The Bronc Rider's Baby. Judy Duarte

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.

      As she bypassed a ramp that provided handicap access and approached wooden steps, the men in rocking chairs noted her arrival with a smile. When one tried to stand, she motioned for him to remain seated. The others seemed more interested in watching the activity in the nearest corral, where a cowboy worked with an Appaloosa gelding.

      But it wasn’t just any cowboy. It was Nate Gallagher.

      Anna slowed to a stop and watched the man gentle the nervous horse with a skill that seemed inborn. His movements were a sight to behold. With those broad shoulders and narrow hips, his black Stetson angled just right, he was a sight.

      He filled his boots, those worn jeans and a chambray shirt as if they’d been made with him in mind.

      Back at the hospital, his handsome appeal had been hard to ignore, but she’d noted a nervousness about him.

      That certainly wasn’t the case now. He was clearly in his element on the Rocking C, where he moved with both strength and grace, his self-confidence apparent.

      As Anna continued to watch him work, glued to the way he spoke to the horse, an array of Western movies and their male stars flashed in her mind. Yet Nate stood out from all of them.

      Because he was real, Anna decided. In fact, he was so authentic, she could easily imagine him walking down an Old West street, a leather holster slung low on his hips, two Colt 45s at the ready. She’d never been attracted to cowboys before, but there was something fascinating about this one, something sexy and alluring.

      He glanced her way for a moment then returned his full attention to the gelding. He obviously knew what he was doing with the horse, but how was he doing with little Jessica?

      For that reason, romantically speaking, Nate Gallagher was strictly off-limits.

      “Can I help you?” a male voice asked from behind.

      She glanced over her shoulder to see an elderly cowboy with a thick head of white hair and a warm glimmer in his eyes. She slowly spun around, switched her briefcase to her left hand and greeted him with the customary shake. “I’m Anna Reynolds, a social worker with the Brighton Valley Medical Center. I came by to visit Mr. Gallagher and the baby.”

      “Nice to meet you. I’m Sam Darnell, the Rocking C foreman. I’ll let Nate know that you’re here. In the meantime, why don’t you go in the house? Joy, the ranch cook, has the baby. Last I knew, they were both in the kitchen.”

      “Thank you.” Yet instead of going inside, as Sam had suggested, Anna said, “I imagine having a baby around is a bit of an adjustment for everyone. How are things going?”

      “As good as can be expected, I suppose. Little Jessie isn’t much bigger than a peanut, but Joy says she’s taking to the bottle just fine. She’s also going through the diapers, which I suspect is a good sign.”

      Anna smiled. “Yes, that’s a very good sign.” But there’d been more behind her question than that. She’d also wanted to know how Nate was doing. Was he adjusting to fatherhood? Was he bonding with his daughter?

      In spite of the air of confidence he’d tried to project when he’d taken the baby home from the hospital, she’d sensed his discomfort and uneasiness. But she didn’t blame him for that. Suddenly being responsible for a newborn could be daunting under the best of circumstances, but it was even more stressful and worrisome when the baby was premature.

      She stole another peek at the handsome cowboy, her gaze lingering longer than it should.

      “When you wanted to know how ‘things’ were going,” the white-haired foreman said, “I guess you were actually wondering about how Nate was doing.”

      She returned her focus to Sam. Normally, she