Judy Duarte: Rock-A-Bye Rancher

Oh, boy. He was talking about the baby. She knew that. But for a moment, she could almost imagine him meaning that in another way.

This was all about the baby, she reminded herself. So why the heated attraction?

She tried to conjure a platonic expression. “Okay. For a few days. Just long enough for you to hire someone else.”

His eyes locked on hers, and a smile spread across his face, turning her tummy inside out. “You won’t regret this.”

Clay Callaghan might be forceful and determined. But she was, too. She’d make sure he bonded with that child, then she’d pack up the kids and take them home.

It would be a walk in the park, she told herself.

But when he gave her hand a squeeze, setting off a flurry of butterflies deep in her feminine core, she wasn’t so sure about anything anymore.

Dear Reader,

I’m not sure how the months pass so quickly, but it’s October again, and the holidays are fast approaching. It’s easy to get caught up in the hustle and bustle of shopping, baking and decorating, not to mention the stress, but in the midst of it all, I hope you stop to count your blessings and to cherish the family in which you belong—whether you’re related by blood or created by love.

It’s also a time for reconciliation and renewal, for telling people you love them and offering long-overdue forgiveness.

In Rock-A-Bye Rancher, Clay and Dani create a family of their own and find love in the process.

If you’re facing the holidays alone, I encourage you to reach out to others through your church, synagogue or community service organizations. There are a lot of lonely people in the world, and this time is especially difficult for them.

May God richly bless you and your family this year!

Judy Duarte

www.millsandboon.co.uk

always knew there was a book inside her, but since English was her least favorite subject in school, she never considered herself a writer. An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy couldn’t shake the dream of creating a book of her own.

Her dream became a reality in March of 2002, when the Silhouette Special Edition line released her first book, Cowboy Courage. Since then, she has sold nineteen more novels. Her stories have touched the hearts of readers around the world. And in July of 2005, Judy won the prestigious Reader’s Choice Award for The Rich Man’s Son.

Judy makes her home near the beach in Southern California. When she’s not cooped up in her writing cave, she’s spending time with her somewhat enormous, but delightfully close family. You can write to Judy c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. You can also contact her at JudyDuarte@sbcglobal.net or through her Web site—www.judyduarte.com.

To the best critique partners in the world,

Crystal Green and Sheri WhiteFeather.

Words can not express my appreciation.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Rio Seco, Mexico

“Pobrecita.” Padre Luis Fernando clucked his tongue and shook his head at the solemn-faced baby girl lying in a rustic, hand-woven basket. “Three months old and no name. But don’t worry, little one. I’ll find someone to take you home, someone to love you.”

The old priest reached out a gnarled hand to the child, waiting for her to latch on to his finger, to grasp the hope he offered. But the little girl merely lay there, lost, alone.

An hour ago one of the altar boys had come to him in confidence, mentioning the orphaned baby and the bitter, old woman who’d been caring for her.

“Padre,” the boy had said, “the church must do something. That baby isn’t safe.”

Manuela Vargas, a craggy-faced widow who donned dark clothing and lived alone, was considered loca by some of the other parishioners. And the children who lived in the community often called her la bruja, the witch.

Luis believed they were referring to her appearance and demeanor more than anything. Yet he had to admit that when he’d learned of the mother’s death he’d been a little uneasy knowing the baby would be living with a woman who rarely smiled or interacted with the community. He’d hoped the baby would be good for her, but maybe he’d been wrong.

In a hushed tone, the boy had told him, “Manuela said that God punished Catalina for her sins and let her die giving birth. She said the baby should have died, too.”

The padre hadn’t needed to hear more. He’d immediately gone to visit Manuela. When he’d seen the condition of the baby, he’d convinced the old woman to give the child to him.

There had been no argument. Manuela had placed the baby girl, as well as the personal effects of the girl’s mother, into the basket and gratefully passed her burden to the priest.

Luis wished he’d stepped in sooner. If he had, perhaps the young mother might still be alive.

Catalina Villa, a college student from a village nearly one hundred kilometers to the south, had shamed her family by getting pregnant. Embarrassed by her condition because she was unmarried, they had wanted her to bear her child in secret. So she was sent to live with her grandmother’s sister, Manuela.

But considering Manuela’s attitude about sin and punishment, Luis wondered whether a midwife or doctor had even been called when Catalina’s labor started. Of course, there were some things only God knew.

The funeral had been solemn and private, with only Manuela and the baby in attendance. And sadly, the only one who had cried had been the infant.

The padre reached inside the basket that served as a crib and withdrew the prayer book that had been tucked inside. He opened to the page where the young mother had written the birth date and parentage of her child.

Catalina, he suspected, had died before entering the child’s name. If she’d uttered it to anyone, Manuela had not said.

He unfolded a sheet of paper, the start of a letter:

Dear Mr. Callaghan

You do not know me, but I loved your son Trevor very much. When he died, I did not think I could live without him. And when I learned I was carrying his baby, I was both pleased and saddened.

My parents are very strict and believe that I have failed them. They have sent me away in shame. So I write to ask if my baby and I can come to Texas and live on the ranch with you.

I know you and Trevor were not very close, but if you can find it in your heart to accept us into your family…

The letter was unfinished, unsigned.

The priest whispered a prayer for the mother who’d died, leaving her child at the mercy of a woman with a cold and bitter heart. Then he let out a pent-up sigh and studied the fair-skinned baby girl with a head of dark, downy hair. Her cheeks lacked that rosy, healthy hue one expected to see. And her eyes, a golden brown, showed no spark of life. No hint of love.

He surmised she’d been provided with an occasional bottle of goat’s milk, but nothing else. No warm embrace. No whispered words of love. Perhaps her father’s relatives would be more welcoming than her mother’s.

He picked up the telephone.

Twenty minutes and several calls later, he located Clay Callaghan at a ranch outside of Houston. A woman answered. Her clipped, professional tone suggested she was a servant of some kind. Luis introduced himself as a priest from a small village near Guadalajara, then asked to speak to Mr. Callaghan.