroughly captivated him, and the more he researched the concept, the more excited he got. Miraculously, he’d even managed somehow to get Cynthia on his side, and now she was also exerting her considerable influence over his father.

But this damned Holden woman could throw a monkey wrench into the whole works, Tyler thought miserably. J.T. McKinney had tremendous respect for his old friend Don Holden, and for the success Don had had with his wine-making business. He was sure to pay some attention to the man’s daughter, possibly even to be swayed by her opinions. And if she was one of those carping, scientific doom-and-gloom types…

Tyler was so absorbed in his own gloomy thoughts that it took some time for him to remember that he and the woman with her children had been waiting for the same plane. He sprang to his feet, feeling embarrassed, and looked wildly around the receiving area.

But there was no woman anywhere who looked at all like Ruth Holden. Tyler moved uncertainly out into the lounge, hat in hand, wondering what could have happened to her.

Likely, he told himself with a wry grin, she was already in the washroom doing preliminary tests on pH levels in the Texas water.

While he was enjoying this uncharitable thought, he noticed a young woman near the luggage carousel who stood gazing at him with shy intensity. Tyler caught his breath and stared.

The woman was lovely. She wore a fitted suit of winter white with a cropped jacket and short skirt that showed off a slim, well-proportioned body and a pair of fantastic legs. Her brown hair, cut quite short, was casually windblown, and she had a beautiful complexion, creamy and warm, with the biggest, sweetest brown eyes he’d ever seen.

She paused uncertainly, a tan leather bag slung over her shoulder and another at her feet.

When Tyler gave her a startled grin of admiration she smiled back, an engaging nervous smile that tilted up on one side, causing a dimple to appear in her cheek. Tyler swallowed hard and found himself battling a crazy masculine urge to stride across the room, gather her into his arms and kiss that dimpled face.

To his astonishment, this lovely apparition lifted the bag at her feet and came toward him, extending a small hand. Tyler shook it, still surprised by her approach, and was further amazed by how hard and firm her hand was. The rest of her looked so deliciously soft, but she had a palm almost as callused as those of the Double C ranch hands.

“You must be Tyler,” she said in a low husky voice. “You look just like your father.”

Tyler, who heard this observation all the time, merely nodded and stared at her, his mind slowly absorbing the wonder of this situation.

“My God,” he said at last. “You’re not…you can’t be…”

“I’m Ruth Holden. Sorry the flight was so late,” the woman added cheerfully while Tyler stood gazing at her like a schoolboy. “They couldn’t leave Abilene because they were waiting for some kind of delivery, and apparently nobody could find it. They kept running back and forth from the terminal to the…excuse me, Tyler, are you all right?”

Tyler gathered himself hastily in hand and bent to lift the case at her feet. “Sorry,” he said, smiling down at her. “You’re just not quite what I expected, Ruth. Where’s the rest of your luggage?”

“This is it,” she said, surprising him further. “I’m only staying a week or so,” she added casually, “and Dad assured me that you people don’t dress for dinner. Mostly I just brought some jeans and shirts. I hope that’s all right.”

“That’s fine,” Tyler said, still feeling dizzied by her smile. “That’s just fine. Everybody wears jeans most all the time.”

In fact, Cynthia had made a few attempts to initiate the habit of dressing for dinner at the ranch, but the suggestion had been met with general indifference from the rest of the family, and such caustic scorn from old Hank that she’d backed off, at least for the moment.

“So, what did you expect?” Ruth asked, walking beside him to the entrance door.

“Beg pardon?” Tyler fitted his Stetson on his head and held the door for her, moving behind her into the pale sunshine.

“You said I wasn’t what you expected. I wondered how you’d pictured me.”

Tyler hesitated, his tanned cheeks flushing a little as he remembered the dowdy woman he’d visualized. “Just…different,” he said lamely. “More like a scientist, I guess.”

Ruth chuckled. “Well, it’s been a long time since we saw each other, and back then,” she added, giving him a cheerful yet pointed glance, “I’m not sure you even knew what I looked like. You spent the whole time drooling over my friend.”

Tyler grinned. “Yeah,” he said, reminiscing fondly. “What was her name? Milly?”

“Mimsy,” Ruth said dryly. “Mimsy Muldoon.”

Tyler chuckled and gazed with narrowed eyes across the parking lot, trying to bring his dazzled mind back to earth and remember where he’d left the car. “Mimsy,” he echoed. “Whatever happened to that girl?”

“Oh, Mimsy came to a bad end,” Ruth said, walking beside him. “She married an older man for his money, and now she lives a captive existence in Bel Air with a dozen fur coats and two Porsches and diamonds the size of hazelnuts.”

“But no real happiness,” Tyler said solemnly.

“No real happiness,” Ruth agreed. “Poor thing,” she added soulfully, sparkling a glance up at Tyler that made him burst into laughter.

