The Bronc Rider's Baby. Judy Duarte

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      “My grandfather had a couple of friends who are living there, so they put in a good word for me. But don’t worry. I can support a baby. I’ve also managed to sock some cash away.”

      At that she glanced up, her brow furrowed. “I’m not concerned about that. Of course, if you had any financial concerns, I could give you a few referrals to social services.”

      He’d rather die than rely on someone else’s generosity ever again. “I won’t need anything like that.”

      She smiled and gave a little shrug. “That’s good to know, but I’m just a phone call away.” She glanced down at her paperwork. “I assume we have your number.”

      “Yep.” He nodded at the file in her hand. “It’s all there. But you might want to make a note that the cell phone reception on the Rocking C is almost nonexistent, so if you need to get a hold of me, you’d better call the ranch office.”

      “All right.” Again she glanced down at the open file in her hands.

      When she looked up, Nate noticed the unique color of her eyes. They were a honey brown. He supposed you’d call them hazel, with specks of gold and green.

      But it doesn’t matter what color the social worker’s eyes are.

      He returned his focus to the baby and a sudden need to escape what felt more like an inquisition than helpfulness. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but I have to get out of here. She eats every hour or two, so I want to get back to the ranch before she needs another bottle.”

      “Do you mind if I walk you out?” Ms. Reynolds asked.

      Actually, he could use all the support he could get. And if she were anyone else, he’d let her catch a ride all the way to the ranch. But she wasn’t someone who could help.

      Still, even though he felt compelled to duck out of the hospital and leave her in his dust, he nodded his agreement, accepting what he couldn’t change.

      After they both removed the disposable covering the NICU visitors had to wear over their clothing, as well as the goofy-looking paper booties that went over their shoes, Nate and the attractive social worker exited, leaving the safety of the incubators and nursing staff behind.

      As they walked along the corridor to the elevator, the soles of his boots created an interesting harmonic cadence with the click of her heels.

      “It’s a big day,” she said. As if noticing the worry that was probably etched on his face, she glanced at the baby and added, “Taking home a newborn for the first time can be both exciting and a little unnerving.”

      He wouldn’t say it was exciting, but it was certainly unsettling enough to make the toughest cowboy quake in his Tony Lamas. Rather than admit to any uneasiness, let alone a fear of failure, he didn’t respond either way.

      Thankfully, she let the subject drop as they rode the elevator down to the lobby. Once they’d walked out the double glass doors and stepped onto the hospital grounds, the sun was shining warm and bright. The birds chirped overhead, and the water fountain bubbled and gurgled as if it was a perfect Texas afternoon, but Nate knew better. He looked down at the sleeping infant. How could something so small cause so many uncertainties?

      “Do you need any help getting that carrier into its base?” she asked.

      “No, I’ve got it.”

      “Okay, then I’ll let you go. I have a home visit to make.”

      So he wasn’t her only... Her only what? Patient? Client? Case? Either way, that was a bit of a relief.

      “Thanks for your concern,” he told her. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine, Ms. Reynolds.” He hoped his assurance worked, even though it was a line of bull.

      She extended a manicured hand to him. “Please call me Anna.”

      His grip was gentle, but he couldn’t help comparing the softness of her skin to his work-roughened calluses.

      The afternoon sunlight danced upon the long, white-gold strands in her hair, tempting him to touch it, to watch it slip through his fingers and...

      He shook off the inappropriate thought. Anna Reynolds was a beautiful woman, no doubt. In another world, in another life and time, he would have tried to wine and dine her, to date her and see where that might lead.

      But even if they were now on a first-name basis, there was no way he’d think of the social worker assigned to his case in a romantic way.

      Not when she had the power to take Jessica away from him and place the tiny, fragile baby in foster care.

      * * *

      Two days later, after leaving the Brighton Valley Medical Center, Anna made the forty-five-minute drive to the outskirts of Wexler, where the Rocking Chair Ranch was located. Her GPS told her she was getting close, but the actual driveway wasn’t clear.

      When she spotted a small mom-and-pop grocery store along the way, she stopped to purchase a bottle of water and a granola bar.

      “How’s it goin’?” the friendly clerk asked as she totaled the sale.

      That was exactly what she planned to ask Nate when she arrived—without the Southern twang, of course. “Not bad.” For a workday.

      Anna pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her purse. “I’m heading to the Rocking Chair Ranch. Do you know where it is?”

      “It’s about a mile from here. Just look for a long line of mailboxes along the right side of the road. After that you’ll see a yellow sign that points out the entrance. You can’t miss it.”

      “Thanks.” She took her purchases to the car. After opening the granola bar and taking a couple of bites, she continued the drive.

      Sure enough, just ahead she spotted a string of mailboxes, most of them rusty or dented. Fifty yards farther, she saw the sign. Black cursive letters announced that she’d reached the Rocking Chair Ranch, a red arrow pointing the way.

      She flipped on her blinker and turned onto a long, graveled road. Several horses grazed in a pasture that was enclosed by white fencing, the weathered rails in need of a fresh coat of paint.

      Moments later she spotted a red barn, several corrals and a sprawling ranch house. In the shade of a big wraparound porch, several elderly men sat in wooden rockers flanked by clay pots filled with red-and-pink geraniums. It was a peaceful setting, and she could see why a retired cowboy or rancher would feel comfortable living here.

      She wasn’t exactly sure where to park her car, but decided upon a space next to a silver-gray pickup. Then she shut off the ignition, grabbed her purse and briefcase and made her way toward the house. As she strolled over the uneven path to the front porch, she was glad she’d chosen to wear flats today instead of heels.

      Along the walkway, she passed an old tree stump that appeared to have been there for years. A patch of orange-and-yellow marigolds encircled it, making it a rather odd but nice lawn decoration. About ten feet away, in the center of the grass, sat a wooden cart filled with daisies.

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