had tried to get an appointment with Tate Vincent, but his personal assistant made excuses every time and flat-out told her to buzz off. It didn’t help that she couldn’t be openly honest with his assistant. What chance did she stand against a millionaire in claiming the son he’d adopted was in fact her son? She didn’t have money left to fight a lengthy court battle to request an opportunity to even get close to the boy. All she had was the cash left in her wallet, beneath her car seat.
After all this time, Sylvia wanted desperately to see Jacob, to hold him in her arms, to hear his baby voice.
Sylvia had hidden her car a mile away behind brush, near a creek along the highway. She moved among the shadows to avoid detection, keeping close to a stand of dwarfed live oaks. A large field stretched in front of her, rising up a hillside with only scattered clumps of cedar and live oak. She hurried from shade patch to shade patch, sweat oozing from every pore.
When she’d left her car, her temperature gauge read ninety-eight. It felt more like well over one hundred. Her gaze darted from side to side, and she listened for sounds of people, horses or motor vehicles. As she topped the rise in the terrain, the Vincent Ranch house came into view, a large, sprawling, white limestone, one-story with a wraparound deck.
Her gaze panned the exterior, searching for movement. Careful to stay out of sight, she made a wide circle around the homestead until she rounded the front of the house. She paused in the shade of a tree, leaning against the gnarly trunk and squinting in the haze of dust and heat. Then she gasped, exhaustion, dehydration and hope bringing her to her knees.
There in the shadow of a large red oak stood a playpen. Leaning against one side was a baby tossing toys onto the grass. The wind ruffled the leaves on the shade tree, and a ray of sunlight found its way through the branches to the baby, gleaming off his head.
Sylvia clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. The baby had a cap of pale blond hair, highlighted by the sun’s beam. It had to be Jacob. Her baby had spun-gold hair just like hers.
She staggered to her feet and pushed away from the tree, stumbling down the hillside toward the ranch house.
TATE VINCENT SLIPPED his right foot out of the stirrup and slid from the back of Diablo, his black quarterhorse stallion, one of the many horses he’d raised from a colt, since they could afford quality horses on the ranch. When his boots hit the dry Texas soil, a cloud of dust puffed up around him. “Need rain.”
His foreman, C. W. Middleton, snorted. “Needed rain a month ago.” He reached for Tate’s reins, his own gelding tugging to get into the barn. “Let me take Diablo. I thought I heard Jake out in the yard. You go on—I’ll manage the horses.”
Tate grinned. “I’ll take you up on that as soon as I get Diablo’s saddle off. And remind me I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me nothin’. You’re the boss. I’m just hired help.”
“Bull. We both know who runs this place.” Tate followed C.W. into the cool shadows of the barn, tying Diablo to the outside of his stall. “You’ve been more than hired help since Dad died.” He pulled at the thick leather strap, loosening the girth around Diablo’s belly. When the strap dangled free, he lifted the saddle off the beast. The saddle blanket was drenched in sweat and coated in a heavy layer of fine Texas dust from their ride along the northern fence line. “Jake was asleep when we left this morning. I would like to see him again before he goes down for the night.”
“Go on. Get out of here.” Brush in hand, C.W. took over the care and grooming of Diablo, urging Tate out the door. “That boy thinks the sun rises and sets on you. ’Bout time you spent a little more daylight with him.”
C.W. had been his friend since they’d met as army recruits. They’d gone on to Special Forces training and Afghanistan where they’d tracked down the al-Qaida rebels in the desert hills. Ranching in Texas seemed tame in comparison. But C.W. had fit right in, learning all the responsibilities of a good ranch hand. He’d learned how to ride, rope, brand and mend fences in a matter of weeks, too stubborn to admit defeat. Just like the boss. When the foreman had passed on, C.W. stepped up to the plate, assuming the role like he’d been born to do it.
Tate crossed the hard-packed ground between the barn and the Vincent homestead established by his great-great-grandfather in the mid-eighteen hundreds. He had to remind himself that he could hire people to do the work he did out in the field. The ranch wasn’t what made him the money. His investments had taken him from struggling rancher to multimillionaire in just five years. Too bad his father hadn’t lived longer to enjoy his son’s success.
Richard Vincent had passed on five months earlier, his presence still missed by his son and the ranch staff. He hadn’t gotten to know Jake a little better and Jake wouldn’t know his grandfather.
Tate flexed his muscles, rolling the tension and weariness from his shoulders. Sure, he had the money to hire more ranch hands, but he liked the hard work. It kept him humble. At one point in his struggle to rise from rags to riches, he thought for sure he’d lose the ranch. He’d lost nearly everything else, including his wife.
Tate’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Laura didn’t have the stomach for the hard times. When cattle prices had plummeted and the creditors came knocking on their door, she’d packed up and left, stating that she’d only married him because she thought he was a wealthy landowner. Not that he was sad to see her go. He was more upset at having wasted two years of his life on chasing her dreams instead of his own.
When he rounded the corner of the house, he spied a bright blue playpen situated in the shade with his son standing up against the inside of the pen. The child pushed a plush toy over the edge and watched it drop to the ground. Pickles, the black-and-white border collie, barely waited for it to leave Jake’s hand before she grabbed it and shook it. Jake giggled and tried to get a leg up over the side of the pen. He liked playing with Pickles.
A swell of love and pride filled Tate’s chest. Jake was his reason for living. He would never have thought he’d become so completely besotted over a kid. At the urging of his dying father, he’d arranged to adopt a baby boy. He’d paid big bucks to skip over the usual routine of social services snooping around his home, going directly to an adoption agency his executive assistant had located, one that specialized in quick adoptions. Pricey, but quick.
Now he couldn’t put a price tag on what Jake brought to the Vincent household. Disappointed that Tate hadn’t remarried and had a dozen grandchildren for him to spoil, Richard Vincent’s dying wish was to hold his grandchild in his arms.
Tate stopped in front of the playpen.
When Jake saw him, his smile widened and he gurgled, reaching up with one hand.
“Por favor, don’t pick him up, Señor Vincent.” Rosa Garcia hurried forward, a frown on her pretty dark face. “Usted está muy sucio. Dirty. You are dirty.”
“A little dirt never hurt a kid.” Despite her admonishment, Tate lifted his son from the playpen and tossed him in the air.
Jake screamed and giggled, drool slipping from the side of his mouth to plop against Tate’s shirt.
“Poor baby is still teething.” Rosa reached out with a burp cloth to wipe up the drool.
Tate didn’t care. He loved Jake more than anyone on God’s green earth. Besides, a little spit was an improvement to his dust-caked clothing. “Hey, buddy. Have you and Pickles been playing fetch?”
“Da,