They paused beside the car and he opened the trunk to put her suitcase inside, fighting another powerful and irrational urge to take this delectable woman into his arms and kiss her, right there in broad daylight.

“Wow,” Ruth said thoughtfully, gazing at the gleaming Cadillac. “Is this what cowboys drive around in down here?”

“They made me bring it,” Tyler said. “Mostly to impress you, I guess. Usually I just drive one of the pickup trucks.”

“Well, that would have been more my choice, too,” Ruth said, her tomboy expression belying the stylish elegance of her suit. “I’ve spent most of my life riding around in pickup trucks.”

Tyler hesitated, wondering what to do. The prospect of filling in an hour or so with this visitor didn’t seem nearly as awful as it had just a short time ago, but he couldn’t decide where to take her.

“Are you hungry, Ruth?” he asked.

Ruth shook her head. “They served lunch on the plane, and it was really good. Besides, the lady in the next seat gave me all her peanuts.”

Tyler nodded, moving slowly around to let her in the car. Ruth glanced up at him. “You seem thoughtful,” she said. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m not supposed to take you home yet,” Tyler confessed, pausing with his hand on the passenger door. “The women said they’d kill me if we arrived before four o’clock.”

“Kill you? That seems a little harsh.”

Tyler grinned. “Yeah, well, they’re a harsh bunch, those women.”

“But I don’t understand. Why can’t you go home?”

“They’re doing a whole lot of renovations out at the house. It’s a real mess these days, and they don’t want you to get there till they’ve had time to tidy away some of the painting stuff.”

Ruth smiled. “I see. Lucky the plane was late.” She glanced at her watch. “How long does it take to get to Crystal Creek, Tyler?”

Tyler grinned back at her. “Depends who’s driving. For my brother, Cal, about half an hour. For most everybody else in the world, forty-five minutes or so.”

“Well, it’s just after two o’clock now,” Ruth said. “How about if we drive out there and have a cup of coffee somewhere in Crystal Creek before we go to the house? Is there a restaurant in the town?”

“You bet. It’s called the Longhorn, and it hasn’t changed one bit the past half century. Its owner, Dottie, serves the best doughnuts in Texas.”

“Great.” Ruth smiled up at him, then drew back in surprise as his hand brushed her shoulder.

“What’s this?” Tyler asked, holding up a bit of rusty fluff.

Ruth peered at his tanned fingers, then smiled awkwardly. “It’s cat hair,” she confessed. “I hugged my cat this morning when I said goodbye, and that’s how he rewards me.”

Tyler let the bit of silky fluff drift away on the afternoon breeze and found himself envying the damned cat who had so recently been in her arms. “You like your cat?” he asked, holding the door open and helping her inside, then leaning in to look down at her.

“I love him,” Ruth said, smiling and gazing up with wide brown eyes dazzled by the sunlight. “I miss him already.”

She waited silently in the car as Tyler came around and unlocked the driver’s door. He folded his long body behind the wheel and turned to smile at her, feeling almost weak with pleasure at her nearness, the delicate fragrance of her perfume and the sweetness of her face, enclosed next to him within the intimate luxury of the big car.

“You know, I’m really worried about him,” Ruth said in an abstracted tone, gazing out at the crowded parking lot.

Tyler turned the key in the ignition, puzzling briefly over this statement until he realized that she was still talking about her cat. “Why?” he asked, resting an arm along the back of the seat and backing expertly into the slow-moving lines of traffic.

“Our housekeeper is just so awful,” Ruth said. “She’s always threatening poor Hagar with all kinds of horrible things, like putting him in the clothes dryer and turning it on. I don’t what she’ll do to him when I’m not there to protect him.”

“She sounds pretty awful, all right,” Tyler said, fascinated by a vivid image of the cat in the dryer.

Ruth told him about Mrs. Ward, with her bossy forcefulness and grumbling accusations, her motorcycle and her knitting and the mysterious little man she lived with.

By the time she finished he was shouting with laughter. Ruth, too, had begun to smile again, her worries apparently forgotten for the moment as they left the city behind them and the quiet Texas countryside began spinning past the windows.

RUTH GRIPPED her hands tightly in her lap and looked out at the rolling hills and valleys dotted with grazing livestock, brightened by the occasional glimpse of a deer flashing though the brush.

“What kind of trees are those?” she asked.

“Mesquite. Probably the most genuine native vegetation we have around here. It grows a long pod that fills up with beans, and the cattle love ’em. The branches get big enough that the wood’s sometimes used for furniture, and old-timers say the roots can grow sixty feet long, looking for water. It’s a great wood for barbecues, too.”

Fascinated, Ruth peered out at the tangled thickets. “I think there’s mesquite in Southern California,” she said. “But I don’t recall any of it growing up where we live. Of course, the land is pretty thoroughly cultivated.”

