there when his car's engine roared to life and her son came darting back down the stairs.
Quickly she snatched up the papers and pushed them into the closest drawer.
'What was he here for?' Bryan wanted to know. 'How come he was wearing a suit?'
'A lot of men wear suits.'' She would evade, but she wouldn't lie, not to Bryan. 'And stay out of the refrigerator. I'm starting dinner.'
With his hand on the door of the fridge, Bryan rolled his eyes. 'I'm starving. I can't wait for dinner.'
Savannah plucked an apple from a bowl and tossed it over her shoulder, smiling to herself when she heard the solid smack of Bryan's catch.
'Shane said it was okay if we went by after school tomorrow and looked at the kittens some more. The farm's really cool, Mom. You should see.'
'I've seen farms before.'
'Yeah, but this one's neat. He's got two dogs. Fred and Ethel.'
'Fred and—' She broke off into laughter. 'Maybe I will have to see that.'
'And from the hayloft you can see clear into town. Connor says part of the battle was fought right there on the fields. Probably dead guys everywhere.'
'Now that sounds really enticing.'
'And I was thinking—' Bryan crunched into his apple, tried to sound casual '—you'd maybe want to come over and look at the kittens.'
'Oh, would I?'
'Well, yeah. Connor said maybe Shane would give some away when they were weaned. You might want one.'
She set a lid on the chicken she was sauteing. 'I would?'
'Sure, yeah, for, like, company when I'm in school.' He smiled winningly. 'So you wouldn't get lonely.'
Savannah shifted her weight onto her hip and studied him owlishly. 'That's a good one, Bry. Really smooth.'
That was what he'd been counting on. 'So can I?'
She would have given him the world, not just one small kitten. 'Sure.' Her laughter rolled free when he launched himself into her arms.
With the meal over, the dishes done, the homework that terrified her finished and the child who was her life tucked into bed with his ball cap, Savannah sat on the front-porch swing and watched the woods.
She enjoyed the way night always deepened there first, as if it had a primary claim. Later there might be the hoot of an owl, or the rumbling low of Shane MacKade's cattle. Sometimes, if it was very quiet, or there'd been rain, she could hear the bubble of creek over rocks.
It was too early in the spring yet for the flash and shimmer of fireflies. She looked forward to them, and hoped Bryan wasn't yet beyond the stage where he would chase them. She wanted to watch him run in his own yard in the starlight on a warm summer night when the flowers were blooming, the air was thick with their perfume, and the woods were a dense curtain closing them off from everyone and everything.
She wanted him to have a kitten to play with, friends to call his own, a childhood filled with moments that lasted forever.
A childhood that would be everything hers had never been.
Setting the swing into motion, she leaned back and drank in the absolute quiet of a country night.
It had taken her ten long, hard years to get here, on this swing, on this porch, in this house. There wasn't a moment of it she regretted. Not the sacrifice, the pain, the worry, the risk. Because to regret one was to regret all. To regret one was to regret Bryan. And that was impossible.
She had exactly what she had strived for now, and she had earned it herself, despite odds brutally stacked against her.
She was exactly where she wanted to be, who she wanted to be, and no ghost from the past would spoil it for her.
How dare he offer her money, when all she'd ever wanted was his love?
So Jim Morningstar was dead. The hard-drinking, hard-living, hardheaded son of a bitch had ridden his last bronco, roped his last bull. Now she was supposed to grieve. Now she was supposed to be grateful that, at the end, he'd thought of her. He'd thought of the grandchild he'd never wanted, never even seen.
He'd chosen his pride over his daughter, and the tiny flicker of life that had been inside her. Now, after all this time, he'd thought to make up for that with just under eight thousand dollars.
The hell with him, Savannah thought wearily, and closed her eyes. Eight million couldn't make her forget, and it sure as hell couldn't buy her forgiveness. And no lawyer in a fancy suit with killer eyes and a silver tongue was going to change her mind.
Jared MacKade could go to hell right along with Jim Morningstar.
He'd had no business coming onto her land as if he belonged there, standing in her kitchen sipping lemonade, talking about college funds, smiling so sweetly at her boy. He'd had no right to aim that smile at her—not so outrageously—and stir up all those juices that she'd deliberately let go flat and dry.
Well, she wasn't dead, after all, she thought with a heartfelt sigh. Some men seemed to have been created to stir a woman's juices.
She didn't want to sit here on this beautiful spring night and think about how long it had been since she'd held a man, or been held. She really didn't want to think at all, but he'd walked across her lawn and shaken her laboriously constructed world in less time than it took to blink.
Her father was dead, and she was very much alive. Lawyer MacKade had made those two facts perfectly clear in one short visit.
However much she wanted to avoid it, she was going to have to deal with both those facts. Eventually she would have to face Jared again. If she didn't seek him out, she was certain, he'd be back. He had that bull dog look about him, pretty suit and tie or not.
So, she would have to decide what to do. And she would have to tell Bryan. He had a right to know his grandfather was dead. He had a right to know about the legacy.
But just for tonight, she wouldn't think, she wouldn't worry, she wouldn't wonder.
She wasn't aware for a long time that her cheeks were wet, her shoulders were shaking, the sobs were tearing at her throat. Curling into a ball, she buried her face against her knees.
'Oh, Daddy...'
Chapter Two
Jared wasn't opposed to farm work. He wouldn't care to make it a living, as Shane did, but he wasn't opposed to putting in a few hours now and again. Since he'd put his house in town on the market and moved back home, he pitched in whenever he had the time. It was the kind of work you never forgot, the rhythms easy to fall back into— ones your muscles soon remembered. The milking, the feeding, the plowing, the sowing.
Stripped down to a sweaty T-shirt and old jeans, he hauled out hay bales for the dairy stock. The black-and- white cows lumbered for the trough, wide, sturdy bodies bumping, tails swishing. The scent of them was a reminder of youth, of his father most of all.
Buck MacKade had tended his cows well, and had taught his boys to see them as a responsibility, as well as a way of making a living. For him, the farm had been very simply a way of life—and Jared knew the same was true of Shane. He wondered now, as he fell back into the routine of tending, what his father would have thought of his oldest son, the lawyer.
He probably would have been a little baffled by the choice of suit and tie, of paper drafted and filed, of appearances and appointments. But Jared hoped he would have been proud. He needed to believe his father would have been proud.
But this wasn't such a bad way to spend a Saturday, he mused, after a week of courtrooms and paperwork.
Nearby, Shane whistled a mindless tune and herded the cows in to feed. And looked, Jared realized, very much as their father would have—dusty jeans, dusty shirt loose on a tough, disciplined body, worn cap over hair that needed a barber's touch.
