Texas Mum. Roz Fox Denny

hooves grazing Dario’s thigh. The handlers wrestled the animal into submission long enough for Dario to clip a brand pin through the bull’s ear. The men rattled off apologies, asking Dario in Spanish if he needed to have his leg looked at.

      He shook his head. In spite of limping, he motioned for them to bring in the next bull. As he waited for them, his mind wandered. A son. Had he really fathered a child? The very notion sent warmth curling through his chest.

      It wasn’t until he’d pinned three more bulls that he allowed himself to think about Delaney again. Five years had done nothing to dull the attributes he’d found so appealing when they’d met. Her red hair blazed like a wildfire. No less spunky, for sure, but maybe now she was thinner. He had noticed a change in her eyes. Still clear aqua in color, the bubbly spark had dimmed, replaced by a weariness he feared he’d had a part in causing. Undoubtedly he bore some blame. Maybe her dad hadn’t told her he’d kicked them off his ranch. His own Papa would do that if he caught someone sneaking out of Maria Sofia’s bedroom.

      What a mess. Delaney’s life had certainly been altered forever. Not just having borne a child alone, but dealing with the abrupt death of her father. He could sure relate to that. And if, as she’d indicated, Mr. Blair’s demise had left her without the only home she’d ever known, well, it’d be a high hurdle to overcome. He had thought his family had weathered too much in the accident that took his stepmother’s life and paralyzed his dad from the waist down. Always stalwart, strong and larger than life, Arturo Sanchez had been left crotchety and bitter. Hell on wheels was how Vicente put it. Add to that their business problems, and their family dynamics had been transformed, leaving all of them short-tempered. Maybe losing their share of the US bull market wasn’t Delaney’s fault. She’d acted surprised. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to excuse the fact she’d waited five years to inform him he had a son—if indeed he did.

      * * *

      MARIA SOFIA RAISED her voice as she chattered nonstop on the ride back to Delaney’s SUV. Much of her conversation blew away on the wind.

      As she reined to a halt by the automobile, she said, “Instead of leaving and going back to Buenos Aires, you need to stay. I know, why don’t you share our evening meal? If you like steak.” She wrinkled her nose in apparent distaste. “Consuelo is an excellent cook. She always prepares enough for a half dozen guests.”

      “I can’t barge in on a meal. It’s clear I’m persona non grata with the bulk of your family,” Delaney said with panic, as she dismounted and shook down her dress. “With luck I may be able to have the hotel concierge arrange an earlier flight back to Texas for me. I’ve hit a brick wall here. I shouldn’t have come, but I had to take the chance, don’t you see?”

      Leaning out of the saddle, Maria Sofia squeezed Delaney’s shoulder. “Don’t give up hope. Have faith that Dayo will think this over and do the right thing.”

      The girl looked so earnest, Delaney’s dispirited heart gave one tiny lurch of hope. “I appreciate all you’ve done, Maria Sofia.” She slipped out from under the girl’s touch and opened her driver’s door. Taking her purse out from under the seat, she dug out the ignition key and slid beneath the wheel.

      “Wait,” Maria Sofia called, dismounting in a leap. “Dayo said for me to get your phone number. And I’ll give you mine so you can let me know if you’re able to get a seat on an earlier flight.” She tugged a phone from her jeans pocket and hit a few keys before turning an expectant gaze on Delaney.

      Delaney rattled off a string of numbers, then retrieved her cell and keyed in Maria Sofia’s contact information even though she was nowhere near as optimistic as Maria Sofia that Dario would have a change of heart. She managed a smile and a wave while sparing a last look at the walled estancia as she drove off.

      * * *

      DARIO LIMPED IN late to the evening meal. He’d finished tagging the entire crop of young bulls, separating out a good number to be made steers at a later date. He hadn’t been surprised to find his leg turning purple where he’d been kicked by the bull. He was bloody where the sharp hoof had split his skin.

      “You’ve kept us waiting almost fifteen minutes,” Arturo Sanchez groused from his seat at the head of the large dining table. His wheelchair was within reach, but the family patriarch refused to remain in the chair at mealtimes.

      “You didn’t have to wait on me,” Dario said, sitting next to Vicente. The whole family knew their father was a stickler for dinner being served at nine on the dot, as did most Argentinians.

      Their cook, Consuelo Martinez, who’d been hired by Maria Sofia’s mother, bustled into the room bearing a large metal platter filled with sizzling bife de lomo, sirloin steaks grilled to each man’s preference. Arturo insisted his meat be muy jugoso—very rare. Vicente took his jugoso—not so rare. Dario and Lorenzo liked theirs a punto, or medium. Maria Sofia didn’t like meat, and so Consuelo served her a crisp ensalada before she set the family-sized salad bowl in front of Arturo, along with a newly opened bottle of red wine. The old man tasted the wine, approved of it, then passed the bottle to Vicente to pour for the others. Each night, Arturo’s sour expression showed his anger that the accident had left him unable to walk around the table to fill everyone else’s glass. No one spoke until after their father offered up a short prayer to the Blessed Virgin. Since the accident, mealtime discussions had become restrained.

      But this evening everyone quit eating when, seconds after the prayer, Dario picked up his glass of wine and casually announced, “I banded all the bulls today. Tomorrow Marcus and Jesus will start castrating the animals we culled out. Then I’ll be going to America for a week or so to take care of some private business.”

      Maria Sofia clapped her hands and squealed. “I knew you’d do what’s right. And I’m going with you, Dayo,” she said in English.

      Their father’s head shot up, and his upper body stiffened. “What is this nonsense? You can’t go anywhere during calving.” His Spanish was precise.

      Vicente let his fork clatter against his plate. “How did the woman find you? I ordered her to leave the property when she buzzed at the gate.”

      “Who buzzed?” their younger brother Lorenzo asked. “What woman? Are you holding out on us, Dayo?” he added with a laugh.

      “It’s the Blair woman from Texas,” Vicente spat. “The one whose father screwed us over and cost us a bundle in money and prestige the month Papa had his accident.”

      “Oh. Her.” Lorenzo scowled at Dario.

      “I repeat, how did she find you?” Vicente sneered as he shoved aside his plate.

      “I took her to see him,” Maria Sofia said lightly. “She had good reason to be here. And Dayo has good reason to make this trip. Tell them,” she said. “Papa, you won’t let me sell bulls, so I’ll go have a look at Texas.”

      Arturo pounded his fist on the table. “Enough,” he roared. “There is nothing the Blair woman could possibly say or do to warrant Dario going to see her. If she’s come sniffing around, she’s probably discovered that you’re now a full partner in the estancia, son. And Maria Sofia, you only just got home from London. You need to enroll in a dance class and volunteer at the museum. I already spoke to the curator on your behalf. We’ll stop this talk and everyone will eat the flan Consuelo prepared.”

      Anger simmering, Dario wadded his napkin and dropped it on his plate. For some reason he didn’t like his family tearing into Delaney. “I don’t recall asking permission to take a week off, Papa. I’m going, and my business with Dr. Blair is personal.”

      “I’ll say,” Maria Sofia purred. “Delaney Blair claims she has a four-year-old son, and Dayo’s the boy’s father.”

      Everyone’s utensils clattered against their china. Stunned silence hung in the air. Suddenly, Arturo swore in rapid-fire Spanish, and Vicente and Lorenzo shouted questions in Spanglish—which wasn’t uncommon as they frequently switched from one language to the other for business.

      “Why