Logan's Child

There was no easy explanation for death, especially when speaking to a child. Logan stood with the children he was in charge of and wondered again if he’d handled any of this in the right way. Granted, he’d had training in counseling youths from the minister who was about to conduct Brant’s funeral service. But talking with children was never easy. Children demanded complete and total honesty, and sometimes adults, by trying to protect them, hedged and pawed around the truth. Logan certainly knew all about that.

Looking over at Trixie now, Logan felt a stab of guilt. He hadn’t exactly been completely truthful with her, but then again, she had kept her distance, and her secret, from him all these years, too. As he watched her now, so cool and pulled together in her black linen pantsuit, he had to wonder what her intentions were. How could she come barreling in here again after all these years and rearrange his whole way of life?

Feeling a tug on the sleeve of his chambray shirt, Logan looked down to find ten-year-old Marco holding on to him.

“Hey, buddy,” Logan said on a low whisper. “How ya doing?”

Marco, a beautiful Hispanic child whose mother had abandoned him when he was three, shook his shiny black-haired head and said, “Not too good, Mr. Logan.” He put a hand to his heart. “It hurts here, inside. I miss Mr. Brant.”

“Yeah, me, too, bud,” Logan replied, his voice tight, his words clipped. “Tell you what, though. You just stand here by me and hold tight to my hand, okay? We’ll get through this together. Then later I’ll bring out Radar and let you exercise him around the paddock. Deal?”

Marco’s sad expression changed into a grin. “I get to ride the pony?”

Logan gave the boy a conspiring wink. “You and you alone, partner.”

Marco took his hand and held on. Soon, all of the children had shifted closer to Logan. Their warmth soothed the great hole in his soul and made him even more determined to hold on to what he’d helped Brant build here. Then he saw Caleb standing by Gayle. Motioning for the seven-year-old boy, Logan waited as the youngest of the group ran and sailed into his arms, then wrapped his arms around Logan’s neck. Holding the boy close, Logan decided right then and there that he had to talk some sense into Tricia Maria Dunaway. He wouldn’t stand by and let her sell this ranch. Not after everything that had passed between them. With that thought in mind, he glanced over at Trixie and held tight to the little brown-haired boy in his arms.

She chose that moment to look up, her eyes meeting his in a silent battle of longing and questions. Soon he’d have his answers, Logan decided. And maybe soon she’d have hers, too. Whether she liked it or not…

Then the minister preached to them about finding their answers through the word of God. “For the Lord is good, his mercy is everlasting, and his truth endureth to all generations.”

The truth. Could it endure between Trixie and him? Was it time to find out? Logan stared across at the woman he’d tried so hard to forget and wondered if someone up there was trying to send him a personal message.

Much later, after all the mourners had paid their respects, after Harlan had headed back down the hill to the lodge to rest a spell, after the sun had dipped behind the distant live oaks and loblolly pines, Trixie stood alone beside her father’s freshly dug grave and remembered all the good and wonderful things about Brant Dunaway.

And she cried. She’d never felt so lost and alone.

Until she felt a hand on her arm.

Turning, she saw Logan standing there, his eyes as dark and rich as the land beneath their feet, his expression a mixture of sympathy and bitterness. He didn’t speak; didn’t offer her any pretty platitudes or pat condolences. Instead, he simply stood there beside her and let her cry.

And finally, when she could stand it no longer, when he could hold back no longer, he took her in his arms and held her while the red-gold September sun slipped reluctantly behind the Arkansas hills.

Chapter Three (#ulink_31b78d52-0d98-5acf-ba4d-aa2606ad3ed2)

“He used to bring me daisies on my birthday,” Trixie said later as they sat on a nearby hillside.

The shadows of dusk stretched out before them, darkness playing against the last, shimmering rays of the sun. Off in the distance, a cow lowed softly, calling her calf home for supper. Trixie stared across the widening valley, her gaze taking in the panoramic view of the beautiful burgundy-and-white Brangus cattle strolling along, dipping their great heads to graze the grasslands.

“He always did like wildflowers,” Logan answered. “Remind me to show you the field of sunflowers he planted just over the ridge. The wreath on his casket came from those.”

