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What would she say to Rianne and her parents? She’d already decided not to tell them she was here on behalf of Corey. Just a friend coming to see the baby—that would be her excuse. Too bad she hadn’t brought a gift to back it up.
It was Rianne’s mother who answered the door. She’d aged since Lexie had last seen her. Today she looked especially strained. Her eyes were red, as if from recent weeping. Behind her, in the living room, her husband was reading the newspaper in the same La-Zy-Boy recliner that Lexie remembered from the old days. He looked up, then returned to his paper.
“Hello, Mrs. Hurtzler,” Lexie said. “I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d stop by to see Rianne and the baby. Are they here?”
Ella Hurtzler stepped back from the door. “Come in, Lexie. It’s good to see you. Have a seat. Would you like a soda?”
“Thank you, but no,” Lexie said, perching on the edge of an overstuffed chair. “Is something wrong? Where’s Rianne?”
“She told me you came to the hospital. She said you were kind.”
“I tried to be. She was very distraught—and still in shock, I’m sure. But I thought she was going to stay with you. Isn’t she here?”
Mrs. Hurtzler plucked at her collar as she shook her head. “Rianne left two days ago. She took the baby and went to live with her sister in California.”
Shocked speechless, Lexie stared at her.
“I tried to talk her out of it,” the woman said. “But she insisted she couldn’t be a good mother and take care of a disabled husband at the same time. She had to choose between Corey and little Rowdy. She chose her baby.”
“But why now? Why so soon? Corey’s still in rehab.”
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“The lawyer she talked with told her that the sooner she files for divorce, the less chance she’ll have of being stuck with his expenses.”
“Didn’t he have insurance through the PRCA?”
“Yes, but not enough for this. Not enough for a lifetime.” Mrs. Hurtzler sighed. “We love Corey, and we’re heartbroken about what happened. But Rianne’s our daughter. We have to stand by her. I’d give you her new address, but she doesn’t want anybody trying to find her and change her mind.”
Still numb with disbelief, Lexie said good-bye to Rianne’s parents, filled the truck’s gas tank, and took the road out of town. She remembered Rianne weeping desperately in her arms, wondering how she was going to manage with a baby and an injured husband. This was her answer—she wouldn’t manage. Or maybe she was too scared to try.
It was hard not to judge her. But Lexie had never walked in her friend’s shoes. Faced with the same decision, what would she do?
Lexie understood that the baby’s needs had to come first. But what a heartless decision—and Rianne had made it without even telling her husband. Now Corey had lost the use of his legs, his career, and his family.
And it would fall to Shane to break the news.
Sick at heart, she drove home, shut herself in the office, and composed a long e-mail to Shane, telling him everything she’d learned. She’d left him the choice of how much and when to tell Corey, even offering to help if he needed her. There were no words for how terrible she felt. She could only hope he’d read between the lines and understand.
* * *
Brock Tolman rode Haroun, his prize Arabian stallion, into the barn, dismounted, and turned him over to the groom. An hour spent riding around the ranch usually helped lift his black spells. This time it hadn’t helped. If anything, his mood had darkened.
Leaving the stable, he strode up to the house. He’d fully expected to find an apologetic Shane waiting for him when he returned from his business trip. But the ungrateful wretch had taken him at his word. Shane was gone, with his truck and all his gear, and he hadn’t come back. Hell, he hadn’t even called.
Brock’s ill-fated marriage had given him no children, and he had no plans to marry again. The scrawny, fatherless teen he’d taken in ten years ago had been the closest he’d ever come to having a son. He’d even dreamed of a future in which Shane became a world-champion bull rider, raised a family on the ranch, and one day took over.
Basura, as the Mexicans would say. Garbage. He should have known he couldn’t count on the damn fool ingrate to stick around. In the end, as he should have learned by now, there was nobody he could count on but himself.
The old man who managed the house was waiting on the porch when Brock came up the steps, still in a foul mood. “Scotch,” he growled, sinking into a chair. “Just bring the damned bottle and a glass.”
While he sipped the whiskey, he let his gaze wander over the bulls in the pasture. By now, most likely, Chip Harris would have made an offer on Whirlwind. But as long as the deal hadn’t been signed and the money paid, Brock wasn’t ready to give up. He was already making plans to put the financial pressure on the Alamo Canyon Ranch—a sweet piece of property that he wouldn’t mind owning. For starters, he was negotiating to buy the neighboring hayfield parcel from the investment company. And if Aaron Frye wanted to keep his job managing the property, he’d be smart to sell Brock his small parcel, too. That done, Brock would start squeezing the Champion sisters until they had no choice except to sell Whirlwind—and maybe the ranch—to him.
There were just two women—three, counting Bert’s widow. How hard would it be to convince them that he was doing them a favor?
CHAPTER TEN
THE SUN ROSE OVER THE AJO MOUNTAINS, ITS LIGHT FLOWING LIKE slow water over the yellow hills of the Tohono O’odham reservation and up over the rocky bank of land that marked the boundary of the Alamo Canyon Ranch.
