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thing for her to decide their relationship had no chance. It was quite another to hear Chase praising the “fascinating” attributes of another woman. Yet she could hardly expect a man with Chase’s sex appeal to remain without a woman for very long.
    â€œWell, here we are,” Chase said, pulling the van to a stop.
    Amanda had a brief glimpse of a low wall that arched over a wrought-iron gate. Behind the wall was a large one-story structure of whitewashed adobe with a red-tiled roof and a wide front porch splashed with red geraniums in pots.
    Bartholomew started to whimper in the seat behind her, cutting short her inspection.
    â€œI’ll get him,” she said, opening her door. By the time she’d extricated Bartholomew from his infant seat, Chase was already striding down the flagstone walk carrying her luggage. Leaving the van door open, she followed him.
    The lightweight designer blouse and skirt she’d chosen for the trip had seemed sensible enough at the airport, but now she could see they belonged at a beach cottage, not a ranch. Her open-toed sandals collected dirt and small stones that bit into the soles of her feet and threatened to destroy her nylons.
    Shielding Bartholomew from the relentless sun, she hobbled up the walk toward the porch, where an old cowboy sat in a cane chair with a black-and-white dog at his feet. Except for the aluminum walker beside him, the old man looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Amanda could imagine using him as part of an ad campaign for the True Love, and automatically began composing copy to describe the timeless appeal of a shady porch on a summer afternoon.
    Chase set the luggage down on the porch and touched the brim of his hat. “Afternoon, Dex.”
    The gesture of respect charmed Amanda more than she cared to admit. She remembered the crudeness with which he’d described her as “the best lay he’d ever had,” and wondered which was the real Chase, the rough-edged trucker or the gallant cowboy.
    â€œWho’s this?” the old man asked with disarming bluntness.
    â€œI’d like you to meet Amanda Drake,” Chase said, turning toward her. “And...her son,” he added, glancing away.
    â€œYour girl?”
    â€œNo, she’s...someone I knew in New York. Amanda, this is Dexter Grimes. He used to be foreman of the True Love.”
    Amanda stepped onto the porch where the shade enveloped her in coolness. She shifted Bartholomew to the crook of her left arm and held out her right hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Grimes.”
    â€œLikewise.” He gripped her hand firmly just as Bartholomew began to fuss.
    â€œExcuse me.” She extracted her hand and began to jiggle the baby against her shoulder. “He’s had a long trip.”
    Dexter held out his arms. “Here.”
    She stared at the old cowboy. Relinquish her precious baby to a man so uncoordinated he needed a walker to get around? “That’s okay, Mr. Grimes. I’d better just take him inside.”
    Dexter lowered his arms, his gaze sad. “Too old.”
    â€œOh, no!” Sympathy washed over her. “I just...” She glanced at Chase for help, but he returned her gaze without saying a word. Slowly, she turned back to Dexter. Mentally crossing her fingers, she leaned over to offer him her squirming child. “He’s a handful,” she said cautiously, lowering Bartholomew into Dexter’s arms.
    â€œYep.” Dexter cradled the baby as if he’d been holding children for years, and an expression of delight spread over his leathery features. Bartholomew stopped fussing and stared up at the old man. “Pretty,” Dexter said.
    Amanda’s eyes misted. She hadn’t received such an uncomplicated expression of joy from either of her own parents. “Yes, he’s very pretty,” she said.
    â€œStinks some,” Dexter said.
    Amanda’s chuckle mixed with the