Bundle of Trouble

No car and no money meant she’d never get her child back. Even if she did, would she provide a safe home for him? Who was after her? What did he want? Why burn her car? Her head spun with the unending barrage of questions.

Then she heard a child’s happy squeal echoing against the walls. Her back stiffened and she forced herself to a standing position, facing the sheriff. “That was my car, Sheriff.”

“Since it appears to be arson, we have to have it towed to the impound lot for a thorough investigation. I’ll need a statement from both you and Mr. Vincent, seeing as how the car was found in the creek, which is part of Mr. Vincent’s property.”

“Were there any tracks or clues as to who might have done it?” Tate asked.

Sheriff Thompson shook his head. “I arrived just minutes before the pump truck. They sucked every last drop of their tank dry putting out the fire and tamping down the dry brush around the site. Nothing left but mud and ashes.” He turned to Sylvia. “Why did you park in the creek anyway, Ms….?”

“Michaels, Sylvia Michaels.” Sylvia swallowed and looked down at her dirty hands. “I needed to see Mr. Vincent.” She glanced up, her gaze clashing with Tate’s.

His brown eyes narrowed and he shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Sylvia turned toward the sheriff. “On a personal matter.”

“So you trespassed.” Sheriff Thompson’s brows rose. “You sure you didn’t light the fire in the car yourself?”

“No, sir.” Nor could she tell either of the men that she thought she was in danger. What court in the land would give her custody of any child if they thought her unfit to provide a safe haven for him?

“Really, Tate, you trust this woman in your home? She just admitted to hiding her car so that she could get in to see you?” Kacee rolled her eyes. “If that isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s up to you, Mr. Vincent. I’m headed back to town. I can take her with me. Just say the word.”

Tate Vincent stared at Sylvia for a long, drawn-out moment.

Her heart hammered blood through her veins, pounding against her eardrums, but she refused to look away from his intense gaze. She pushed her shoulders back and her chin tipped upward just slightly. If she had to, she’d beg to stay. But for now, he needed to know she wasn’t backing down.

“She can stay.” His eyes narrowed even more. “For now.”

Kacee snorted. “Tate, be reasonable.”

“Thank you, Sheriff Thompson. Let us know what you find out about the car.” Tate walked toward the front entrance, opened the door and held it for the sheriff.

The sheriff gave Sylvia one last look, plunked his hat on his head and took the hint. “I’ll be in touch.”

Once the sheriff had descended the stairs and climbed into his SUV with the word sheriff marked in bold letters on both sides, Tate let the screen door swing shut.

Sylvia braced herself for the storm to come.

“What are you going to do with her now?” Kacee asked, her high-heeled foot tapping against the wooden floor.

“On your way home, contact Dr. Richards. Tell him I want a DNA sampling kit out here ASAP.”

Kacee flipped her phone open. “I’ll just call him, now.”

Tate glared at her. “Do it on your way out, Kacee. I don’t need your services for the rest of the afternoon.”

“But—”

The man stopped her next words with the look on his face.

Sylvia almost felt sorry for the woman, except for the fact she would have happily shot her for trespassing. Once the millionaire’s assistant left, Sylvia would be alone with Tate Vincent. In his current mood, the meeting wouldn’t be pleasant. But at least she could speak plainly when they were alone.

She’d let him know she’d fight with every last breath to get her son back. But she wouldn’t tell him her breath and the clothes on her back were all she had left to her name.

Tate stood at the door, holding it open much as he’d done for the sheriff. Kacee pouted, her brows drawing together as she gathered her briefcase and car keys. “We haven’t gone over the figures on the purchase of the Double Diamond Ranch.”

“Tomorrow.” He held the door and waved his hand, inviting her through.

Kacee sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, crossing the threshold as directed. When she passed by Tate, she leaned close to him. “She’s nothing but trouble, I tell you.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know…without me.” She glared over her shoulder at Sylvia.

Tate shut the door behind Kacee and stared after her as she climbed into her car and drove away. Not until her dust trail cleared the driveway did he drag in a deep breath and turn to Sylvia standing quietly behind him.

“You know I’m telling the truth, don’t you?” Sylvia whispered. “You know Jacob is my son.”

