Logan's Child

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Epigraph

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Copyright

Trixie knew she couldn’t hide from the truth forever.

Even though no one, absolutely no one, in Dallas knew about the baby, Trixie knew in her heart, knew in her soul, that somewhere out there she had a child.

It was her great secret, her great burden to bear. She had yet to forgive herself for her one youthful indiscretion, or for allowing those around her to force her to send her child away.

Sometimes she lay awake at night, asking God to help her bear the sorrow of her secret.

Did God ever hear her pleas? Could she ever be whole again?

Tomorrow she would face her past. Face the man she had loved so fiercely.

And Trixie desperately wished she could turn back time…

LENORA WORTH

grew up in a small Georgia town and decided in the fourth grade that she wanted to write. But first, she married her high school sweetheart, then moved to Atlanta, Georgia. Taking care of their baby daughter at home while her husband worked at night, Lenora discovered the world of romance novels and knew that’s what she wanted to write. And so she began.

A few years later, the family settled in Shreveport, Louisiana, where Lenora continued to write while working as a marketing assistant. After the birth of her second child, a boy, she decided to pursue full time her dream of writing. In 1993, Lenora’s hard work and determination finally paid off with that first sale.

“I never gave up, and I believe my faith in God helped get me through the rough times when I doubted myself,” Lenora says. “Each time I start a new book, I say a prayer, asking God to give me the strength and direction to put the words to paper. That’s why I’m so thrilled to be a part of Steeple Hill’s Love Inspired line, where I get to combine my faith in God with my love of romance. It’s the best combination.”

Logan’s Child

Lenora Worth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy.

He who continually goes forth weeping, bearing seed for sowing, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.

—Psalm 126:5-6

For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

—Psalm 30:5

To my best friend and neighbor, Cindy Sledge, my own “Pig Pal.” And to all the mothers who love their children, even when they can’t be with them. You are not forgotten.

Chapter One

A hot, humid September wind whipped across the flat countryside as mourners dressed in fashionable funeral black filed out of the small country church just outside Plano, Texas. Mingling together beside the expensive sports cars and chauffeur-driven limousines lining the graveled driveway, the elite crowd talked in hushed, respectful tones.

Tricia Maria Dunaway looked around at the cream of Dallas society, here to say their final farewells to her father, the famous bull rider, Brant Dunaway. Her mind was numb with grief and shock; her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses that did little to relieve the harsh glare of the bright Texas sun. Beside her, her fiance Radford Randolph III, looking as dapper as always in his dark navy summer suit, stood with one arm solicitously touching her elbow.

“C’mon, honey,” her grandfather, Harlan Dunaway, said, his usually firm voice shaky. “We’ve got to get back to the Hideaway. People’ll be coming around to pay their respects and it’s up to us to be there to greet them.”

Her mother, Pamela, pale and dark-haired, elegant and slender, in a black linen sheath and cultured pearls, nodded her agreement. “Granddaddy’s right, Trixie. We wouldn’t want to be rude to all these good people who came to your daddy’s funeral.”

Trixie looked straight ahead. “No, Mama, Dunaways can’t ever be rude, can we? I mean, what would people think?”

Pamela’s brown eyes held a glint as cold and hardedged as the huge marquis diamond in her necklace. “I’m going to ignore that remark, Tricia Maria, only because I know losing your father has been a great strain on you.”

With a halfhearted effort, Trixie reached up a black-gloved hand to touch her mother’s still smooth cheekbone. “I’m sorry, Mama. I know you gave up a trip to Palm Beach to make it to Daddy’s funeral. I guess I shouldn’t be mean to you.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Pamela retorted, her smile, exacted for the benefit of prying eyes, as intact as her unruffled classic bob. “Even though your father and I were divorced, I still had feelings for the man.”

Trixie didn’t respond. She’d heard it all too many times before. Too many times. Not even Rad’s gentle endearments could bring her out of her deep grief.

