The Taming Of Tyler Kincaid

Tyler walked to the front of the pickup and lifted the hood, springing back as steam spewed into the already humid air. He mouthed an oath, waited until the cloud dissipated, then leaned forward and peered at the engine. It was a mess. Rust and dirt, frayed wires and worn hoses…It was years since he’d done much more than pump gas into his Porsche but he reached right in. There were some things a man just didn’t forget. Things like how you really couldn’t expect to get very far with a radiator that leaked like a sieve, and a temperature gauge that had evidently packed it in a long time ago.

Tyler slammed the hood shut, wiped his hands on his jeans and tried not to think about the old codger back at the airstrip, who had to be looking at his four hundred bucks and laughing his head off.

“Hell,” he said, and then he sighed. It was his fault, nobody else’s. Any man who’d lost touch with reality enough to think he could breeze into a town that was little more than a wide spot on the road, flash some hundred dollar bills and expect not to be taken, was a jerk.

Now what?

He stepped away from the truck, looked back toward where he’d been and then ahead, toward where he was going. The view both ways was the same, nothing but a rolling, dusty road that stretched from horizon to horizon with tall grass waving on either side and trees backing up the grass. He was halfway between nowhere and no place. It was a great title for a country ballad but not a very useful location otherwise.

Tyler stomped back to the truck. He snatched his hat from the front seat and put it on, yanked the map from his bag and checked it. The road went on straight for a couple of miles before taking a sharp right. According to the P.I., he’d see the wrought-iron gates and longhorn logo that marked the entrance to Baron land just before it did.

Going ahead was the only logical choice. If life had taught him anything, it was that taking a step back was never an option.

Tyler folded the map, tucked it into the bag and looped the straps over one shoulder. He tipped the wide brim of the Stetson down over his eyes and started walking toward Espada.

Three weeks of digging, and all the P. I. had come up with was the name of the ranch where John Smith had been born. Well, it was something. At least he knew now that John Smith had begun life not in Georgia but in Texas.

That was how he thought of the boy he’d been, as if he and Smith were two separate people. The skinny kid with the ropy muscles who’d had to fight for his place in the world was a stranger to the successful man who had everything he could possibly want.

A jackrabbit zipped across the road ahead, moving so quickly it was almost a blur. Maybe the rabbit had places to be, Tyler thought with a tight smile. If the rabbit didn’t, he surely did yet here he was, walking a dirt road in Texas when he had a life to live, a corporation to run…and, if he chose, a relationship to mend. Adrianna had phoned and left a message. It hadn’t taken much reading between the lines to realize she’d be willing to take him back, on his terms.

The thing of it was, he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted.

She was lovely, and charming, and he’d enjoyed the time he’d been with her, but the affair had run its course. He was willing to admit that was his fault but what Adrianna had said about him wasn’t true. There was nothing the matter with him. He did feel things. If he never spoke of love, it was simply because he couldn’t bring himself to lie.

He liked women, liked their soft laughter and their scent, but that didn’t mean he was going to pretend there was more to the best of male-female relationships than a few months of companionship, good times and sex.

Sex was something he never lied about. It was a need, a powerful one, and if you shared it with a beautiful, interesting, willing woman, it was one of the most pleasurable things in life.

A smile curled across the corner of Tyler’s mouth. Finding women to adorn his arm and warm his bed had never been a problem.

For now, though, he was going to concentrate his energies on an enigma named John Smith. And Smith was an enigma, one not even the detective he’d hired had been able to unravel.

“I have to tell you, Mr. Kincaid,” Ed Crane had said, when they’d met for breakfast the prior week, “this is one of the toughest investigations I’ve ever done.”

Tyler’s eyed had narrowed. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Crane had replied, around a mouthful of buttermilk gravy, “all I know is what’s in that report I sent you this morning.”

“Humor me,” Tyler said, with a smile that made the phrase a lie. “I haven’t had time to do much besides glance at it. Smith was born in Texas?”

“Uh-huh.”

“On a windblown acre of dusty soil?”

“No, sir, Mr. Kincaid. We’re talking about a ranch the size of a small country.” Crane offered his best good old boy smile. “Anywhere but Texas, this Espada would be flying its own flag. Cattle, horses, oil wells—this isn’t any windblown acre. It’s a miniature kingdom.”

“A kingdom,” Tyler said slowly.

“Yes, indeedy. Ruled by an old hard-ass name of Jonas Baron. The guy was eighty-five last summer, he’s on wife number five, he’s got three sons and a stepdaughter—a kingdom and a king, sir, that’s the setup at Espada.”

“And John Smith was born there.” Tyler eyed Crane over the rim of his coffee cup. “To whom?”

Crane’s smile faded. “Well, that’s the problem. We haven’t been able to turn up a record so far. But there are some strong possibilities.”

Tyler put down his coffee cup. “Such as?”

“I’d rather wait until I have all the facts, sir.”

“And I wouldn’t.”

Crane cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a housekeeper, woman named Carmen. She was pregnant that winter, would have delivered just about the middle of the summer.”

Tyler nodded, waited to feel some reaction but didn’t. Whoever his mother had been, she’d dumped him fast enough. Only a fool would feel anything for a woman like that.

“Possibilities, you said.”

“Yes, sir. There were a couple of married ranch hands working at the place that summer, one, maybe two, with wives who were expecting.”

Tyler smiled stiffly. “A fertile place, this Espada.”

Crane grinned. “Yeah.”

“Anyone else?”

“Jonas Baron’s wife—wife number one—was expecting, too. But that one’s easy to rule out.”

“Yes. You already said, Baron has three sons.”

“He does, Mr. Kincaid, and they were all born after the year you specified.” Crane reached for another biscuit, thought better of it and let his jowly face settle into more serious lines. “Besides, the baby and Mrs. Baron both died in childbirth. The two of them are buried out there, on the ranch.”

“Which leaves us with the housekeeper and the cowboys.”

“That’s right, sir. So, what do you think? You want me to keep on digging?”

For a moment, Tyler had been tempted to tell the man to end the investigation. His mother was either a housekeeper or the wife of an itinerant cowboy. Either way, she’d abandoned him with less thought than most people gave to an old shoe. Not that it mattered. He’d done just fine on his own. He wasn’t even sure exactly why he’d started this search. He’d been in a strange mood the night of his birthday, that was all.

On the other hand, he’d never been able to resist a puzzle. It was part of the reason he’d succeeded in business. What made people take one path, instead of another? His mother had given birth to him, then dumped him on a doorstep. Why? Why hadn’t she turned him over to an adoption agency? And why would a woman rise from the bed where she’d just delivered a child and go all the way to Atlanta to get rid of it?

“Mr. Kincaid? Shall I keep going? Another couple weeks, I’ll have a better fix on things. You just need to be patient.”

Patient, Tyler had thought. It was a logical suggestion, easy for a man to make when it wasn’t his past that was being uncovered but after thirty-five years, what was the rush? But there was a rush; he didn’t understand it but he could feel it, in his belly. So he’d nodded, told Crane to keep on digging. The meeting had ended, Tyler had returned to his office and buried himself in work.

An hour later, he’d given up pretending. How could a man work when his head was filled with pictures of a place he’d never seen and images of three faceless women, one of whom was probably his mother? He’d called in his personal assistant and his first vice president, told them he was going away for a while and that he’d keep in touch by e-mail and phone. They’d both looked surprised but he knew they wouldn’t question him. Nobody ever questioned Tyler Kincaid.

“Fine,” his P.A. said.

His vice president shook his hand and wished him a pleasant vacation.