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Stone grew still as he remembered the one exception. Nine months ago, Dahlia had decided she wanted another baby—but he’d had to refuse.
Something else she’d wanted that he couldn’t, in good conscience, give to her. Because there was no way in hell that he’d bring another child into this world, to love it, care for it...
And then lose it.
The melting ice around Stone’s heart slowly hardened.
Dahlia watched as Stone drove the rest of the way to the ranch, both hands now gripping the steering wheel. Watched the way he’d withdrawn, once again, into that lonely, private place deep inside himself.
Brooke’s death had absolutely destroyed him, she acknowledged, as fear and doubt swept through her. He wasn’t going to let her help him. And here she was, with only two weeks left to complete her mission!
Two weeks—when she’d been trying to get through to him for twelve long, painful months.
But Stone’s will, as always, was one of pure steel.
How could she possibly make him believe in anything ever again? How could she make him see what a terrific father he was? And that what he needed to do now, most of all, was to trust his feelings when dealing with Field. How could she hope to restore his faith in himself, to trust his own good judgment again?
But that was her mission from Basil.
Oh, dear, how was she to accomplish this particular miracle all by herself?
Dahlia knew how hard it was to let Field be a normal little boy, to protect him without controlling his every move, to love him without smothering him—but Stone wasn’t even trying.
He was so wrapped up in grief and guilt over Brooke’s death, and fear over losing Field, that he wasn’t listening to anyone.
She straightened her shoulders. She wanted so much to be a good angel, to live up to the trust that Basil had placed in her. But Stone—he wasn’t the same man she’d married. He’d always wanted more, craved more, fought for more than anyone she’d ever met. But the fight had gone out of him.
And so had all the love.
Dahlia could still feel the warmth of his fingers around hers, even though he was no longer holding her hand. But his touch lingered in her mind far longer than she cared to admit.
Memories tapped at her heart.
The gentleness that had an unexpected way of peeking through Stone’s oh-so-tough outdoorsy personality. The startling chemistry that had sprung to life upon meeting face-to-face the first time. And the way the sexual attraction had grown and deepened through the years.
Stone was more than her husband. He was her best friend.
Which made his...his almost studied emotional distance doubly hard to take. Stone had preferred to live in an emotional vacuum since Brooke’s death, to become isolated from pain—but he was forcing the rest of them to live that way, as well.
Dahlia’s gaze repeatedly strayed toward Stone’s side of the car. It was hard to believe that the man who had once made her nerve endings sing with joy could cause her heart to ache so much. But when Brooke died, he’d closed off the part of his life that had to do with being happy. He’d also, by all appearances, closed and locked the part of his heart that had to do with love. And he had no desire to open either one.
Her sigh was soft, and with an effort she pulled herself out of her thoughts. She had work to do, and she was going to do it. But where was she to start?
“I remember the morning we brought Brooke home from the hospital,” she said brightly. She desperately wanted to gain back some of the closeness that had vanished when Stone had retreated behind one of his moods. “She was wearing that little denim dress embroidered with little red hearts on the collar...”
“And you tied a red ribbon around her little bald head.”
Dahlia was surprised at the way he joined in. She wasn’t used to talking about Brooke and having him respond. Usually he tried to change the subject.
“She wasn’t bald,” Dahlia protested, laughing. “She had hair in the back almost long enough to put into a ponytail.”
Stone hesitated and then his words came out sort of gruff and tender. “She was the prettiest little thing I’d ever seen in my life.”
Tears backed up in her throat. Especially when Stone reached out and took her hand in his again. “Was she as pretty as Field?”
“Guys aren’t pretty.” But he sent her a fleeting grin. “Field was a rugged little guy even on his first day of life.” Then his grin broadened. “All six pounds of him.”
Dahlia saw the light in his gray eyes just seconds before he turned his attention back to the road ahead. But he squeezed her hand in his, and she squeezed back. And then she had a thought.
“Why don’t you have any pictures of Field during his first year?”
“What do you mean?” Stone sped up to pass a car.
“You only have four or five pictures of him—”
“We’ve got dozens of albums, crammed full of pictures of both kids.” Stone was back in his own lane now and flashed her a puzzled, questioning look.
“But all those were taken after we met. After we were married,” Dahlia explained. “I meant pictures of Field coming home from the hospital. Do you realize there are no pictures of your son with his mother?”
He looked at her. “You’re his mother.”