She’d sat here in the church were she’d attended services all of her life and listened as Reverend Henry told them to rejoice in Brant’s departure from this life.

“Be joyful,” the good reverend told them. “’They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.’”

In spite of her faith, in spite of the strong Christian values she’d been taught, Trixie couldn’t feel any joy today. After all those many years of riding bucking, angry bulls and fighting his way into and out of barroom brawls, Brant Dunaway had lost his life to the one thing even he couldn’t fight off or sweet-talk his way out of—heart disease.

How could she find any joy in that cold, simple fact? How could she find any joy at all, when in her heart she kept thinking she should have stayed close to her father. She should have made him go to the doctor, take care of himself, live to be an old man. But…instead, she’d stayed away from the ranch in Arkansas where he’d spent his last years isolated and alone. Now she felt the remorse and regret that came with his death. So final, so harsh. So cold. Without even a goodbye between them.

And this was just the beginning. Tomorrow she had to take her father’s body back to Arkansas, back to the ranch he’d loved more than he’d ever loved the fancy mansion near Plano that everyone called Dunaway’s Hideaway. The mansion, Victorian in style and stark white and lacy in design, had been more like an overdecorated birthday cake to her father. His real hideaway had always been the crude, run-down ranch in Arkansas he’d inherited from his mother’s side of the family.

The ranch where he’d requested to be buried.

The ranch Trixie had inherited from him.

The ranch where Logan Maxwell worked as foreman.

Logan. His name still brought little tremors of awakening shooting through Trixie’s system. Would he be waiting there to greet her when she brought Brant home for the last time? Would he speak to her, acknowledge her, talk to her about the last eight years of his life?

Or…would Logan turn away from her in disgust, the way her father had turned away?

Harlan took her by the arm, gently urging her into the waiting, black limousine. “Let’s get going, Trixie. It’s a long ride back to the house.”

Trixie nodded absently, then allowed Rad to guide her into the roomy car, her thoughts on the man she’d have to face once again, come tomorrow. “Yes, Granddaddy, it is a long way back. A very long way.” Then she closed her eyes and thought about Logan…and remembered.

“But where’s Daddy?” Trixie had asked Pamela as they dressed for her coming-out ball that spring night so long ago. “He’s supposed to be here with you, to present me.”

“Brant won’t be attending the ball, sugar,” Pamela retorted, her chin lifting a notch, her eyes capturing Trixie’s in the gilt mirror of the dresser where she sat. Trixie stood in the center of the elaborate bedroom her mother shared with her father, that is, when they weren’t fighting. Pamela then turned away, patting her upswept curls, to stare down into the velvet-lined jewel case set out on the Louis XIV dresser.

Disappointed and steaming mad, Trixie stormed toward her mother, her white taffeta skirts swishing over the Aubusson carpet, her blond curls contrasting sharply with her mother’s darker ones. “Daddy wouldn’t do that to me! He promised he’d be here.”

Pamela pursed her lips as she gazed into the jewel case. Making her selection, she lifted out a brilliant diamond necklace, then smiled over at Trixie. “Here, sweetie, wear this.”

Trixie pushed the gaudy necklace away. “I’d prefer pearls, Mother, and I’d prefer you tell me what’s going on here. Where’s Daddy?”

Frustrated, Pamela snapped the jewel case shut. “And I’d really prefer not to discuss your father. Especially not now, right before your coming-out ball.” Spinning on the satin-covered vanity stool, she stared up at her daughter with beseeching eyes. “Oh, Trixie, we’ve waited for this night all of your life, darling. Tonight you’ll become a part of the best of Dallas society. Let’s not spoil things by talking about your missing father.”

Trixie stood there, her gaze sharp on her beautiful, haughty mother. “You had another fight with him, didn’t you?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about Brant.”

“That’s it! You picked a fight with him so he wouldn’t want to come to my cotillion. How could you do that, Mother?”