They fell silent again, and Ruth stole a cautious glance at her escort.

She didn’t really know what to think about Tyler McKinney. He was certainly as handsome as she remembered, with all of his father’s easy cowboy charm and sculpted good looks. But she noticed something else about this man. There was a hard, modern edge to J.T.’s elder son, a firm set to his jaw and a crisp look about him that spoke of a cool-headed businessman, somebody who certainly didn’t suffer fools gladly.

Normally, Ruth wasn’t attracted at all by that kind of man, the type who exuded power and confidence and an easy arrogant control of all situations. But Tyler McKinney seemed different somehow, hard to put a label on.

Just when Ruth thought she had him figured out and was ready to dismiss him, she’d catch a disturbing sparkle deep in his brown eyes, a flash of gentleness and winsome humor that was both surprising and unsettling. And when he threw back his head and gave one of those hearty, infectious laughs, Ruth found herself smiling all over in response, as warmed and delighted by his company as any fluttery, teenage girl.

“Well, how do you like it so far?” he asked cheerfully when she turned to gaze out the window again. “Is it like you remembered?”

“I really don’t remember much of anything from that visit,” Ruth confessed, “except you and Mimsy playing all day in the pool, and Cal bringing a live rattlesnake into the house.”

Tyler roared with laughter. “God, I’d forgotten that snake. Didn’t my mama have fits? I thought she’d die on the spot.”

When he realized what he’d said, Tyler fell abruptly silent. His face paled beneath the tan and he gripped the wheel silently, his jaw knotted with anguish.

Ruth reached over and touched his arm gently. “We were so sorry when we heard about your mother, Tyler,” she said in a soft voice. “I know that it was terribly hard for all of you.”

Especially Tyler, she recalled. Don Holden had confided to his daughter that in his opinion, Tyler had suffered more than any of the McKinney children from the loss of his mother, though he seemed least able to express his pain.

Tyler turned to his passenger and tried to smile. “It was all a long time ago,” he said lightly. “And now there’s a new woman redecorating my mama’s house. Life goes on, I guess.”

“It must feel so strange,” Ruth commented shyly.

“What’s that?”

“Having a stepmother close to your own age. Isn’t it hard to adjust to?”

“Lots of things are hard to adjust to,” Tyler said with his eyes fixed on the winding road ahead of him. “But that’s part of life, too, isn’t it? When you come right down to it, life is just a long series of adjustments.”

“I guess so.” Disturbed by the air of tension in the car, Ruth steered the conversation back into safer channels. “You know,” she commented, “I think this could probably be wine-making country, after all. It actually reminds me of some of the provinces in the south of France. But they’re a lot more heavily populated, of course.”

Tyler looked around, his taut features relaxing. “Really? When were you in France, Ruth?”

“I spent a year in Paris doing the thesis for my master’s degree.”

“Yeah? What was your topic?”

“Carbonation methods in French sparkling wines,” she said casually, peering out at an unusual limestone formation capping a small hill.

“Wow,” Tyler said. “Pretty heavy stuff.” He was silent a moment. “I guess,” he ventured finally, “that you’re a real expert on all this, aren’t you, Ruth? Wine making, I mean?”

“Pretty much,” she said. “Whatever ‘expert’ means. The field is expanding so rapidly and changing so fast that the things you learn today are practically obsolete by tomorrow.”

“Well, thanks. That’s real encouraging to us beginners,” Tyler told her with a wry grin.

Ruth smiled back at him. “Sorry. It’s just that wine making is like computer technology these days. You really hesitate to call yourself an expert. Every time I read a trade publication, I run across new things that I’d like to go away and take courses in.”

“Where did you go to college?”

“Davis, in California,” Ruth said. “They have one of the most extensive wine-making research and teaching facilities in the world.”

“I sure envy you that education, Ruth. I don’t know how much my business degree is going to help me with the details of something like this.”

“Education is okay,” Ruth said thoughtfully. “But what’s really important is the hands-on experience. I grew up in the winery, hanging around listening to my father talk with the other workers, smelling and tasting the wine, watching all the different processes from harvesting to bottling. I think that’s how you really learn wine making.”

“So, what about me, Ruth? Is it too late for me to learn?”

“Of course it isn’t. Not if you want to learn badly enough. After all, my father never set foot in a winery until he was an adult, and now he’s one of the very best.”

Ruth gazed out at the remote brush-covered hills, feeling a sudden painful flood of homesickness for the neat vineyards of the Napa Valley, for the salt tang of the Pacific Ocean breezes blowing over the hills and the comfortable rooms of their house, with her father and Hagar and the orderly sprawl of the brick winery nearby.

Tyler seemed to catch some of this mood, because he gave her a glance of quick sympathy.

