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Chapter One

"But we're in love," my stepson said, his dark chocolate eyes burning bright with the passionate angst of a nineteen-year-old male in full-blown heat.

    "Oh, Sam," I said, trying to choose my words carefully. "You're still so young." I reached down and scratched behind my dog's soft brown ears. Scout was a part Labrador, part German shepherd mix with a suspected itinerant coyote grandparent. He gazed up at me with adoring ocher eyes.

    "You were nineteen when you married Jack," Sam replied.

    There was no way I could argue that point with any sort of genuine conviction. I had indeed married my first husband when we were barely nineteen, and it had been a warm, loving relationship working together on our ranch for fifteen years until he was killed in an auto accident two and a half years ago. Since then, I'd moved to town, married Sam's father, Gabriel Ortiz, San Celina's police chief, and acquired a new life. A life that included being, or attempting to be, a proper police chief's wife, curator of San Celina's folk art museum, still occasionally wrangling cattle on my family's ranch, and often acting as the buffer between my volcanic husband and his equally explosive son.

    Now it appeared love was in the air. Or a reasonable facsimile. And it wasn't even spring. Like the haunches of old mountain lions, the hills around San Celina were spotted with early September golds and tans, adhering to the old Central California Coast joke that this region possessed only two actual seasons, green and brown. Downtown streets were equally covered withnew Cal Poly University students flush with excitement, hope, and abundant checking accounts. It was a natural fact that the hills would retain their dusty colors a good deal longer than the students did either their excitement or their bank balances.

    "So who is this mystery woman?" I asked, leaning back against the sofa in the Spanish-style bungalow Gabe and I had called home for the year and a half we'd been married. We'd recently begun the frustrating task of house hunting because though this house was fine for one five-foot-one-inch widow lady with minimal luggage, it was spatially challenged for the burgeoning possessions of a married couple. Unfortunately we'd discovered in the twenty houses we'd viewed so far that our individual opinions as to the perfect house were as different as his silver-streaked black hair was to my strawberry blond. Yet another mid-life relationship challenge.

    "She's so great," Sam said, flopping down on the sofa next to me. "You'll love her. Actually you two have met." The wide, gorgeous grin on his gingersnap-colored face made me instantly suspicious.

    "We have?" I racked my brain trying to remember who I knew around his age who might be in the running. The redheaded girl with the pierced eyebrow who worked weekends at Blind Harry's Bookstore where Sam also worked? The cute waitress with the wide blue eyes at Liddie's Cafe? The vegetarian girl in hemp clothing at Kinko's I'd seen him flirting with when I'd picked up orders for the museum? Sam, like his father, was a very attractive man, so the possibilities were endless.

    "Yep."

    I frowned slightly at him, gripping to my chest a suede pillow decorated with a bucking bronco. "I hate guessing games. Just tell me."

    He ran his long fingers against the hair on Scout's neck, making it stand up. Scout's tail thumped agreeably on the tan carpet. "It's kind of complicated."

    Apprehension rippled down my spine. "How complicated?"

    "She's kind of pregnant."

    I groaned loudly and threw the pillow at him. "Sam, how could you?"

    He dodged it and went back to playing with Scout's hair, refusing to meet my eyes. "Dad's gonna kill me."

    I didn't dispute his statement because I couldn't guarantee his dad's reaction. If not death, then tar and feathering was a distinct possibility. My place in this scenario, as it had been before, was to see if I could convince these two stubborn, emotional men to sit down and discuss the problem rationally. A headache, the first of many I was certain, started tapping on my skull's inner walls. I touched my temples with my fingertips and started rubbing small circles.

    "Well," I finally said. "What are your plans?" Since he had just started his sophomore year at Cal Poly, worked part-time at my best friend Elvia's bookstore, and lived in the bunkhouse at my family's ranch, his ability to care for a wife and child was, to say the least, skimpy.

    "Guess I'll just take each day as it comes."

    Resisting the urge to strangle his tanned, muscular neck, I said, "Sam, you're pretty much past taking each day as it comes. You have a child on the way who will need bottles and diapers and health care and a car seat and ..."

    "Geeze, Benni, I know all that. I was hoping for a little more support from you. Lectures I can get from my dad."

    And you will, I promised silently. "This girl you're in love with, how does she feel about being pregnant? Has she told her parents yet?"

    "She told her mom. Her mom's kind of a hippie-type and thinks it's totally cool. Her dad's living up north in a commune or something. He's a carpenter and grows stuff in his garden to sell on the side."

    I didn't dare ask what kind of stuff. What kind of family was he marrying into? "Her mom lives here in San Celina?"

    "Yeah, on a ranch over in Amelia Valley. It's a winery, too."

    Amelia Valley was south of San Celina about fifteen miles, on the eastern side of Interstate 101 across from Eola and Pismo beaches and Port San Patricio. Famous for its temperate climate and excellent soil, it was some of the most beautiful and valuable land in San Celina County.

    If they were ranchers, then they were possibly people I knew, if only casually. Our county's ranch community was a tight, small group. "So, who is her family? Who is she?"

    He stopped playing with Scout's hair and looked directly into my eyes. "Promise you won't get weird or anything."

    "Sam, I'm not getting weird, I'm getting annoyed. Just tell me."

    He dropped his head and mumbled a name.

    I ducked my head lower to hear him. "What did you say?"

    "Bliss Girard."

    "What! Please tell me you're pulling my leg." If I had another pillow within reach, I would have held it down over his face.

    The absolute fear in his eyes was real. As well it should be. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "But we love each other. Really, we do. We want to get married."

    "Sam, how in the world am I going to tell your father that you got one of his best rookie cops pregnant? You want to answer me that?"

    "Not really," he said.