Rock-A-Bye Rancher. Judy Duarte

her ten-year-old brother answered the telephone, his aggravation came out loud and clear in the tone of his voice.

      “Listen up,” Dani said, proceeding to make a deal with him to take him out this evening if he behaved himself.

      Enthusiasm chased away his frustration. “Okay, I’ll go outside and play. But can we see Revenge of the Zombies?”

      “That’s not a movie I want Delia to see,” Dani said. Actually, she didn’t want Marcos to see it, either. And God knew she didn’t want to sit through it.

      “But the deal is off if we have to see one of those dumb princess cartoons,” he said.

      Dani hated negotiating with a ten-year-old, but time and her options were running out. “I’ll find something we’ll all enjoy. Now take that bat outside and stop harassing the girls.”

      “All right.”

      When the line disconnected, Dani blew out an exaggerated sigh. She may have settled the dispute, at least temporarily, but she had a feeling there would be another crisis on the home front before the day was done.

      She stood, tugged at her skirt, checked to see that her blouse was tucked in, then adjusted her jacket.

      One of these days she feared the transformation from frenzied guardian to competent professional would fail and she’d be exposed as the phony she was—at least when it came to running a household.

      For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to be an attorney. And now that she’d made it, she wanted to excel in her new career. But something always interfered.

      Something at home.

      Get your mind back on work, she told herself as she entered Martin’s office.

      Her boss wasn’t alone. Seated in front of his desk was a rugged, dark-haired man who looked to be in his forties, although it was hard to say for sure.

      He was a big man, with broad shoulders and an imposing air. Instead of the typical garb of another attorney or most of their clients, he sported western wear—expensive black boots, denim jeans, a hand-tooled leather belt, a crisply pressed white shirt. Even seated, there was something commanding about him, something that drew her attention in a way that was more than professional curiosity.

      He stood when she entered, and his presence seemed to take up the entire room.

      “Clay,” Martin said to the client, “this is Daniela de la Cruz, our newest attorney. Don’t let her youth fool you. She’s a real go-getter.” Then he looked at Dani and grinned. “Daniela, this is Clay Callaghan. The firm handles all his legal affairs.”

      Dani had never met Mr. Callaghan before, but from the first day she was handed a key to the front door, she’d made it a point to learn all she could about the firm’s major clients. Clay Callaghan was one of them.

      He owned an impressive cattle ranch and was involved in several other business ventures—all successful and thriving. However, this denim-clad cowboy didn’t look at all like the successful businessman she’d imagined. No fancy suit, no flashy smile. Instead, he reminded her of a Marlboro man. An outdoorsman who would be uncomfortable in a board-room.

      Yet it was she who was caught off guard, unbalanced by his presence.

      As he reached out a hand to greet her, stunning eyes, the color of a mountain meadow, locked on hers.

      He’d taken off his hat, but by the way his dark, unruly hair had been compressed, she doubted he went without it very often.

      His hand continued to hold hers in a warm grip, his callused skin stimulating her senses and sending a shimmy of heat up her arm and into her chest, where it kicked her pulse up a notch.

      “How do you do?” His voice, deep and gravelly, did a real number on her, too, intriguing her as much as his touch. Like his skin, it was weathered and sun baked.

      As he loosened his grip and released her, she fought the impulse to clasp her empty hand to her chest and study him like a mesmerized child on a field trip to a Wild West museum.

      Yet he hadn’t really let go of her. The intensity in his expression made it difficult for her to breathe, let alone speak, and she wasn’t at all sure why.

      “Martin tells me that you speak Spanish,” Mr. Callaghan said.

      She cleared the cobwebs from her throat. “Yes, I do. Fluently.”

      He nodded, as though she’d passed some kind of hurdle. And it pleased her that she had. Working with one of the firm’s top clients gave her a bit of a professional rush.

      Or was it the man himself?

      There was something about Clay Callaghan that appealed to her, interested her. His cowboy demeanor, she supposed. The way he stood when a lady entered the room. The fact that he didn’t carry his wealth and success the way another man might.

      He had fifteen or twenty years on her, she suspected. But it didn’t seem to matter at all—professionally, speaking, of course.

      Martin pushed his chair back from his cherry wood desk, placed his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers. “Nearly a year ago, while participating in a semester abroad program in Guadalajara, Trevor, Clay’s only child, was killed in a car accident.”

      “I’m sorry,” she said, her gaze lighting on the brooding client and recognizing it was grief that clouded his expression.

      Mr. Callaghan didn’t respond, allowing Martin to continue.

      “A couple of hours ago, he received word that Trevor fathered a child while in Mexico. He needs to fly out this afternoon and pick up his orphaned granddaughter. He’s going to need an attorney, as well as an interpreter, to go with him.”

      She nodded.

      Uh-oh. He’d also just asked if she spoke Spanish. Were they suggesting that she…?

      Think fast, she prodded herself.

      “How long will it take for you to pack?” Martin asked her.

      Dani struggled to keep her reaction casual and like that of any other twenty-five-year-old, unmarried professional who didn’t have any pressing family obligations to consider.

      She could think of a multitude of reasons why Martin should ask another attorney to make the trip. First of all, there was the issue of her anxiety—God, she hated to fly. Just the thought of taking off in a plane and heading to Mexico scared the liver out of her. Second, she couldn’t just up and leave the kids. She’d need to find a competent sitter, which wouldn’t be easy. Then there was the fact that she’d volunteered to take Marcos and Delia to a movie tonight. Even sitting through a whacky cartoon this evening, followed by Revenge of the Zombies, was more appealing than going on a business trip to Mexico.

      She opened her mouth to object, then realized refusing to go might jeopardize her career.

      Martin cleared his throat in a way that made her realize he wasn’t pleased with her lack of enthusiasm. “Is there a problem with you leaving this afternoon, Daniela?”

      Maybe her job didn’t hang in the balance, but her reputation as a career-minded employee did. So she swallowed her reluctance, as well as her anxiety about flying. “No, there isn’t a problem. But I’ll need a little time to…uh…ensure things are taken care of in my absence.”

      “How much time?” the Marlboro Man asked. “I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

      “An hour or two,” she said, thinking it wasn’t enough. “But I’ll do my best to hurry.”

      “Then what are you waiting for?” Martin asked. “Clay’s pilot is having the plane fueled right now and working on a flight plan.”

      “If you’ll give me your address,” Mr. Callaghan said, “I’ll pick you up. Or better yet, why don’t I follow you home? We can leave from there.”

      Follow