“You really love it, don’t you?” he asked, looking intently down the winding road as a loaded cattle truck swayed past them.

“What do you mean?”

“This whole business,” Tyler said. “Wine making, I mean. When you talk about it, your face gets all passionate and your eyes have that faraway look, just like my sister, Lynn, when she talks about horses.”

Ruth smiled awkwardly. “I guess we can’t help what matters to us. You’re right, I do love the business. I love everything about it, from the vines growing in the fields to the wine bottled in rows in the cellar. It’s such a satisfying process.”

“Like I said, Lynn feels that way about every horse on the ranch,” Tyler mused, “and Cal loves his rodeo. Both of them are passionate about what they do.”

“What about you?” Ruth asked, glancing over at him. “Are you passionate about anything, Tyler?”

Apparently unsettled by the sudden serious turn of the conversation, Tyler turned and gave her a flashing grin. “Well, sure I am,” he said. “I’m passionate about making money. I just love seeing my books in the black. And if wine making is going to accomplish that particular goal, then you can bet I’m going to love the business just as much as you do.”

Ruth felt a sharp stab of disappointment. She looked for a moment at his clean-cut profile, then turned to gaze out the window again, fighting the urge to say something brusque and tactless.

If Tyler McKinney wanted to open a winery on the ranch and make a lot of money, that was his business. Ruth was only here to advise him on feasibility, as a courtesy to her father. She’d test the soil, check the climate and water conditions, examine Tyler’s site for drainage and exposure potential. Then she’d look at his plans, give him her honest opinion and return to California.

And she’d forget about how his dark eyes sparkled when he laughed, or the engaging way he tilted one eyebrow and turned to look at her with a warm teasing grin. Those things might make her heart flutter, but Ruth Holden certainly wasn’t the kind of woman to be taken in by a handsome face and a charming smile.

There was no doubt that this man looked good. In fact, he was strongly appealing to her on a purely physical basis. But when the chips were down he was just another greedy Texas opportunist, looking to make a quick fortune from something that she cared deeply about, and Ruth could hardly wait to get away from him.

CHAPTER THREE

WITHIN the cool shadowed depths of the Longhorn, afternoon coffee time was in full swing. The place was crowded as usual. Most of the regulars were already there, including the people from offices like Martin Avery, a busy lawyer, and Vernon Trent, a real estate agent.

A few local ranchers were present as well, in town for supplies and gossip. Tyler noticed Bubba Gibson and Brock Munroe sitting around with hats pushed back and booted feet extended, shouting and wrangling cheerfully with veterinarian Manny Hernandez and Sheriff Wayne Jackson.

They seemed to be arguing over the intricacies of setting up a football pool for the Super Bowl, which was coming up on the weekend. Apparently one group favored a richer payoff while the opposing faction wanted more opportunities for each entrant to win.

Tyler grinned privately, thinking that the coffee-shop crowd fought about the same thing every single year and never came to any firm conclusion.

When he entered with Ruth, the men fell abruptly silent for a moment, staring and nodding at her with bluff respect. A few even touched hats and caps while Bubba, with his usual showmanship, swept the Stetson from his shaggy gray head and placed it soulfully over his chest as he greeted the newcomers.

Texas men just hadn’t moved into the modern world, Tyler thought, gesturing toward the nearest booth, then smiling at Dottie and ordering coffee and doughnuts for two. These men still made a firm distinction between “ladies” and “gals,” and what was more, their instincts were remarkably consistent.

When someone like Ruth Holden appeared, they greeted her with respectful deference. But if Bubba’s current flame, Billie Jo Dumont, came sashaying into the coffee shop, she’d be met with lewd jokes and slaps on the rear. And these men would probably be outraged if anyone suggested they were doing anything out of line.

While Tyler was pondering the socialization of the Texas male, his companion was gazing around with parted lips and wide eyes, clearly enchanted by the Longhorn and its genuine fifties ambience. Tyler stole a glance at her, and felt another surge of impatience with himself.

Why had he made that stupid remark about caring for nothing but money?

They’d been getting along so well up to that point, but he’d sensed a chill as soon as he uttered the words. He could almost feel her disappointment in the way she’d turned aside and deliberately excluded him, gazing out the window with concentrated attention as if he were simply a hired cabdriver, not worthy of her further attention.

Tyler had been enjoying her company so much, and now he regretted the rift between them. He almost considered apologizing for his words, but a kind of stubborn annoyance kept him from doing so.

For one thing, it was true, what he’d said.

He did like making money and seeing the books balance, and what was so terrible about that? Tyler’s sister reacted the same way as Ruth. She loved her horses passionately and was always outraged if somebody suggested actually making money by selling a horse for profit. But it was the people who earned the money who made it possible for the horses to exist at all, to be kept on the ranch even at a loss to the company.

