Logan's Child. Lenora Worth

Why, I’ve hired a firm just to address and mail out the invitations, and then I’ve got the caterers and the florists to deal with. I could really use your help, since this is all for you, anyway.”

      Automatically forgiving her mother’s barbs and ignoring the excited pitch of Pamela’s line of conversation, Trixie replied, “You’ll do a great job on the party. You’ve always been one of the best hostesses in Dallas, whether it’s for me or anyone else. And I promise I’ll be there soon.”

      The compliment soothed Pamela’s fragile ego enough that she gave in. “Oh, all right. Just shed yourself of that place, once and for all, so you can get on with your life.”

      Trixie hung up, wondering if Pamela had a clue as to what her daughter really wanted out of life. For years now, Trixie had let her mother steer the reins of her existence. And Pamela had taken full advantage of Trixie’s disinterest, guiding her to what she believed to be all the right places and all the best people. Trixie had allowed it out of guilt, mostly, and because she herself didn’t have the strength or the ambition to really care.

      Now, however, Trixie felt the tides of her future changing. It had taken her father’s death to cause her to see the light. She’d missed out on so much; she could have been here, by his side, helping him to realize his dream. It was such a big, lofty dream, yet with such a simple concept. He wanted to help others; he wanted to be fair and good and kind and nurturing. And Brant Dunaway had been all of those things. Too late, Trixie saw that now.

      Now she was ready to take charge, to make her own decisions, to take a chance. She’d lived in fear over the past eight years, allowing her domineering mother to call the shots. Now, after discovering a whole new side to the father she’d lost touch with, she was willing to go on faith.

      But what if she made another mistake?

      A knock at her bedroom door brought her head up. Too late to worry about that now. She’d agreed to stay. She wouldn’t go back on that promise, no matter how much her doubt nagged at her, right along with her mother, to go back home.

      She opened the door to find Logan standing in the upstairs hallway, his hat in his hand, his feet braced apart as he stared down at her. Giving her a quick once-over, he said, “Didn’t you bring any working outfits?”

      Looking down at her short-sleeved, flowerembroidered blue cotton shirt and matching walking shorts, Trixie shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t bring the proper ranch hand attire. Any suggestions?”

      Logan squinted, then made a face. “Well, it ain’t what you’re wearing, that’s for sure.”

      Trixie frowned. What she was wearing consisted of the best in designer casual wear. “Should I change?”

      He snorted, then dragged her out into the hallway with a hand encircling her wrist. “What, into something even more ridiculous than that? No, I kinda like it, even though it’s way too fancy for slopping hogs.”

      Trixie pulled back, her eyes going wide. “Slopping hogs? I’m here to observe, Logan. I don’t plan on getting up close and personal with any farm animals.”

      He urged her on ahead of him, his cowboy boots clicking on the planked landing. “Oh, and how are you going to get a feel for this operation if you don’t get some hands-on experience?”

      Not liking the glee in his tone, Trixie cast a glance at him over her shoulder. If he thought she was going to do physical labor, he was in for a big surprise. “Can’t I just watch and still get a feel?”

      “Better to get down-and-dirty,” he said, his grin telling her that he planned to make her time here a real learning experience.

      “You’re doing this on purpose,” she chided as they marched down the open, planked stairway. “Is this your way of getting revenge on me?”

      “Maybe,” he readily admitted as they reached the long, spacious Western-style den. “Of course, if I wanted to really chap your hide, I could just kiss you again.”

      The minute he said it, the teasing light went out of his eyes to be replaced with something deeper and much more intimate. Maybe he was remembering that kiss they’d shared last night in the tack room. It had certainly caused her to remember other kisses and other such teasing conversations.

      But since she’d just assured her mother that nothing was stirring between Logan and her, she felt obligated to fight him off. “I’ll take the pigs,” she retorted, half serious, half afraid he’d really kiss her again, just as punishment.

      Logan shook his head, his dark eyes flashing. “Now, that sure makes me feel good about my kissing abilities.” Then he turned completely serious again. “Maybe we should make a pact, though—to keep this strictly business.”

      Trixie saw the brief flash of need warming his dark eyes. Nodding her head, she said, “Good idea. Just show me the ranch, Logan, and I’ll make a decision by the end of the week. Then I’ll be out of your hair one way or another.”

      Wanting confirmation, he asked, “So does that mean if you decide to keep the place, you’ll give me complete control on how to run it?”

      “That depends,” she replied. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. If she kept the ranch, she’d have to put in an occasional appearance, to make sure the operation was run according to Brant’s wishes. That could prove to be very awkward, especially if he tried to kiss her every time they were alone.

      “On what?” Logan asked, his gaze direct and questioning.

      Hoping to keep things light for now, she retorted, “On whether you make me slop pigs or not.”

      Logan managed a smile as he watched her move through the den to the kitchen. One week. One week of torment and torture, one week of having her near, and knowing she had to go back to her world and the man she’d pledged to marry. One week to convince her that she couldn’t sell out her heritage. One week to show Tricia Maria Dunaway that she shouldn’t sell out, or sell herself short, either. She could do this; she could gain a lot from this ranch. If she was willing to give a little.

      And…he could do this. He could do what he had to do to keep this ranch, and his secrets, intact.

      But as he watched her now, standing there in her expensive, baby blue ensemble, sipping coffee like a princess as she looked out over the blossoming dawn, Logan knew being with Trixie again would be one of the hardest things he’d ever had to suffer through.

      Trixie looked at him then, her blue eyes a perfect match to her fashionable outfit, her cool attitude a perfect example of his notion of all she represented. He had no way of knowing she was a bundle of nerves and that sweat moistened the crisp cotton of her button-up blouse. He had no way of knowing that she was thinking this would be one of the hardest weeks of her life.

      “Does Logan make you all work this hard every day?” Trixie asked Marco a couple of hours later.

      They stood inside the hog pen, filling a trough with fresh water for the many sows and what looked like thousands of squealing, pink-nosed piglets. In spite of the chaos of animals and teenagers, the place was neat and tidy. The tightly wired fences stretched in symmetric order across the expanse of the paddock, and the animals looked healthy and well fed, their stalls full of fresh hay and clean, cool water.

      Trixie only hoped she hadn’t mixed up too many piglets when they’d moved the babies and cleaned the stalls earlier. How was she supposed to know which pig went with which sow, anyway? “That man put me in here on purpose. Well, we’ll show him, huh, Marco?” That is, if she hadn’t orphaned some poor piglet already.

      Marco grinned, his black eyes squinting together as he stared up at his new blond-haired friend. “We call him the pigmeister,” he said, his words meant for her ears only. “Mr. Logan wants us to learn responsibility,” he added, his tone changing to somber as he reconsidered calling his boss/foster parent a derogatory name.

      Trixie smiled down at the youngster. He was really sweet, if not somewhat street-wise. As were all of the half dozen