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I’m going to tell Santa Claus to not even think about bringing anything for Ginny Riddell when he stops by this year.”

      Her mouth turned into a sweet little O. “You’d do that?”

      “I certainly would. And I’d do it in a heartbeat, too.” Finally tears welled in her eyes. “I’ll try to be better, Trent.”

      Though he wanted to cuddle her close, he knew all about wheedling ways. “Not good enough. You tell me that you’re going to do better. That you will do better. Will you?”

      “Yes.”

      “You’ll be nicer and stop making everyone ashamed of you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Good.” Opening his arms, he beckoned her closer.

      “Now come over here and give me a hug, ‘cause I love you.”

      “I love you, too, Trent.”

      With his arms wrapped around this little girl, for the first time in a long while, he felt proud of himself.

      Chapter Three

      In a perfect world, Jolene would’ve put on a nice pair of slacks and a neat, prim twin set for her big meeting with Trent. Sweet little hoops would have graced her ears. Her hair would have been flat-ironed and pretty, and she would have worn sensible shoes.

      Most people would have been shocked to know that Jolene Arnold even knew about such things. But the truth was, she would’ve had no problem dressing up like something out of the latest J. C. Penney catalog. Well, she wouldn’t if she’d had the extra money or temperament for such things.

      Because the truth of the matter was that more often than not, she dreamed of being that girl.

      That girl, that nice girl. The gal men took home to their mothers, not their beds. The one men dressed up for, took chew out of their cheeks for. The kind of woman where they watched their cussing and remembered their manners. The kind of person people showed up on time for.

      But, as she looked in the mirror, Jolene figured that train had up and went sometime during the past decade. Truth was, her dreams of being the next June Cleaver had evaporated years before she’d even known who old June was.

      Now all she had was a closet of sexy bar clothes and a Visa bill with baby items on it. So, she did the best she could with what she had. Looking in the mirror, she had to admit things could be worse.

      On top, she had on a red Christmas sweater—the only one she had that wasn’t cut low or was too tight. And on her bottom half, she was wearing one of her two pairs of slacks. The gray fabric didn’t do a thing for her coloring, but the slacks were wool, not too worn, and almost loose. Boots were on her feet, because those were the best—and warmest—shoes she had.

      And, of course, she had a baby on her hip.

      As she looked at her reflection, she shrugged. Well, she wasn’t exactly the cover girl for Working Mother Magazine.

      But she could look worse. Maybe even Trent would start thinking she looked respectable.

      Yeah, right.

      Trent Riddell was going to take one look at her and ask what in the devil was she doing, standing on his doorstep.

      “Not much I can do about it, though, Amanda,” she said before turning away and picking up her purse and diaper bag. “I am what I am—and that’s a very busy woman with a secret to reveal. Let’s go get it over with.”

      After securing Amanda Rose in her car seat, Jolene spared a prayer that her car would start, and then slowly made the way through town and up toward the Riddell Ranch. She’d never been there, but she knew where it was. Shoot, everyone in North Texas did. Old Mr. Riddell had spent most of the past twelve years building a shrine to his family.

      She’d even heard about it when she was waitressing in Dallas right after high school. Rumor had it that there was all kinds of gadgets there, and even an elevator. All in all, it was a real far step from the modest home they used to live in. Back when the Riddells lived next door to the Arnolds. Their homes had been carbon copies of each other. Plain old two bedroom homes with one bath and one living room.

      Since then, things had changed a lot for both families. Too bad they’d veered in opposite directions, though. The difference was that old neighborhood had been the Riddells’ worst place to live—while it had been Jolene’s best until she’d gone out on her own and learned how to use her assets in the best way.

      Thoughts of the past zipped away as she turned right onto Riddell Way, the made-up street name Mr. Riddell had put up at the beginning of their mile-long driveway. The closed gate at the front was a surprise, as was the little box that she had to push a button to talk into.

      When she rolled her window down, a frozen patch of air whipped in and caught her by surprise. From the backseat, Amanda Rose let out a howl of displeasure. “I hear you, honey. Hold on now,” she murmured before pressing on the button.

      Two seconds passed before Trent’s voice answered. “Yeah?”

      “Trent, it’s me. Jolene.”

      “Jolene?”

      It was cold enough to set her nose to running, and her eyes watering, too. “Remember I told you I was coming by? I’m here.”

      “Oh. Hey, any chance you could come back later? I’ve kind of got my hands full.”

      And she didn’t? “No, I cannot.” Behind her, Amanda’s little whines of protest morphed into a giant howl. She had to speak a little bit louder now because Amanda Rose was threatening to burst a lung. “Hush, baby.”

      “Baby? Who’s that?”

      “Baby is my daughter. She’s cold because I’ve got the window down, talking to you,” she added impatiently over Amanda Rose’s carrying-on. “I’ll explain everything as much as you need me to … later. Now open the darn gate.”

      Right away the gate opened.

      “Praise the Lord for that,” she muttered. She rolled up the window and inched forward before Trent changed his mind and closed the gates on her.

      Amanda Rose continued to cry.

      Oh, but a road had never seemed so long. As the baby wailed for all she was worth, Jolene’s hands started to sweat as the house came into view.

      All white and stately and gorgeous, it looked exactly like what any poor white trash Texan would produce, if he had a million dollars. A replica of J. R. Ewing’s home from Dallas.

      She parked in the circular driveway, grabbed her bag, and before she could chicken out, opened the back passenger door and unbuckled the baby. With Amanda in her arms and the carrier slung over an elbow, she marched up the steps and rang the doorbell.

      Not two seconds passed before Trent opened the wide oak door decorated with the fanciest Christmas wreath she’d ever seen.

      “Hey,” he said.

      It was cold. It was windy. Amanda Rose was crying for all she was worth.

      But still Jolene was stunned into submission. Trent Riddell was a magnificent piece of man, and that was putting it mildly.

      Dressed in dark jeans, black boots and a form-fitting indigo blue sweater, he looked like a model in an ad for men’s cologne. He’d either forgotten to shave, or was fostering that Brad Pitt look. The one where men constantly looked scruffy.

      Boy howdy, could he pull it off.

      Her mouth went dry. Oh, what was it about Trent that made her wish she was something more?

      “Hey,” she said after way too long.

      Looking irritated, he waved a hand across the threshold. “Well, come on in, Jo. You’re gonna freeze your ass off if you stand

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