And besides, Tyler did love something with real passion. He loved the Double C, the ranch that had been home to him all his life. Sometimes in the darkness of his bed he’d stare at the ceiling and tremble, even feel hot, embarrassing tears stinging in his eyes at the thought of losing the place.

What if finances ever got so bad they’d have to give up the rolling ten thousand acres that were the heritage of the McKinney family? His children, and Cal’s and Lynn’s, would never ride across the green hills or fish in the river, or feel the warm Texas wind in their hair….

But he wasn’t about to share something so deeply private with a woman he’d just met and didn’t even know. After all, such emotions were difficult for Tyler to express even to the people who were nearer and dearer to him than anybody on earth.

He shifted restlessly on the worn vinyl of the booth seat, wondering if a woman like Ruth Holden expected that kind of openness in a man.

Maybe she did. Probably she hung around with sensitive guys in silk shirts and neck chains, who studied their horoscopes every day and were in touch with their feelings.

“Hey, Tyler, whadda ya think?” Wayne Jackson called across the room. “Ten bucks a square, an’ the winner gets a case of whiskey?”

“Two bits a square,” Tyler called back firmly, “and the winner gets a free beer. The problem with you guys,” he added, grinning at Ruth, “is that y’all are just so damn greedy.”

Ruth’s cheeks colored faintly when he said this and she met his eyes with a startled look, then glanced quickly away, wondering if the man had somehow read her mind.

Not likely, she thought. Tyler McKinney didn’t have enough sensitivity to read any woman’s mind. He was probably like a lot of people, always quick to criticize something in others that was actually one of his own worst flaws.

She dismissed the thought and returned to her examination of the coffee shop with its red-checked cloths, its chalkboard and big vinyl menus and miniature jukeboxes on each table.

“Care for a tune?” Tyler asked, flipping though the numbered pages and squinting at the various musical offerings while a pleasant young woman delivered their coffee and pastries.

“No thanks,” Ruth said automatically. She smiled up at the waitress and wondered who’d chosen the song currently playing, a noisy wailing number in which some errant husband was apparently pleading with his wife to open the door and let him in.

While they were eating Ruth gazed curiously at the other patrons of the coffee shop, mostly bluff hearty men with hats and boots. But there were a few women, too, secretaries enjoying afternoon coffee breaks and young ranch wives in town for a day’s shopping with their babies.

Two women sat in a booth near the back, and Ruth grew interested in them when she realized that the younger of the pair was studying her and Tyler with unwavering attention.

She was actually just a girl, Ruth realized, probably in her late teens. She had a pale pretty face, carefully made up, and a cloud of dark curly hair. Her eyes were her most arresting feature, large and shining and such a light blue that they were almost transparent, giving her a remote, ethereal look. The young body was ripe and full-breasted, probably destined to become hefty with advancing years. But Ruth didn’t realize until the girl shifted in the booth that her pink gingham shirt was actually a maternity smock, curving neatly over a small swollen abdomen.

The girl had a strangely passionate, concentrated look about her, an avid expression that was unsettling in its intensity. She seemed sly and secretive when she met Ruth’s glance, like some small predatory animal peering out from behind dense cover, pondering whether to attack or escape.

The woman with her was entirely different, tall, plain and rawboned, with a gruff sensible manner and large work-worn hands. Her hair was mostly gray, hacked off carelessly around her ears, and she wore a man’s shirt and jeans. Still, there was a mysterious similarity between the two, a likeness in bone structure and features that told Ruth they were probably mother and daughter.

While Ruth watched, the two women finished their fries and paid the bill, then gathered up handbags and parcels and walked toward the door. They passed close to Ruth and Tyler, and the younger one gave them another look of such intensity that Ruth was startled, even a little troubled.

“Tyler,” she whispered when the two had gone by, “who are those women?”

Tyler peered at the departing pair, frowning as he searched his memory. “I think their name’s Hill, something like that,” he said finally. “There was a big family of them, about eight kids, living in a little shack on the outskirts of town. Their daddy wasn’t good for much, just drinking and odd jobs. He got killed on the road a few years back, run over by an oil truck when he was walking home one night, and she moved the kids over to Lampasas. I think she’s working for a turkey farmer up there.”

“And the girl? Is that her daughter?”

Tyler nodded. “Must be the oldest girl. She’s all grown-up now. I remember her as a scrawny kid with a bunch of little brothers and sisters trailing after her. Come to think of it,” he added thoughtfully, “somebody told me she was back in Crystal Creek, working for Ralph Wall over at the drugstore. I forgot about it till you asked.”

“She looks like she’s pregnant.”

“Looks like,” Tyler said with a grin. “Why? What’s so interesting about those two?”

