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careful. But that soothing touch could turn deadly in a heartbeat, as he’d proven last year when he’d crushed a man’s throat with his bare hands after the fool had threatened his wife and stepchildren.
    Definitely not a man to cross—his brothers could attest to that.
    In addition, Hank also had an analytical mind, an inventive nature, and an astounding way with women, which Brady never understood, since he considered himself to be the pick of the litter. Nonetheless, he was proud of his little brother.
    With a final push from its dam, the foal, a leggy bay colt, slipped into the straw. Hank broke the sac over its nose, then stepped back so the mare could clean him up and imprint her scent on his awakening mind.
    It was a wondrous thing to behold.
    Moving over to stand across the fence rail from Brady, Hank wiped his hands on a rag and sighed wearily. “Four down, twenty-two to go. A good year so far.”
    “We’ll need it.” In fact, the ranch’s very survival might rest on something as fragile as this foal’s life. A harrowing thought.
    They stood in silence for a while, watching the colt try out his wobbly legs until he finally got himself upright and stayed there long enough to nurse. Then Brady said, “We got company. A woman.”
    “I heard.”
    “Wonder who it is.”
    Hank shrugged.
    With a sigh, Brady pushed away from the rail. “I better go warn Jessica. She’ll probably want to repaint the house or add another wing or something. You know how she is.”
    “Yeah. I do.”

    BRADY DIDN’T HAVE TO REPAINT OR ADD ON A WING, WHICH was a good thing, since the house was mostly stone and log construction. But he did have to change shirts and slick back his unruly mostly black hair, then corral his four kids and Hank’s two stepchildren and carry them upstairs to be tidied up by the Ortega sisters. The Garcia sisters used to have the job, but they’d begged off, saying they’d rather go to Santa Fe and work in their uncle’s house. Kids.
    “Brady!” Jessica called from the entry. “They’re coming! Hank! Molly!”
    Motioning the Ortega girls to get the twin babies, Sam and TJ, Brady scooped up two-year-old Abigail with one hand and steered Ben down the hall with the other. Hank met him at the top of the staircase with his wife, Molly. Penny, who was seven, and Charlie, who was ten and almost as talkative as Hank, trailed behind their stepparents.
    “Hurry along now,” Jessica prodded, the clipped tones of her English accent making them all step lively.
    “Who is it?” Molly asked Brady as Jessica herded them out onto the sprawling front porch.
    Brady could tell Molly was nervous, as she always was around strangers. Eighteen months ago she and her orphaned niece and nephew had been on the run when their train had derailed, leaving two men dead and another—a stranger who happened to be Hank—mortally injured. Being a resourceful and intelligent woman, she had immediately seen a way to get the money she desperately needed to keep running. All she had to do was present herself as the injured stranger’s intended, marry him, then collect the railroad settlement when he died.
    But Hank, being stronger than a mule and hardheaded besides, didn’t die, although he did lose his memory for a time, which complicated matters between the newlyweds somewhat. But he and Molly had gotten past that and had been happily married for almost a year. Odd, how things work out.
    “It’s not Jack, is it?” Molly persisted.
    “No, it’s a woman.”
    “Do you know who?”
    “I don’t.”
    Molly had never met Jack, the youngest Wilkins brother. He and Elena had left for San Francisco almost three years ago to have Elena’s crippled hip fixed, and they’d been missing ever since. Then last spring a letter had come from Jack. “Be home in a year,” was all it said. More of a talker than a writer, Jack was.
    “Here they come.” With brisk efficiency, Jessica assembled them across the porch like a troop of