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Rock-A-Bye Rancher
Judy Duarte
THE BABY GIRL NEEDED A HOME…And Clay Callaghan was ready to provide one for her. The Texas cattle rancher knew next to nothing about caring for infants, but he' d never turn his back on his own flesh and blood.As guardian of her younger siblings, attorney Daniella de la Cruz offered both legal and child-rearing expertise. Yet it was clear this handsome cowboy needed–and wanted–more from her. Well, Daniella could never turn down a child in need.A handsome, single father-in-training was another story–wasn' t it?
“I need you, Dani.”
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
Rock-A-Bye Rancher
Judy Duarte
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JUDY DUARTE
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.
Contents
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
Prologue
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.
While he waited for the woman to summon the rancher, Luis again glanced at the basket and was glad to see the baby girl had fallen asleep. The sadness in her eyes haunted him in a way no other child’s had.
“Por favor, Dios,” the padre prayed. “Touch Señor Callaghan’s heart. This baby needs someone to love her, to bond with her. She needs a home.”
A deep, baritone voice sounded over a crackling telephone line. “This is Clay Callaghan.”
“Señor…sir, I am Father Luis Fernando, a priest from Rio Seco, a small village outside of Guadalajara. One of my parishioners gave me an orphaned baby girl. I have reason to believe her father was Trevor Callaghan.”
The line seemed to have gone dead.
“Sir? Señor Callaghan? Did you hear me?”
“Trevor died in a car accident nearly a year ago,” the man responded.
“Sí. I am aware of that. In Mexico, while attending the university in Guadalajara, no? But before his death, he and a young woman named Catalina Villa Montez conceived a baby. From what I understand, they planned to marry. But your son died before they could say the vows.”
“What about the child’s mother?” the American asked, his curiosity validating his interest.
The padre quietly released the breath he’d been holding. “Catalina was a bright young woman from a poor village. The townspeople and her parents pooled their money to send her to the university, in hope that she would return with an education and help the community. But when her family learned she was pregnant, they were angry and embarrassed. They sent her secretly to Rio Seco, where she bore her baby in the home of a distant relative. With your son dead, señor, I believe she feared there were no other options.”
“You said the baby was orphaned.”
“Sí. Catalina died after childbirth and left the newborn in the care of an elderly aunt who cannot keep the baby any longer. If you will not take the baby girl to live with you in Texas, I will be forced to deliver her to an orphanage.”
Silence filled the line, then the deep, graveled voice asked, “How do you know my son is the father?”
“There are blood tests that can prove it, but I was given the mother’s personal effects, including a photograph of the baby’s father, a handsome, blond-haired young man standing next to an airplane. I also have an engraved, black onyx ring.”
Again silence. Then a graveled clearing of the throat. “Where can I find the baby?”
The padre gave him directions from the airport in Guadalajara to the church.
Surely, the American grandfather would be more loving than the old Mexican caretaker had been.
The padre prayed that he would.
Chapter One
Daniela de la Cruz sat in her seventh-floor office in Houston, Texas, gripping the telephone until her knuckles ached.
“It’s not fair,” her fourteen-year-old sister complained to her over the phone. “I hate being cooped up in the house, babysitting, when all my friends have the whole summer to do whatever they want and have fun.”
Life isn’t fair, Dani wanted to snap back. Deal with it, Sara. I’ve had to.
At twenty-five, Dani was the youngest and newest associate of Phillips, Crowley and Norman, and she was working her tail off to build a career and make a name for herself. On the outside, it appeared as though the sky was the limit in terms of her upward mobility. But that wasn’t the case. Most attorneys in her position didn’t have to balance home and career the way she did.
“Marcos!” Sara shrieked at her brother, obviously not covering the mouthpiece. “Put that down. You’re going to break the lamp.”
Dani pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to ward off the headache that began the moment Sara called. “What’s your brother doing?”
“He’s swinging a baseball bat in the house,” Sara said. “And he better take it outside right now, or I’m going to scream.”
“Sara’s mean,” the ten-year-old boy shouted in the background. “I hate being stuck with a couple of dumb girls.”
“I’m not dumb,” little Delia said loud enough to be heard through the receiver.
If Dani wasn’t at work and trying desperately to keep her turbulent home situation a secret, she’d pitch a fit that would rival any of Sara’s.
Couldn’t the teenager understand that Dani was trying her best to keep the kids fed, clothed and safe? Didn’t she understand that they all had to pull together?
Dani’s frustration level was at an all-time high, and she was beginning to feel inept when it came to solving the domestic disputes that were popping up regularly, now that it was summer and the kids were out of school.
Before she could respond to her squabbling brood, the intercom buzzed.