Anger bolted through him. “No, I don’t know anything.” But that niggle of doubt made him more afraid than any other time in his life. Losing Jake ranked right up there with losing his father. Jake was family. He couldn’t lose him. “What other proof do you have that you ever had a child?”

Sylvia reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and a tattered photograph. “His birth certificate and a photograph of him when he was four months old.” Her lips twisted in a semblance of a smile and she shook her head. “They are the only things I have left of Jacob. Everything else was in my car.” Tears filled her eyes, making them a shimmering blue, so like Jake’s when he didn’t want to lie down for his nap.

Rosa always told Tate to let Jake cry himself to sleep, let him learn to soothe himself. But Tate couldn’t, not when the child looked up at him through those liquid blue eyes. He wanted to hold him, make the fear go away, make him know that nothing on the earth would take this child away from him.

Tate’s fists tightened and he resisted the draw of Sylvia’s blue, watery eyes. He snatched the paper and the photograph from her hands. Prolonging the inevitable, he bent to read the words on the document, etched in permanent ink with the state seal of Texas embossing the corner.

Mother’s Maiden Name: Sylvia Leigh Michaels. Father: Miguel Tikas. Baby’s Name: Jacob Paul Michaels. The birth date indicated ten months ago.

Ignoring the knot twisting in his gut, Tate handed the paper back to Sylvia, telling himself it was just a piece of paper. It didn’t prove anything. Then he stared down at the picture of a baby with golden hair and bright blue eyes. The baby could be Jake six months ago. He had the same smile, the same halo of golden hair. Damn it! Jake was his son!

He clutched the photograph in his hand, his gaze rising to lock with the woman in front of him. “How do I know you really are Sylvia Michaels? That you aren’t lying and that you didn’t steal this document?”

The dusty blonde fished in her back pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to him. He stared down at the hard plastic of a Texas driver’s license. An image of a blond woman smiled up at him. Less gaunt, her hair neatly combed into long, straight lengths, she looked happy, healthy and different than the woman standing in his living room. But the resemblance was there. On the license, the name read Sylvia Leigh Michaels, just like on the birth certificate. The address that of San Antonio, Texas.

Again, Tate forced himself to remain calm. This was all just a bad dream. He inhaled a full, deep breath and let it out slowly, handing the card back to Sylvia, his hand still curled around the photograph. “What do you want from me?”

She folded the driver’s license into the birth certificate and shoved them into her back pocket. “I only want my son.” She held out her palm. “May I have my picture back? It’s the only one I have left.”

Strangely reluctant, he handed her the photo, their fingers touching briefly, the impact sending a jolt of something he couldn’t describe through his veins.

“So what now?” she asked.

“I won’t let Jake go without a fight.”

“Then you admit there might be truth in what I say?”

“You present a good argument, but anyone can forge documents. You could have had a child. There’s no guarantee my son is the son you had stolen.”

“But you agree that there is a possibility that someone might have forged the birth certificate you have?”

“I’m not agreeing to anything until I have my lawyer check into it.”

Sylvia nodded, her shoulders rising and falling on a sigh. “I didn’t expect you’d give up without a fight. But I’m not, either.”

“Please leave. My lawyer will be in touch with yours.” He moved toward the front door, holding it open. “And I need to know where you will be staying.”

Sylvia stared across at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. That little display of uncertainty doing funny things to him. She didn’t answer.

“I’ll need an address to forward any documents from my legal staff.”

“I don’t have an address.”

Tate shook his head. “What do you mean you don’t have an address? Don’t you live in San Antonio?”

“I did. I don’t. Oh, hell.” She threw her hands in the air. “I haven’t lived anywhere but hotels and my car since Jacob was stolen. I let my apartment go.”

“I’ll have my foreman drop you at the hotel in Canyon Springs.”

“Wouldn’t do much good,” she muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

“What did you say?” Tate asked.

“Nothing. Never mind. I’ll accept that ride since my car is toast.”

“Answer me first. What did you say?”

When she stood in stony silence, refusing to answer him, Tate grabbed her shoulders. “You try my patience, woman. You’ve barged into my life, threatening to take my son from me, the least you can do is answer my question.”

Sylvia threw off his hands, dull red spreading up her neck into her cheeks, her eyes flashing. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Everything I owned went up in flames in my car. What little money I had left with it. I’m broke, I’m homeless and I’m tired of you yelling at me! All I want is my son back.”