She smiled gently at him, touched by the statement. For Stone, his first wife and the mother of his child just... no longer existed. Not in his mind. And certainly not in his heart. “But why didn’t you take more?” she asked him. “Field was your firstborn son. I would have thought you’d have taken tons of pictures.”
Stone shrugged and turned his attention back to the road. But he didn’t evade the question. “I don’t have a reason. I guess I was just too busy taking care of him to bother with taking pictures.”
And too hurt.
Dahlia suddenly cringed inside at the thought of what her completing her mission would mean for Stone. He’d already been abandoned by one woman, and he’d never understood her reason.
And now, if things worked out, Dahlia would also abandon him. Would he understand? Would he understand she just had to be with Brooke? No matter what the cost?
And Field...oh, that poor, poor child. Dahlia’s heart wrenched with guilt at just the thought of leaving him. He’d already been abandoned by one mother. What would her leaving do to his ability to trust?
That was why she had to get Stone and Field’s relationship on solid ground. Before it was time for her to leave.
“I’m sorry now that I didn’t take more pictures of Field his first year,” Stone was saying, and she struggled to pay attention. “Kids grow up so fast and then they’re...gone,” he ended quietly.
Dahlia watched as he struggled with some painful memory. She said gently, “Field’s growing every day. It’s hard to believe he’s already ten years old.”
“Yeah.”
“Soon he’ll be in high school and dating some cute little cheerleader.”
Stone cleared his throat. “More than likely some little cowgirl in a rodeo.”
“All he talks about is entering rodeo roughstock events when he’s old enough.” Dahlia saw the life drain from his eyes and added softly, “He wants so very much to be like you when he grows up.”
“I know.” Profound weariness settled over his lean features.
“It’s natural for a son to want to be like his dad,” she continued.
“Then I wish I’d been a lawyer or something like that,” Stone snapped, his pain and frustration close to the surface.
Dahlia drew in a fast, agonized breath and said nothing. What was the use? Everything she said to him came out wrong. Everything she did only made him feel worse.
“Dahlia...honey, I’m sorry.” He turned to her and tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to take your head off. I just wish I hadn’t told Field all those wild and wonderful stories about my rodeo days. It put ideas in his head.”
She laughed soft and low. “It’ll be years before he’s old enough to compete. Field’s exploring his options, that’s all. He’ll go through weeks of wanting to be a rodeo champion and then a concert pianist or a great painter—”
Stone hooted with laughter. “A concert pianist? Field? A rock musician, maybe, but give me a break. Field’s about as likely to play classical music as I am to sprout wings and fly.”
Dahlia grinned happily. Somehow she’d gotten him to laugh and that was a good feeling. And a good start.
She glanced out the window at the passing countryside, with its bluestem and buffalo grass. They were in the hill country now, driving along the Medina River, so they were almost at the ranch.
Stone turned onto a dirt road, lined with mountain cedar trees, and she breathed in the characteristic fragrance of the hill country. Stone took the bridge across the river and moments later they drove under the large sign, proclaiming: Tyler Ranch. Established 1900.
Field was the fourth generation of Tylers to live on the 750-acre spread. Dahlia knew it would break his heart not to grow up here like his father and uncles.
And it would break Stone’s heart, too, even if he was too stubborn to admit it.
She propped her elbow in the open window, her chin in her hand, and gazed out at the miles of whitewashed fencing crisscrossing the range. She stared longingly out at the herds of sheep grazing in the foothills, the young lambs frolicking after their mothers. She sighed heavily.
A big, white three-story Victorian house, nestled in a grove of very old oak and pecan trees, came into view. An enormous red barn stood behind it, off to one side. As always, she felt a flash of pride when she saw the place where she had come to live as a bride of twenty-one.
That had been nine years ago, she thought, as Stone parked in the circular driveway.
A lifetime ago.
The car door on her side was yanked open. Stone’s youngest brother, Rocky, escorted her gently across the driveway and up the porch steps. “We’re glad you’re home,” he said with a grin. “Gives us an excuse to throw you a welcome-home barbecue tonight.”
Dahlia smiled up at him, wondering where Field was hiding. “You Texas boys certainly do love to eat, don’t you?” she teased back.
“How did you ever guess that?” Rocky’s grin widened as he settled her on the porch swing. Rocky had a huge appetite for barbecued ribs and hot Texas chili, but he was cowboy-lean, and had women chasing him from three counties. “Field made you a pitcher of lemonade, all by himself,” her brother-in-law said, his voice low for her ears alone. “So pretend you like it.”
