San Antonio Rose by Fran Baker Page B

on the porch with her on a summer evening while she voiced her fear of dying. When the radiation treatments robbed her of her luxuriant hair, it was Rusty—not Big Tom—who’d told her that what was on a woman’s mind was more important than what was on her head. And when the breath left her body and they laid her in her grave, it was Rusty—not Big Tom—who’d taken her sobbing daughter into his arms and held her, much as he held her now.
    Jeannie buried her face in his shirtfront and wept for the first time since the funeral—for the loving father she wished she’d had and for the lanky foreman who’d done such a commendable job of filling his shoes. She cried for hopes dashed and dreams shattered. And finally, because she was so confused and hurt and tired, she cried for herself.
    “Feel better?” Rusty asked when the storm subsided.
    “Yes.” Surprisingly enough, she did.
    He released her and picked up the reins. “What now?”
    “I don’t know.” She put the letter back in the envelope, then lifted her chin at a defiant angle. “But if Rafe thinks he can take Tony away from me, he’s wrong. If he tries, I’ll hire the best lawyers money can buy and go after him tooth and nail.”
    “Spoken like a true Crane.”
    Rusty was right of course. She sounded just like Big Tom at his worst. What she couldn’t control, she wanted to crush. But what was she supposed to do—lie down and let Rafe steamroll her in a court of law?
    “All I want to do is keep my son,” she retorted in her own defense.
    “Your son
and
Rafe’s son.”
    Guiltily she glanced away.
    “How did you feel,” he pressed, “to find someone you loved had hidden something so important from you?”
    Betrayed
was too pale a word for how she felt about Big Tom’s treachery. She longed to scream and release her pain, but what would that change? Nothing—nothing at all.
    She regarded Rusty miserably as he mounted up with an effort. “What should I do?”
    “I can’t tell you that.” He held the dancing bay in check and looked down at her with sage brown eyes. “But I can tell you this: Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
    His piece said, Rusty reined his horse around and rode off to work the herd. Chronic arthritis or no, he had a job to do. And with Big Tom gone and both spring break and branding starting next week, it was up to him to continue teaching and shaping and molding Tony to take over the ranch someday.
    But who better to show a boy the ropes than his own father? Especially if that father had won All-Around Cowboy honors three years running at the Circle C’s annual Fourth of July barbecue and rodeo?
    After a moment of mental lip-biting Jeannie spun on her heel and headed toward the house. She had to see Rafe. Today. What Big Tom had done to them was wrong. Now it was up to her to do the right thing.
    “May I help you?”
    “Rafe Martinez, please.”
    “Mr. Martinez is with a client right now.”The secretary had a Spanish accent that seemed to purr and a square face that might have been lifted from one of the friezes at Chichen Itza.
    Jeannie realized she should have called first, instead of just changing her clothes, catching her hair back in a banana clip, and jumping into her car for an impetuous visit. But she hated to think she’d come all this way for nothing.
    “Are you sure he couldn’t spare me a couple of minutes?” She let a note of urgency creep into her voice.
    “Let me see if he can squeeze you in,” the secretary said, adjusting her black hornrimmed glasses.
    But after consulting the appointment calendar on her desk, the dark-haired woman shook her head regretfully. “He has a luncheon meeting with his campaign manager in half an hour, followed by a court appearance this afternoon.” She turned the page and said with brisk efficiency, “However, I would be glad to make an appointment for you tomorrow”—now she glanced up inquiringly—“Ms.…?”
    “Crane. Jeannie Crane.”
    As if it had