Pamela’s expression quickly changed from sweet to steely. “It wasn’t just me, young lady. You know how your father can be. And this time he pushed me too far.” Waving a diamond-clad hand, she added, “If Brant isn’t here tonight, it’s his own fault. Your grandfather will present you. And that’s all I have to say on the matter.”

The matter turned out to be divorce. Of course, Pamela didn’t reveal that to Trixie until after the season was over, until after she’d been to so many debutante parties, and danced with so many fumble-footed sons of oil tycoons and banking CEOs, that she thought she’d literally scream. No, Trixie found out the horrible, awful truth on the day of her graduation from high school, when Pamela lifted her wine glass in a toast at the formal dinner party she’d arranged for “just family,” then presented Trixie with a trip to Europe as a graduation gift.

“We leave in a week, darling. Just you and me. I’ll show you all the best places, of course, and introduce you to my friends over there. We’ll stay at a lovely chateau in France, and I’ve arranged for a private manor house in the English countryside. After we’ve done London, of course. You’ll love Europe. I plan on introducing you to several very eligible bachelors.”

Shocked, Trixie glanced around the long dining room of the Dunaway mansion, hoping to find some answers from either her beaming mother or her strangely quiet grandfather. “And what about Daddy?”

She didn’t miss the meaningful gaze that moved between her mother and Harlan. In fact, she hadn’t missed much over the past few weeks, in spite of being busy. Now she was sure something was going on. Brant hadn’t even stayed for dinner. Her father, usually so carefree and talkative, usually so full of silly banter, seemed so distant, so quiet these days.

Earlier, he’d given her two beautiful graduation gifts, a golden heart necklace and one of his most prized possessions, his belt buckle from his last days as bull riding champ, and then he’d told her, “You know how much I love you, baby. But I’ve got to get on the road again. I just want you to know, Trixiebelle, how proud I am of you.” She hadn’t missed the catch in his voice or the sad look in his brilliant blue eyes.

Needing to know what was happening, and tired of being protected like a fragile child, she repeated her question. “I said, what about Daddy? I’ve hardly seen him in the past four months, and today he rushed in for my graduation, but couldn’t even stay for dinner tonight. Why does he keep coming home, only to leave again on business? He hasn’t traveled this much since his prime rodeo days. Will he at least join us in Europe, Mama?”

“Your father hates Europe,” Pamela explained. “And besides, he wouldn’t come if I begged him. In fact, now that you’re through with graduation, you might as well know—your father has been spending a lot of his time up in Arkansas.”

“Arkansas?” Trixie wasn’t surprised to hear that, but she wondered what the big secret was. After all, Brant owned a huge chunk of land near Little Rock. “Is he finally fixing up the ranch? Is that it?”

Another stern glance from Harlan, but it didn’t stop her mother. Pamela shrugged, then tightened her expression into a firm frown. “Well, he is wasting a fair amount of time and money on that broken-down hovel in the wilderness if that’s what you mean. Trixie, your father has decided he wants to live up there permanently, and well…I can’t agree to that. So I’ve put my foot down, and…we’ve decided it would be best if we go our separate ways and get a divorce—”

Trixie looked from her mother to Harlan. Her grandfather seemed to age right there in front of her. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t want you to find out this way,” he said, his eyes watering up, his accusing gaze shifting to Pamela.

Shrugging daintily, Pamela rushed on. “I’ve fought against it and tried to keep up appearances, of course, but this marriage can’t be fixed. No amount of prayer or reasoning is going to change Brant Dunaway into a decent, reasonable human being. I’ve discussed this thoroughly with Harlan, and he’s been very generous about letting me continue to live here, for your sake. I’ve had counseling with Reverend Henry, but it’s just too late. Your father expected me to give up my life here, everything I’ve come to love, everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve for both you and for this family, to go up there and live in the boonies.” She waved a hand. “I’m too old and too established here to start over.”

“I can’t believe this,” Trixie said, turning to her grandfather for support. “Do you agree with her?”