Rocky never changed, Dahlia thought gratefully, her gaze following Stone as he came up the front steps, carrying her suitcase. Just then the screen door flew open and Dahlia’s ten-year-old stepson rushed out onto the porch, carrying a glass of lemonade. He headed straight for the porch swing and thrust it toward Dahlia. “I made it myself. All by myself,” he added with a sidelong look at his father.
Dahlia took a sip, announced it was perfect and drank up as the little boy she’d raised almost from birth watched with anticipation. He was slender and dark like his dad, with Stone’s gunmetal gray eyes.
“Don’t I get a hug?” she asked the child she loved with all that was left of her heart.
Field hesitated. “Uncle Rocky said to be careful and let you hug me.”
Dahlia smiled and reached out with one hand to draw the little boy closer. “Thank you for being so thoughtful, sweetie,” she said, kissing his cheek. “And thank you for the lemonade. It’s delicious.”
Rocky returned to the porch, carrying a tray with the pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. There were also three different kinds of cookies. “Field went with me to the store this morning,” Rocky said with a wink.
“Don’t you like your lemonade, Dad?” Field asked, staring up at his father. Stone leaned against the porch railing, absently rubbing his fingertip along the rim of the glass he held. “I made it,” the little boy announced, a slight trace of defiance in his voice. “All by myself.”
“It’s good,” Stone said after taking a hasty sip. “Excellent.”
“I cut the lemons in half with a knife.” Field was eyeing Stone carefully. “And, boy, was it sharp!”
Dahlia’s breath caught in her throat. She saw Stone dart a swift glance in his brother’s direction.
“I was in there watching him,” Rocky said hurriedly, shifting uneasily on the porch railing where he was perched.
“But even if he wasn’t,” Field chimed in, “I could’ve done it. Because I’m not a baby.” That last statement came out as if he dared someone, anyone—especially Stone—to disagree with him.
Stone must have realized it, too, because he stated quietly, “No, you’re not a baby. And knives aren’t dangerous as long as you know how to use them.”
“I know how. Uncle Rocky taught me,” Field added helpfully, his gray eyes brightening.
Nearby, Dahlia heard Rocky’s low, rueful groan. Her gaze darted to her husband. Stone had practically raised his youngest brother, and now he fixed him with a long, level look of reproach.
“Uncle Rocky said you gave him a knife when he was my age,” Field piped up, making matters worse.
Dahlia saw the startled look in Stone’s gray eyes. He slowly set his glass of lemonade down on the porch railing. “Did Uncle Rocky give you a knife?” he asked gently.
Field hesitated, then darted a sudden sheepish look at Rocky. The little boy looked back at his father and slowly nodded. Pulling a small leather pouch out of the back pocket of his jeans, Field said, “He gave me the one that you gave to him.”
Instead of taking the knife away from his son, Stone merely asked, “And Rocky taught you how to use it?”
Field nodded. “This morning while we waited for the lemonade to get done.”
“After you finish drinking your lemonade, why don’t you ask your uncle Rocky to give you some more lessons?” Stone surprised everyone by saying.
Dahlia’s heart surged with hope as she saw the look of pure joy enter Field’s eyes.
Field and Rocky finished their cookies and lemonade in record time, and headed toward the barn. If she turned around, Dahlia would be able to see them. And she could certainly hear them as Rocky patiently taught the little boy how to handle the pearl-handled knife. She smiled at the laughter that drifted up to the porch.
“That was a wonderful thing you did, letting Field keep the knife,” Dahlia said, smiling cheerfully.
Stone shrugged. “A boy needs to learn how to handle himself. That includes weapons.”
“It means more than learning how to handle himself, Stone,” she said earnestly. “Letting him have the knife means you trust him.”
Stone drained the last of his lemonade and set the glass down on the tray. “It means I think he’s old enough to go away to school.” His voice was carefully low and even. “He’s right. He isn’t a baby. And he’ll do just fine at boarding school.”
“But, Stone—”
His gray eyes leveled on her. “He leaves two weeks from today.” Then he scooped up her suitcase and headed for the screen door. “I’ll put this in your room.”
Stone entered the house and shut the screen door behind him. It was more gentle than a slam, but much harder than merely closing the door, Dahlia noticed wryly.
Two weeks. In two weeks Field would be sent away.
Dahlia turned around in the swing, fixing her gaze on Field, out by the barn. Basil said if she didn’t return within three weeks, then she couldn’t return. One week had already passed. In the hospital.