Ruth hesitated, wondering whether to tell him about the girl’s fixed scrutiny and the disturbing light in her eyes while she watched them.

“Oh, nothing,” she said finally. “You’re right about one thing,” she added, trying to sound cheerful. “These are just the most wonderful doughnuts in the whole world.”

“I told you,” Tyler said. “Dottie makes ’em fresh every morning. Well, are you ready to leave, Ruth? It’s probably safe to go home now, and I want to show you my plans for the vineyard.”

Ruth nodded automatically and gulped the last of her coffee, then waited while Tyler paid the bill and escorted her toward the door with its cheery curtain of red gingham.

She shivered when he took her elbow and pressed close behind her, disturbed by his nearness and the feel of his body against hers. No matter how she felt about Tyler McKinney, Ruth told herself again, there was certainly no denying the man’s physical appeal. She’d have to be careful to…

But she didn’t have a chance to finish the thought. When she and Tyler emerged onto the street in the slanting afternoon sunlight, the mother and daughter from the restaurant were standing just a few doors down, looking in the window of a clothing store while the older woman held forth on the exorbitant prices of children’s clothes these days.

The young girl looked at them and quickly fumbled with something that looked like a camera, then turned away with deliberate composure, rummaging in her big patchwork handbag and answering a question from her mother.

Ruth paused nervously and glanced up at Tyler to see if he’d noticed. But he was laughing and chatting with a young cowboy who’d slowed his pickup truck on the street to call out a greeting, and had apparently missed the whole incident.

Still feeling unsettled and troubled, Ruth walked beside Tyler in silence and allowed him to help her into the waiting Cadillac, while the pregnant girl in the pink smock stood on the sidewalk, watching their departure with those smoldering pale blue eyes.

“JODIE HILTZ, what in the world do you think you’re doin’?”

“My name is Jacqueline,” the dark-haired girl said, strolling along the street and gazing dreamily at her reflection in the store windows. “Jacqueline Hillcroft.”

“Like hell it is,” Marg Hiltz said coldly. “Your name is plain Jodie Hiltz, and you’d better stop puttin’ on all these phony airs, girl. They’ll bring you nothin’ but grief.”

Jodie ignored her mother. She smiled to herself as she patted her small bulging abdomen, then frowned angrily when a teenage boy with headphones and a skateboard careered past her, almost jostling her from the sidewalk.

“You took a picture of them people,” Marg said after an awkward silence.

Jodie remained silent, reaching up to pat her dark curls, tucking a strand of hair thoughtfully behind her ear.

“Didn’t you?” her mother persisted.

“A baby has a right to know what his daddy looks like,” Jodie said in a soft voice. “He’ll say, ‘Mama, what did my daddy look like when I was born?’ And I’ll show him the picture and say—”

“You’ll do nothin’ of the sort!” Marg stopped in midstride and reached out a big hand to grip her daughter’s arm, leaning forward to glare at the girl. “And what’s more,” the older woman added, glancing furtively over her shoulder and dropping her voice to a harsh whisper, “you better stop sayin’ things like that, Jodie Hiltz. You’re fixin’ to get the whole family into trouble, talkin’ such nonsense.”

“I’m not talking nonsense,” Jodie said calmly, shaking her mother’s hand away and resuming her march up the street.

“Tyler McKinney is not that baby’s father, and you know it,” Marg muttered furiously. “I got no idea who is its father, but it’s damn sure not one of the McKinneys! You’re just crazy, girl.”

Jodie gave her mother a placid secretive smile. “I know what I know,” she said.

“You know nothin’,” Marg said forcefully. “An’ if you got any brains at all, you’ll come back to Lampasas with me an’ help with the other kids, and forget this nonsense.”

“I’m staying right here. I want my little baby to grow up close to his daddy,” Jodie said with imperturbable calm. Marg shook her head helplessly, glancing at her oldest child and wondering what on earth ailed the girl…besides being pregnant, of course.

The fact of Jodie’s pregnancy was something that Marg dismissed quite casually. These things happened. In fact, Jodie had happened to her at just about the same age, though these days Marg certainly looked older than her years.

Raising eight kids with no money could do that to you, Marg thought philosophically. But she wasn’t complaining. The kids were healthy and if truth be told, life was really a whole lot better since Joe was gone. Now she could save a bit, and the kids could have a few nice things in return for all that hard work.

The prospect of another mouth to feed didn’t worry Marg. If Jodie would just quit her silliness and move back home they could make do when the baby came along, just as they always had. It would even be nice, Marg thought wistfully, having a sweet new little one around the house again. She’d always loved babies.

But Jodie was getting to be a real worry. Just last year she’d quit high school a few courses short of her diploma and announced that she was moving back to Crystal Creek to get a job. Then had come this pregnancy, though Marg had had no idea her daughter even had a boyfriend. And suddenly, just a month or so ago, she’d confided to her mother that Tyler McKinney, of all people, was the child’s father.