Harlan cleared his throat and sat back heavily in his Queen Anne chair. “I’m trying to remain neutral. I know how much that land means to your pappy, so I can’t keep him from doing something he’s wanted for such a long time. Heck, he’s got more money than he’ll ever need, what with my holdings and his own money from endorsements, but he’s determined to do this thing his own way. He’s basically told me to stay out of it.” He glanced down the table at Pamela again. “But he sure wanted your mama to come up there with him. Thought it might do them good to get away from everything…and start over.”

Trixie stared at her mother’s unyielding face. “Couldn’t you just try it, for a little while, Mama? It sounds like Daddy really wants to make things up to you.”

“Hah!” Pamela interjected, her brown eyes flashing fire. “He should have thought about that years ago when he left me for weeks at a time to travel the rodeo circuit. You’re right, Harlan. He never needed the money. We could have had a good life together, if he’d only given it a chance.”

“And what about you, Mother?” Trixie said in a low, trembling voice. “Did you ever give him a chance? You know how much he loved being a bull rider, yet you never once supported him or gave him any encouragement. Why did you marry my daddy, anyway?”

Pamela looked her daughter straight in the eye. “I’ve often asked myself that same question. But I can tell you this, young lady, because I’m a Christian, I tried to make this marriage work. I guess some prayers just can’t be answered.”

Hurt and disgusted, Trixie turned back to Harlan. “How can you sit there and let her talk about your only son that way?”

Harlan lifted up out of his chair. “Your mother knows exactly how I feel about the subject of my son. I love Brant with all of my heart, and I’ll continue to support his efforts up in Arkansas. But for your sake, and for the sake of this family, I can’t very well put Pamela out on the street. We will continue to be discreet about this, and we will continue to act like Dunaways, regardless of any rift in this family.”

Trixie shot up out of her chair, rattling dishes and upsetting water glasses in a very unladylike fashion that made her oh-so-proper mother wince. “I get it. Close ranks and put our best face forward, no matter how torn apart this family really is. Show the world the perfect life of the Dunaways, the family everyone in Dallas can model their own miserable lives after, right? Pretend we’re good, upstanding Christians who attend church every Sunday and give a hefty tithe each and every month.”

“That’s enough, Tricia,” Pamela said. “We are good people and we have nothing, nothing at all, to be ashamed of.”

“Except the truth,” Trixie retorted. “We’re living a facade, a lie, Mother. And I for one, won’t continue it.” Slamming her linen dinner napkin down, she headed for the foyer, then turned to face her stunned mother and disapproving grandfather. “And I won’t be going to Europe with you. I’m going to Arkansas, to see my father, and I intend to stay there until this fall. But don’t worry, I’ll be home in time for college. So you just keep on bragging to all of your friends. And while I’m gone, you can continue to keep up appearances to save face, Mother, since that seems to be so much more important to you than trying to save your marriage.”

In the end, however, even Pamela’s manipulations and sugar-coated half truths couldn’t save face. When the Dallas press got wind of the impending divorce, things turned nasty, and Pamela turned vindictive. After demanding a multimillion-dollar settlement from Brant, Pamela went to Europe alone and made headlines by being seen with some very eligible men. Of course, Pamela managed to keep things highly proper and above reproach, stating that she loved her daughter and only wanted to protect Tricia Maria from all of this hurt and pain.

She never stopped to think how much she’d hurt both Trixie and her father. No, Pamela always managed to put a spin on the truth, to twist it to her advantage and to come out, as Harlan put it, “smelling like a rose.”

So that summer Trixie went to Arkansas to find her own peace of mind, to regroup and reassess her life, to get back at her domineering, self-righteous mother, and to get reacquainted with the father she loved and adored.

And…wound up meeting a man who changed her life.

That summer Tricia Maria Dunaway fell in love with Logan Maxwell.

