The Taming Of Tyler Kincaid. Sandra Marton

sure that was what he wanted.

      She was lovely, and charming, and he’d enjoyed the time he’d been with her, but the affair had run its course. He was willing to admit that was his fault but what Adrianna had said about him wasn’t true. There was nothing the matter with him. He did feel things. If he never spoke of love, it was simply because he couldn’t bring himself to lie.

      He liked women, liked their soft laughter and their scent, but that didn’t mean he was going to pretend there was more to the best of male-female relationships than a few months of companionship, good times and sex.

      Sex was something he never lied about. It was a need, a powerful one, and if you shared it with a beautiful, interesting, willing woman, it was one of the most pleasurable things in life.

      A smile curled across the corner of Tyler’s mouth. Finding women to adorn his arm and warm his bed had never been a problem.

      For now, though, he was going to concentrate his energies on an enigma named John Smith. And Smith was an enigma, one not even the detective he’d hired had been able to unravel.

      “I have to tell you, Mr. Kincaid,” Ed Crane had said, when they’d met for breakfast the prior week, “this is one of the toughest investigations I’ve ever done.”

      Tyler’s eyed had narrowed. “Meaning?”

      “Meaning,” Crane had replied, around a mouthful of buttermilk gravy, “all I know is what’s in that report I sent you this morning.”

      “Humor me,” Tyler said, with a smile that made the phrase a lie. “I haven’t had time to do much besides glance at it. Smith was born in Texas?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “On a windblown acre of dusty soil?”

      “No, sir, Mr. Kincaid. We’re talking about a ranch the size of a small country.” Crane offered his best good old boy smile. “Anywhere but Texas, this Espada would be flying its own flag. Cattle, horses, oil wells—this isn’t any windblown acre. It’s a miniature kingdom.”

      “A kingdom,” Tyler said slowly.

      “Yes, indeedy. Ruled by an old hard-ass name of Jonas Baron. The guy was eighty-five last summer, he’s on wife number five, he’s got three sons and a stepdaughter—a kingdom and a king, sir, that’s the setup at Espada.”

      “And John Smith was born there.” Tyler eyed Crane over the rim of his coffee cup. “To whom?”

      Crane’s smile faded. “Well, that’s the problem. We haven’t been able to turn up a record so far. But there are some strong possibilities.”

      Tyler put down his coffee cup. “Such as?”

      “I’d rather wait until I have all the facts, sir.”

      “And I wouldn’t.”

      Crane cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a housekeeper, woman named Carmen. She was pregnant that winter, would have delivered just about the middle of the summer.”

      Tyler nodded, waited to feel some reaction but didn’t. Whoever his mother had been, she’d dumped him fast enough. Only a fool would feel anything for a woman like that.

      “Possibilities, you said.”

      “Yes, sir. There were a couple of married ranch hands working at the place that summer, one, maybe two, with wives who were expecting.”

      Tyler smiled stiffly. “A fertile place, this Espada.”

      Crane grinned. “Yeah.”

      “Anyone else?”

      “Jonas Baron’s wife—wife number one—was expecting, too. But that one’s easy to rule out.”

      “Yes. You already said, Baron has three sons.”

      “He does, Mr. Kincaid, and they were all born after the year you specified.” Crane reached for another biscuit, thought better of it and let his jowly face settle into more serious lines. “Besides, the baby and Mrs. Baron both died in childbirth. The two of them are buried out there, on the ranch.”

      “Which leaves us with the housekeeper and the cowboys.”

      “That’s right, sir. So, what do you think? You want me to keep on digging?”

      For a moment, Tyler had been tempted to tell the man to end the investigation. His mother was either a housekeeper or the wife of an itinerant cowboy. Either way, she’d abandoned him with less thought than most people gave to an old shoe. Not that it mattered. He’d done just fine on his own. He wasn’t even sure exactly why he’d started this search. He’d been in a strange mood the night of his birthday, that was all.

      On the other hand, he’d never been able to resist a puzzle. It was part of the reason he’d succeeded in business. What made people take one path, instead of another? His mother had given birth to him, then dumped him on a doorstep. Why? Why hadn’t she turned him over to an adoption agency? And why would a woman rise from the bed where she’d just delivered a child and go all the way to Atlanta to get rid of it?

      “Mr. Kincaid? Shall I keep going? Another couple weeks, I’ll have a better fix on things. You just need to be patient.”

      Patient, Tyler had thought. It was a logical suggestion, easy for a man to make when it wasn’t his past that was being uncovered but after thirty-five years, what was the rush? But there was a rush; he didn’t understand it but he could feel it, in his belly. So he’d nodded, told Crane to keep on digging. The meeting had ended, Tyler had returned to his office and buried himself in work.

      An hour later, he’d given up pretending. How could a man work when his head was filled with pictures of a place he’d never seen and images of three faceless women, one of whom was probably his mother? He’d called in his personal assistant and his first vice president, told them he was going away for a while and that he’d keep in touch by e-mail and phone. They’d both looked surprised but he knew they wouldn’t question him. Nobody ever questioned Tyler Kincaid.

      “Fine,” his P.A. said.

      His vice president shook his hand and wished him a pleasant vacation.

      Tyler hadn’t bothered correcting him. There wasn’t much he could have said that wouldn’t have made him look even more surprised, so he’d smiled and said he’d certainly try. And here he was, trudging into a gully on a dusty road in the middle of nowhere, his shirt stuck to his skin with sweat, looking for answers that probably wouldn’t matter a damn once he found them.

      “Hell,” he said, and came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the slope. Was he crazy? Who gave a damn about John Smith? He’d ceased to exist years ago. What did it matter if—

      “Look out!”

      He heard the hoofbeats and the cry almost simultaneously, spun around and saw a horse crest the top of the slope and fly toward him. Tyler flung himself out of the way and the animal thundered by with only inches to spare.

      Tyler went down in the brush at the side of the road, then he scrambled to his feet. The horse and its rider, a boy who didn’t look as if he had enough muscle to control a pony much less a horse that looked as high-strung as this one, were drawing up a couple of dozen yards down the road. The horse turned, blowing hard. The rider rose in the saddle and looked at him.

      Tyler waited for some word. An apology. A question. Are you okay? seemed like a good start but the boy didn’t speak. He sat down again, straight as a ramrod in the saddle, while the horse blew and snorted. The kid was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead so he couldn’t see his face, but every inch of the boy’s posture indicated contempt.

      Tyler drew in a breath, enough to calm his runaway heart rate. Then he plucked his hat from the dirt, knocked off the dust and jammed it on his head as he moved into the center of the road..

      “You damned near ran me down,” he yelled.

      The