Marg didn’t know what to make of it. She couldn’t bring herself to believe the girl’s story, and yet there was Jodie’s calm unshakable conviction, and the clear absence of any other male in her daughter’s life, at least none that Marg could see on her visits to Crystal Creek.

They paused by the bus depot and Marg squinted at the sun. “There’s another bus leaves in a couple hours,” she said hopefully, “an’ Tommy promised he’d look after the chores for me tonight. I could just go on over to your place for a while, Jodie, have a mug of coffee an’ see what your—”

“No,” Jodie said quietly. “You better catch the early bus, Mama. Tommy’s awful young to be looking after the chores all on his own.”

Marg looked at this pretty daughter she’d never really understood, even when she was just a little bit of a thing.

“You don’t want me at your place, do you, Jodie?” she asked sadly. “You been there for months, livin’ on your own, an’ you never let me step inside. I call that real mean.”

“A person is entitled to their privacy,” Jodie said with her usual air of impenetrable calm. “I don’t let anybody into my place, Mama. Except Tyler,” she added with a small faraway smile. “Anytime Tyler likes, he can come into my place.”

“Tyler McKinney has never once set foot in that shack of yours,” Marg said, her voice rising. “An’ you know it, Jodie.”

“He’ll come,” Jodie said dreamily. “When his son is born, he’ll come and bring me flowers.”

“More likely he’ll bring you a summons for tellin’ lies about him.” Marg hesitated, gazing unhappily at her daughter’s pale withdrawn face, searching for words to bring the girl back to reality. But the bus was pulling in, its dusty sides glinting in the fading afternoon light, and there was no more time.

Reluctantly Marg climbed on board, handed her ticket to the driver and found a seat by the window where she could see Jodie. But the girl didn’t even linger for a parting wave, just turned and headed briskly up the street without a backward glance.

Marg settled back against the soiled upholstery with a troubled sigh and closed her eyes, hoping to snatch a few minutes of welcome sleep before she got home.

JODIE HEARD the rumbling growl behind her as the bus pulled out and lurched around the corner, heading for Lampasas. She felt a surge of relief, though her pretty face remained impassive. It was getting increasingly awkward when her mother visited, with all her stupid questions and warnings.

Her mother didn’t know anything. How could Marg Hiltz give advice about Jodie’s life? Only Jodie knew.

And Tyler…

Jodie’s pale eyes glistened and she began to quicken her steps, ducking through a gap in the ragged hedge and running around behind the drugstore. In the vacant lot at the rear of the store was an old building, originally a stable, then a garage and storage area. Recently, hoping to attract an employee who would stay a while, the drugstore owner had converted this ramshackle building to a small self-contained living area with an old couch that doubled as a bed, a sink, toilet and hot plate, and an old bar fridge beneath the makeshift counter.

With a glow of proprietary pride, Jodie took the key from her big colorful handbag and let herself inside the old building, then switched on the naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling.

She glanced around with satisfaction at the small shuttered space where she lived. The single room was very neat, and attempts had been made to brighten the rough interior with plastic flowers, a couple of travel posters on one wall, a few stuffed animals on the lumpy ancient couch.

There was one window opposite the bright posters, heavily muffled with cheap drapes, and the other two walls were covered with pictures and newspaper clippings featuring Tyler McKinney. Most of the pictures were Polaroid snapshots, like the one that Jodie now took from her purse and tacked carefully on the peeling mildewed wall.

The photographs showed Tyler in a variety of candid poses, getting in and out of vehicles, striding along the street, sitting at the cattle auction, riding his horse on the ranch, even whirling through the steps of a square dance. It was obvious in all the pictures that he hadn’t realized he was being photographed, though the images showed a degree of rudimentary skill in the matters of framing, timing and composition.

But the success of the pictures was clearly accidental; it was obvious Jodie wasn’t concerned with technical issues. She stepped back and gazed at the new picture with cold narrowed eyes, then, removing it from the wall, she went to a drawer, took out a pair of scissors and cut away the image of the slim woman in the white suit who stood next to Tyler on the street.

With quick savage strokes Jodie slashed the woman’s face and body to ribbons and tossed the scraps of paper in the wastebasket. Then she moved slowly back across the room and replaced the photograph, her pale eyes dreamy with love, touching Tyler’s face in the pictures and reading the yellowed newspaper clippings.

Some of the clippings were originals, cut from recent issues of the local paper and describing the comings and goings of the McKinney family, their prizes at the stock show, the awards won by their quarter horses, J.T.’s recent wedding.

Others were older, photocopied from past issues of newspapers at the library, going all the way back to Tyler’s days as a high school athlete and his brilliant college career.

