One minute Cruz Maldonado was a sought-after Manhattan financial investor with a law degree, a force to be reckoned with on Wall Street.
The next he was the guardian for two children whose existence probably sprang from the jaws of Mexican cartels.
This couldn’t be happening. And yet, it was.
Cruz frowned as he drove his pricey rental car toward the Grace Haven town hall. The long midsummer day gave him a good view of the hometown he hadn’t seen in years. At some point he’d greet the mother he hadn’t visited since his father’s funeral, the woman who’d raised him to be just as tough and jaded as she was.
You need to come home, Cruz, Reverend Steve Gallagher had told him during the unexpected phone call that morning. Two kids, no records, a falsified paper trail and your mother’s dealing with heart disease complicated by type 2 diabetes, seriously compromising her health. It would be wrong of me to make any decisions without you.
Cruz didn’t just tamp his emotions down. He fought them into submission. For long years he hadn’t heard from his mother. His phone calls went straight to voice mail. His Christmas gifts came back, unopened. By the fifth year, he’d stopped trying and worked to make himself one of New York City’s toughest investment funds managers, respected in international circles, and he’d succeeded.
And now this.
He checked his watch. Whatever was going on, whatever mess his mother had gotten herself into, he had every intention of returning to the city the next morning. By afternoon he’d hand in the keys of the upscale rental car and return to his desk overlooking the Hudson. Tomorrow afternoon couldn’t get here soon enough.
He parked the car and strode inside, legally and mentally prepared to put an end to the nonsense. He rounded the corner of the quaint town hall, then thrust out his arms to keep from barreling into a young woman carrying a small child. “Whoa.”
“Whoa?” The little boy placed tiny hands over his mouth and giggled out loud. “He finks you’re a horse, Miss Wory.”
“Does he now?” The woman—the beautiful woman—raised her eyes to his while his grip kept her from slipping to the floor.
“No. He doesn’t.” Cruz held her gaze and her attention as he quickly corrected the boy’s assertion. He arched his right brow, nice and slow. “He doesn’t think you’re a horse at all. In fact, that would be about the last thing he’d think while looking at you.”
“’Cause she’s not, siwwy.” The child giggled again, a happy sound, about as unfamiliar to Cruz now as it had been when he was growing up in Grace Haven. “She’s my teacher!”
Cruz made sure she was steady before releasing her arms, then acknowledged the boy’s statement with a frank glance of appreciation. “I lived here for eighteen years. I never had a teacher that looked like this.” She had gorgeous eyes, a mix of caramel and gold that matched her long tawny hair.
She started to reply, but then the boy turned her way, plainly worried. “Huwwy, Miss Wory! Huwwy.”
She hustled the child to the restrooms down the hall while Cruz entered the small courtroom marked “Judge Murdoch” on the door.
“Cruz.” Reverend Steve Gallagher saw him come through the door and quickly moved forward extending his hand. “Welcome home.” Steve oversaw a local church and the antiquated abbey abutting Casa Blanca, the picturesque vineyard and event center where Cruz grew up.
This wasn’t home, and it hadn’t really been home when he lived there, but he wasn’t going to argue with the cleric. Steve Gallagher was a fine man and a great neighbor. Cruz gripped his hand. “It’s good to see you, Reverend Gallagher.”
“Good to see you, too, son, but we’re all grown up. Steve works just fine.” The reverend clasped his hand in a firm, friendly grip. He motioned to the man standing nearby. “This is Judge Murdoch. Your mother’s case was brought to his attention.”
As Cruz reached out to shake the other man’s hand, Steve added, “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
Cruz turned his attention back to Steve. “You left me little choice, and I’m fairly certain you knew the summons was out of left field and issued it, anyway.”
“Because you and your mother haven’t spoken in years.” Direct and honest, two qualities Cruz had always liked about Steve.
“My father played intermediary. Once he was gone, well...” Cruz shrugged. “My mother made it plain I wasn’t needed or welcome here.”
“You’re needed now.”
Cruz was needed, but not in this full-of-itself, old-fashioned town. He was needed right where he’d been up until five and a half hours ago, tucked in Lower Manhattan, making more money than most men see in a lifetime. “Reverend, I—”
“Ah, Rory, perfect.” The reverend smiled beyond him, as if he’d said nothing. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“It seems I’m not the only one being offered limited options,” she told Steve. Cruz had to hand it to her. Dissing clergy wasn’t a skill that got practiced much, even in Manhattan.