Her hand lifted to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Don’t think lack of money will stop me from getting Jacob back. I can provide him a good stable home. I can. No judge or jury in the state of Texas will deny my right to Jacob. He’s my son!”

She stood trembling, her fists clenched at her sides, her blue eyes turning stormy.

If Tate wasn’t facing losing Jake, he’d find her defiance attractive, her flashing blue eyes beautiful and the tilt of her breasts appealing. But damn it, she wanted to take his son away from him. “You’ll stay here for now.”

Sylvia gasped. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. Now don’t make me change my mind.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“Take it or leave it.” He walked to the edge of the room and leaned out into the hallway. “Maria!”

“But…” Sylvia’s brow creased, her head tipped to the side. “But I want to take Jacob away from you. Why would you do this?”

“Maria!”

“Sí, Señor.” The older Hispanic woman hurried toward Tate, breathing hard, her forehead knitted in a concerned frown.

“Prepare a room for Ms. Michaels.”

Her brows rose into her graying hair. “Porqué?”

“She’ll be staying here.” Tate frowned. “Now, please prepare the room.”

“Sí.” Maria shot another confused stare at Sylvia and turned away.

“Get this straight…” Tate directed his attention to Sylvia. “I’ll be watching you. If you attempt to take Jake before any of this mess is legally settled, I’ll kill you.”

Sylvia’s hand went to her throat, her face blanching. “How do I know you won’t try to kill me anyway?”

“All you have is my word.”

“I don’t know you, Mr. Vincent. Is your word enough to go on?”

“You’re asking me to go on your word that Jake is your son.” He gave her a challenging look, all the while wondering what he was getting himself into.

“But you should hate me,” Sylvia whispered. She didn’t think he’d heard until he turned back to her with a pointed gaze.

“I have a philosophy of keeping my friends close, and my enemies closer.”

Chapter Five

Sylvia stood at the window of the spacious bedroom, staring out at the dry Texas hill country, her gaze panning the horizon but not seeing a thing. Her ears perked at every sound in the household, hoping to hear the faint noises a baby makes. Her baby. Jacob.

So tuned in to the specific sounds of a child, she didn’t hear adult footsteps outside her door.

“These should fit you.”

Sylvia spun, her hand going to her throat. “Oh, Lord, you scared me.”

The young Hispanic woman Tate had called Rosa, the woman who’d been caring for Jacob in the nursery, stepped into the room, moving with a slight limp. She laid a stack of clothing on the bed, the corner of her lips quirking upward. “These belonged to Mr. Vincent’s ex. I found them in a bag of clothing mi madré planned to donate to the homeless shelter. That and an old Mexican dress my mother wore.” Rosa’s lip curled tighter into a sneer.

Sylvia had read everything she could find in the San Antonio public library about the infamous young millionaire and most eligible bachelor of the state of Texas. His wife had walked out on him early in their marriage when Tate wasn’t so rich. In fact, he’d been close to losing his ranch and everything he owned when his wife walked out on him. Had she stuck with him “for richer or poorer” she’d have been sitting pretty in this fabulous house that Tate had built onto and modernized to make it anyone’s dream home, not wanting for anything. Stupid woman.

Feeling every bit the homeless person, Sylvia had no other choice but to take what was offered, even if it had been the ex-wife’s clothing. Another possible strike against her in her struggle to get her child back—a reminder to the great Tate Vincent of what he’d lost in his failed marriage. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Mr. Vincent is to thank for allowing you to stay.” Rosa’s eyes narrowed. “Just so you know, I’m Jake’s nanny…and bodyguard. I’m expert with the nine millimeter and I’ve never missed a target.”

A shiver snaked up the back of Sylvia’s neck. Jacob’s bodyguard could no doubt take her, but Sylvia had no intention of letting Rosa know she was scared. Her back straightened and she tipped her head back, her brows rising. “Are you threatening me?”

Rosa shrugged. “All I’m saying is that the Vincents—that would be Tate and Jake—are like family to me. Hurt either one of them and…” She stared straight into Sylvia’s gaze. “Let’s just say, a nine-millimeter bullet can make a pretty big mess.”