Trixie glanced over at the man sitting beside her. Logan had brought her such a comfort, coming back up here to sit with her. “Thank you,” she said at last.

“For what?”

“For not pushing me. For just being you.”

He snorted, then threw down the blade of grass he’d been chewing on. Glancing toward her, he said, “I thought me just being me was the reason you never came back here.”

Not ready to discuss that particular issue, she ran a hand through her hair and leaned her chin down on her bent knees. “I had a lot of reasons for not coming back here, Logan.”

He’d like to know each and every one of them. But he didn’t press her. That wasn’t his style. “Yeah, well, we all have our reasons for doing the things we do, sugar.” He looked away, out over the lush farmland. “I take full responsibility for what happened back then, Trixie.”

Shocked, she glanced over at him. Did he know about the baby, after all? “What do you mean?”

Logan looked back at her then, his dark eyes shining with regret and longing. “Our one time together—I should have stopped before things got so out of control.”

“I played a part in that night, too, Logan.” And paid dearly for it She shrugged, hoping to push the hurtful memories away. “Besides, it’s over now.”

“Is it?”

She looked down at her clenched hands, not wanting him to see the doubt and fear in her eyes. “It has to be. We were young and foolish back then and we made a mistake. We’re adults now. We just have to accept the past and go on.”

He nodded, then lowered his head. “Well, one thing is still clear—our lives are still very different. That much hasn’t changed. Just like then. You were the boss’s daughter, and I took advantage of that. I won’t do it this time around.”

Ignoring his loud and clear message, she reminded him, “No, you didn’t do anything I didn’t let you do.”

“Yeah, well, I could have been more careful.” His voice grew deeper, the anger apparent in his next words. “Then you saved my hide by begging your father not to fire me. The rich girl helping the poor, unfortunate stable hand.”

She realized where some of his bitterness was coming from. By asking Brant not to fire him after he’d caught them together, she’d only added insult to injury. “You needed your job. Your mother would have been heartbroken if Daddy had sent you away.”

“So you went away instead.” His eyes burned through her. “I’ve had to live with that all of these years. I’ve had to live with a lot of things.”

Trixie reached out a hand to his arm, wanting to comfort him. What would he do, what would he think if he knew everything? “Logan, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize! I’m the one who blew it!” Suddenly afraid of being this near to her, of being this intimate with her, he hopped up to brush the dirt off the back of his jeans. “C’mon. You must be hungry. Mama’s probably got supper on the table by now.”

Trixie took the hand he offered down to her, her eyes meeting his in the growing dusk. With a firm tug, he had her up and standing in front of him. Too close. Logan dropped her hand, then turned without a word to stomp away.

She followed, wondering if she’d ever be able to figure out Logan Maxwell. She’d seen him at the service this afternoon, watching her with that bitter expression on his face. And…she’d seen him with the children. He obviously cared about his little wards. Especially that little boy who’d clung to him the entire time. What a cutie. Trixie had only glanced at the child briefly and then he’d been lost in the crowd of people trailing by to pay their respects.

“Tell me about the children,” she said now as she hurried to catch up with him. “Grandfather said he’d explain. But I want you to.”

Logan stopped to whirl around and stare at her. “You mean, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That this ranch is now a part-time foster home for troubled kids?”

“What?” Shocked, she looked around as if searching for some sort of justification. “Well, no. No one bothered to tell me anything about that.” Sighing, she added, “I’m so tired of everyone trying to protect me. Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

Logan kept walking, but slowed his pace to a comfortable gait. “Your father wanted the ranch to be a place where people could come and learn about nature and about life. Through a program with the local church, he set up a foundation called The Brant Dunaway International Farm. We grow food and livestock for underprivileged countries, and we train volunteers to go into the villages of these countries and teach the locals how to live off the land. Most of what we produce here is shipped out of the country to help these people.”

Trixie had to let that soak in. Her father, the rowdy cowboy, doing missionary work for the church. “I don’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe you weren’t aware of it.”

“The only thing I heard from the lawyers was that I had inherited this land. Everything else got lost in the fog shrouding my brain.” Her head down, she added, “And well…I haven’t exactly kept in touch over the years.”