That fall Tricia Maria Dunaway did not enroll in college at Southern Methodist University, because she was expecting Logan Maxwell’s child.

As the sleek limousine pulled into the long drive leading up to the mansion, Trixie glanced up to the sign over the white fretwork gate, proclaiming the surrounding thousand acres of prime Texas real estate to be Dunaway’s Hideaway.

But Trixie knew in her heart, this was no hideaway. She knew she’d never be able to hide from the truth, no matter how secluded and protected her grandfather’s estate might be, no matter how much power the Dunaway name carried in Texas, no matter how hard her mother had managed to put a pretty face on the worst of situations by guarding Trixie’s great sin with all the alert attention and precise organization of a qualified damage control expert.

Even though no one, absolutely no one in Dallas, knew about the baby, especially not Rad’s blue-blooded family, Trixie knew in her heart, knew in her soul, that somewhere out there she had a child. Once, she’d accused her mother of living a lie; now she had to live one each and every day of her life. Unlike Pamela and Harlan, and even her father, she couldn’t forever stay in a state of determined denial. It was her great secret, her great burden to bear. She had yet to forgive herself for her one youthful indiscretion, or for allowing those around her to force her to let her child be sent away like a parcel of dirty laundry. Sometimes, she lay awake at night, asking God to show her the way, to give her comfort, to help her bear the sorrow of her secret. And she wondered, did God ever hear her pleas? Or like her misguided mother, was she praying for all the wrong things?

But tomorrow, tomorrow when she at last faced Logan again, as much as she now believed in the absolute truth, she hoped the truth wouldn’t be plastered there on her own face. Because he could never know the truth.

Logan could never, ever know that she’d been forced to give his child up for adoption. Only she and her immediate family could ever know that great shame. Because of the Dunaway power, Logan hadn’t had a say in the matter, at all. He had no idea that a baby had even been conceived.

Again, Reverend Henry’s words came back to haunt her.

“They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.”

Dear God, she silently prayed now, hidden behind her dark glasses, shielded by the touch of Rad’s hand on her own, Will I ever be forgiven? How can I face Logan, knowing what I did? How can I enter into marriage with Rad, with a such a devastating secret between us? How can I ever be whole again?

Tomorrow she would take Brant Dunaway’s remains back to the place he loved most. Tomorrow, she would come face-to-face with her past and the man she had once loved so fiercely.

As Rad helped Trixie out of the car, the unmerciful Texas wind whipped her hair and sang mournfully in her ear, holding her, pulling her close. But Trixie fought at the wind, her thoughts turning to the rolling green hills of Arkansas. And she desperately wished she could turn back time.

Chapter Two

Time might have changed Trixie, but time had not changed the ranch. The red-stained, open barn still stood at a slanted angle beside the dirt lane, looking as if the next strong wind might just knock it over. But Trixie knew this old barn had weathered everything, from gentle rains to fierce, whirling tornadoes. And yet it stood.

Off to the right were the big rectangular stables, their planked walls painted the same aged red shade as the barn. As the wind rushed through the long, cool stable corridors, the smell of fresh hay and pungent manure assaulted her senses and touched her with such a sensory remembrance, she had to close her eyes to keep the tears from falling. She could almost hear her father’s deep-throated laughter floating along on that wind. She could see herself and Logan, young and carefree, walking the horses, cleaning the stalls, stealing a kiss in a dark, cool alcove.

Out beyond the barn and stables, out beyond the screened-in cookhouse and the narrow barracks that served as the bunkhouse, the pine-covered hills that formed the beginnings of the Ouachita Mountains lifted and flowed like a green velvet blanket tossed across a rumpled bed.

Everything about the place that Brant had simply called The Ranch, was rumpled and slightly off center. It was as run-down and down home as they came. Nothing fancy, no frills—just a good, solid working ranch that included cattle, sheep and pigs, along with corn, cotton, produce and hay. Certainly nothing to be ashamed of, but nothing to shout about, either, as her father used to say.