Before Sylvia could respond, the Hispanic woman turned and limped away.

The image she’d left Sylvia with was of herself being gunned down by a crazy woman with a pistol. “And this is the woman he trusts with my son?” Sylvia muttered, her hand sifting through the clothing on the bed. “Maybe I should check for explosive devices before I wear any of this.”

“I see you’ve met Rosa.”

Sylvia squealed and dropped the shirt she’d lifted from the pile, her face burning.

The man who’d been with Tate when he’d found her in the pasture stood with his hat in his hand. “Yes, Rosa can be pretty harsh with her words, but she wouldn’t hide explosives in clothing. She’s more…” The man paused, his hands turning the hat in his fingers before he stopped and looked up. “She’s more in-your-face violent. You’ll know when she plans to do harm.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugged. “Don’t take her too seriously. She’s had a bug up her…” Color rose in the man’s cheeks, making them a ruddy-brown. “Well, since she took a bullet in Austin.” A brief shadow crossed his face, then he smiled, his deeply tanned skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “I’m C.W., the foreman. Supper’s ready.”

Sylvia’s stomach growled. She wanted to say that she wasn’t hungry. The truth was she hadn’t eaten since last night when she’d left the library in San Antonio to drive here. “Thank you.”

C.W. waited for Sylvia to pass through the door. “About what Rosie said—”

“Don’t call me Rosie. I hate it when you call me Rosie.” Rosa’s voice called out from another room down the hallway.

C.W. chuckled and winked. “Love to get her goat.” All humor left his face. “As for what Rosie—Rosa—said…Same goes for me. Tate and Jake mean the world to all of us. If anything happens…”

Although C.W. said the words gently, Sylvia couldn’t mistake the steel behind them. “You have a nine-milli-meter bullet with my name on it, right?”

He nodded. “Something like that.”

“Point taken.” Sylvia sighed. “I’m not here to hurt either one of them. I’m here to get my son back. My son. The child I gave birth to and didn’t willingly give up.” She planted her fists on her hips and squared off with C.W. “Did you hear that, Rosa?” she called out loud enough for the woman down the hallway to hear.

“Sí.” Rosa stepped through a doorway, Jacob perched in her arms, his baby fists waving and a wet smile spreading across his chubby cheeks at the sight of C.W. “Let the courts decide where Jake belongs.”

Sylvia’s heart melted at the sight of her son.

C.W. met Rosa halfway down the hallway, reaching for the child. “Come here, little man. Come see ol’ Uncle C.W.”

Ready tears sprang to Sylvia’s eyes. Jacob was beautiful. He’d grown into a healthy, happy baby. At least she could rest assured he hadn’t been abused since coming to the Vincent Ranch. All those months of worry could be left behind. When Jacob had been stolen, Sylvia imagined all kinds of horrors her son could have been subjected to. She’d cried too many tears thinking about it.

The smile on Jacob’s face, the happiness he displayed for the people surrounding him let Sylvia know that he’d found a loving family to take care of him until his own mother could find him.

Her arms ached to reach out and hold her son, but she held back, determined to let Tate Vincent know that she was on the up-and-up. She planned to get her son back the legal way. Justice would side with the biological mother.

Sylvia had to believe that, even though, as an investigative reporter, she’d seen too many cases fouled up in court with corrupt judges and equally corrupt attorneys. She marched ahead of Rosa, C.W. and her son, determined to get the ball rolling as soon as she could get a call through to a lawyer she knew in San Antonio. The same one she’d used when she’d filed for divorce from Miguel Tikas a year and a half ago, before she’d known she was pregnant.

With her resolve strengthened, she followed the smell of food toward the kitchen, ever aware of the people at her back.

She passed an open doorway to an office the size of her old apartment. Tate Vincent stood looking out double French doors, his hand pressing a cell phone to his ear. “Tell him I want it done ASAP. The sooner we know something the better off we all are. Tomorrow morning would be best. Have Dr. Richards call to confirm.”

Sylvia paused. Now would be a good time to ask Tate if she could use a telephone. Her cell phone had sketchy reception this far out of Austin, the charger lost with the contents of her car.

When Tate Vincent turned toward her, his brows snapped together in a frown. “What are you doing here?”

His abrupt demand raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Before she could answer, Rosa stepped up beside her.