Jodie’s special favorite was a clipping that dated from about the same time Tyler McKinney had first held her in his arms, three years ago at a community square dance. They’d been doing a circle dance called Sadie Hawkins, where all the men danced in a ring looking out and the women circled them in the opposite direction, facing the men. When the music stopped, you grabbed the man directly in front of you and he was your partner for the next dance.

Fifteen-year-old Jodie had found herself opposite tall handsome Tyler McKinney, and he had come laughing into her arms and swept her across the floor as light as thistledown.

Jodie could still remember the dreamy joy of that night, the marvelous feeling of being in Tyler’s strong arms and drifting through the steps of the dance like a princess.

“Your daddy’s just the most wonderful man,” Jodie whispered to the small bulge of her abdomen, caressing it gently. “Just the most wonderful.” As if he could understand her words, the baby stirred and moved beneath her fingers. Jodie smiled, suddenly radiant with happiness.

She’d first felt this quickening only a week ago. It had come exactly when her mother said it would, just about halfway through the fifth month when the worst of the morning sickness was finally over. Now the baby moved every day, reminding Jodie of the sweet precious burden she carried and how Tyler would want her to take care of their child.

Still smiling, she went to the tiny fridge, took out a carton of milk and poured herself a glass. Jodie sank onto the old couch and drank the cold liquid with deep childlike gulps while Tyler’s handsome face smiled warm approval at her from the crowded walls.

AT ABOUT the same time that Ruth Holden and Tyler McKinney were enjoying coffee and doughnuts at the Longhorn, jealously watched by Jodie Hiltz, another coffee break was under way in the big kitchen of the Double C ranch house.

“Gawd,” Lettie Mae Reese sighed, sinking heavily into a chair and smiling across the table at Virginia Parks. “What a day.”

Virginia nodded agreement, then gazed into the distance with a worried frown. “Lettie Mae, did somebody think to clear all those paint cans and newspapers out of the front closet? I forgot to check if—”

“They’re gone,” the cook said comfortably, stirring cream into her coffee with weary satisfaction. “Just relax, girl. We got it all done as best we could, and not a minute too soon, I’d say.”

“You impertinent child,” Virginia said comfortably. “Almost ten years younger than I am, and you’re still calling me ‘girl.’ Show some respect.”

Lettie Mae grinned and shoved a plate of sliced fruitcake across the table toward the housekeeper. “Seven years younger,” she said. “And I’ll call you anything I like, missy. Especially when you got paint smudges on your nose.”

Virginia gave her friend a rueful grin and rubbed at her small shapely nose. She was an attractive woman of sixty, pleasantly plump, with vivid blue eyes in a sweet gentle face and shining gray hair that she wore in a casual pageboy.

With her fair prettiness, Virginia presented a sharp contrast to thin energetic Lettie Mae. The ranch cook was an arresting woman with a lean alert face, rich brown skin and graying black hair that sprang from her head with the same kind of electric vitality that characterized everything she did.

“Lordy,” the cook muttered, munching on a piece of cake and taking a thirsty gulp of coffee, “I never saw such a hullabaloo in all my days. What was J.T. thinking of, inviting the girl to visit in the middle of all this mess? Miss C.’s just having fits.”

Virginia gave the other woman a brief grin. “Not too long ago you’d have been loving the idea of giving her fits, Lettie Mae.”

Lettie Mae’s vivid face clouded slightly. “I know,” she confessed. “I was awful to her. We all were, Ginny. Funny how things change, isn’t it? When the lady first came, I’d have enjoyed seeing her all worried and flustered like this. Now it just seems to tear at my heart a little bit.”

Virginia nodded and looked wistfully at the rich sliced cake. “I know I shouldn’t,” she said, her face puckered with guilt, “but…”

“But you always do, so stop being silly,” Lettie Mae said cheerfully. “You worked hard today, hauling all those wallpaper rolls around and keeping the tray filled up.”

“The dining room looks nice, though, doesn’t it?” Virginia said. “I really didn’t like that paper at all when Miss C. first showed it to us, but I have to admit it’s perfect with the new furniture.”

“She’s one classy lady, that one,” Lettie Mae said. “She knows what she wants, and she’s got a real good feel for things like that. This old house is going to be a sight for sore eyes when she gets done.”

Virginia’s pretty face clouded and she sipped moodily at her black coffee. “But it won’t even be the same house, Lettie Mae. It’ll be so different in a month or so that Miss Pauline wouldn’t recognize it if she came back.”

“Ginny, Miss Pauline is never coming back,” Lettie Mae said gently. “And life is moving on, and we should move on with it.”

Virginia was silent, munching on her cake.

Lettie Mae stared out the window, her dark face suddenly moody. “But I surely do hate all this ruckus,” she said abruptly. “It’s real bad for Miss C. right now.”

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