“She’s on her way to the dining room.” The Hispanic woman jerked her head, indicating Sylvia should keep walking.

C.W. ducked into the office, Jacob perched on his shoulder. “Someone wants to see you.”

Even before C.W. got close, Jacob was leaning toward Tate.

Tate held out his hands and plucked Jacob off C.W.’s shoulders. “Come here, Jake.”

Rosa hooked Sylvia’s arm with an iron grip. “Come with me.”

Sylvia’s gaze remained on Tate and Jacob until Rosa jerked her past the office with a violent tug.

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to get mean. I’m coming.” If she could afford to be nasty, Sylvia would have jerked back as hard as she could, hopefully dropping Rosa on her cranky butt. But she couldn’t. If she wanted custody of her son, she had to make nice to the people who held Jacob. One in particular who had enough money to buy a judge of his own.

Deep down, Sylvia realized the difficulties she faced going up against a financial giant like Tate Vincent. The man had unlimited funds at his disposal. He could make the court case last for years with custody of Jacob remaining with him throughout.

Her footsteps faltered and she came to a halt before they reached the kitchen. “I’m too dirty. Besides, I’m not hungry.”

“Tough. The boss wants you to eat. So you will eat if I have to force feed you.” Rosa stepped into a formal dining room, Sylvia’s arm still in her grip. She whipped Sylvia around and nearly tripped her into a padded seat at the dinner table.

Broad windows lined one wall overlooking a field dotted with horses, tails swishing in the late-evening sun. A perfect setting for dinner. A perfect home for a child to grow up in. A place Sylvia could never hope to own, not as a single mom, an investigative reporter, no less. What kind of life could she offer her son? Nothing like this. But she would give him all the love she had in her heart. That had to count for something.

As she’d been staring out at the hill country, Maria moved in and out of the room carrying trays laden with food. She’d laid out on the smooth wood surface of the long mahogany dining table an array of platters brimming with tortillas, sizzling fajitas, rice, refried beans and fluffy mounds of green guacamole.

Sylvia loved Mexican food, her mouth watering despite herself. The hole in her stomach overrode the worry eating at her insides. If she planned on fighting for her son, she’d better keep her energy up.

Rosa stood over her, her arms crossed over her chest like the tough street cop. “Eat.”

Hunger trumped anger and Sylvia lifted a fork, piling spicy chicken into a light flour tortilla. She ate like a starving person, unsure of where or when her next meal would come. If Tate decided to throw her out, she’d have nothing to live on, no money, no food, no home to go to. Basically, she was at his mercy.

Tate Vincent stood in the living room, holding Jake in his arms. The open floor plan allowed him to monitor Sylvia’s movements. The blonde shoveled food onto her plate like there was no tomorrow. And maybe the events of the past six months made her feel that way. If her waist measurement was any indication, she hadn’t been eating enough food to keep healthy.

While Maria had shown Sylvia to her room, Tate had called his lawyer, asking him to check into the information Sylvia had given him regarding Jake’s birth mother. Or, if Sylvia was to be believed, the woman who’d masqueraded as Jake’s birth mother.

Tate had pulled Jake’s birth certificate from his file of important papers and studied it. Again, he couldn’t tell if it was real or not. Even his attorney hadn’t picked up that it was a fake. At this point, Tate didn’t know who the faker was, Beth Kirksey or Sylvia Michaels. He’d left a call out to Brandon, a buddy of his on the San Antonio police force, to verify whether or not Beth Kirksey had really died and her cause of death, if she had.

Even if Ms. Kirksey was dead, it proved nothing.

Tate’s cell phone vibrated in his pants pocket. Juggling Jake on one arm, he checked the caller ID. His buddy from SAPD. His stomach twisted as he pressed the cell phone to his ear. “Yeah.”

“Tate, Brandon Walker here.”

“What did you find out?”

“Beth Kirksey died a week ago. She was struck down by a car that jumped the corner she’d been working. The vehicle hit her head-on and left the scene of the accident without rendering assistance.”

Tate’s arm tightened around Jake until the little guy squirmed. “Any idea who did it?”

“Still looking for the car. A witness reported seeing a black Hummer with chrome grills speeding away from the scene. Not sure it was the one that hit her, but it’s our only lead.”