man would take it that way. A man with the greatest set of shoulders she’d ever seen.
He walked away, climbed onto the big machine and started it up. Then he rumbled it past the barns, down a long lane stretching to faraway fields. And he didn’t look back.
Jace parked the baler midafternoon and headed toward the ranch house for lunch. Bob “Cookie” Cook managed the ranch kitchen. He was gone for the day, but he’d texted that he’d left a platter of meat, cheese and sandwich fixings in the kitchen, along with a bowl of potato salad. After five hours of baling the important first cutting of hay, he and the others would get the hay under cover before the predicted overnight rain. Wet hay fostered mold growth, so they’d be running the hay wagons back and forth from the field to the hay barns and lofts until dark...and maybe after. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hauled hay in the dark.
He climbed the steps and met two of the other hands in the kitchen. Harve Jr. was building a sandwich and Wick was already plowing into a monster-sized plate of potato salad. He saw the women on the front porch, laughing together, but the cool reprieve of the kitchen offered more invitation. He’d taken his first bite when the crunch of tires on gravel drew the men’s attention. From his seat, he spotted Gilda Hardaway, the grumpy eccentric who lived in a sprawling, decaying house on an empty ranch near the Payette National Forest. She approached the porch, looking testier than ever.
But then the front door opened. Lizzie came in. She spotted him and motioned him forward.
Wick and Harve Jr. exchanged grins, glad they weren’t summoned.
He stood, swiped his mouth with a piece of paper towel and walked to the porch. “Ladies.” He tipped his head in their direction. “What can I do for you?”
“Not them. Me, young man.”
He was afraid of that. He faced Gilda. “Well, how can I be of help, Mrs. Hardaway?”
She looked him up and down as if he was a science exhibit. Then she sighed. “Can I come inside or do I have to air dirty laundry out here where any Tom, Dick or Harry might overhear?”
“Of course,” Lizzie answered. She opened the white, wooden screen door and let the old woman precede her. Then she sent Jace a questioning look.
He shrugged, because he didn’t know any more than she did.
“We should sit down,” said the old woman.
Jace didn’t want to sit. He wanted to eat his lunch and get back to work. He was on a tight schedule. One band of sheep was still in the hills, and Heath and two other hands were loading lambs for market on the far side of the mountain. Already he heard noise in the kitchen, meaning the other men had wolfed down their food and were ready to haul. One look at Gilda Hardaway nixed his choices. He sat.
The old woman lifted a magazine from the coffee table. She held it up to Lizzie. “That your sister out there on the porch? This one?” She waggled the magazine.
Lizzie nodded.
“We’ll need her in here.”
Jace watched Lizzie fight whatever she wanted to say, because Lizzie wasn’t the kind of woman anyone bossed around. But she kept her lips pressed tight, then called Melonie and Corrie in. If the old woman didn’t want Corrie on hand, she at least had the grace not to show it.
Once the other two women had taken seats, Mrs. Hardaway turned back toward him. “Your name is not Jace Middleton.”
Well, that explained the unexplainable visit. She’d gone batty. Clearly batty because he knew who he was.
“Your father was Lionel Tate.”
Lionel Tate was his father’s cousin. He’d left town a long time ago and died somewhere. Jace didn’t remember where because he’d never known the man. “My father was Jason Middleton.”
The old woman’s frown deepened. “Jason and Ivy took you in as a baby. You were just over a year old, and when they offered to take you in, it was agreed upon because it fit.”
Hairs began to rise along the nape of Jace’s neck. What was she talking about?
“Your mother was angry when Lionel left. Very angry. She handed you over and went off on her own. As far as I know, no one heard from her until she showed back up nine years later with a baby girl.”
“Mrs. Hardaway, I believe you’re confused.” He kept his voice calm as he offered an explanation. “Justine is six years younger than me. She’s just finished her master’s in biochemistry and she’s doing a paid internship in Seattle.”
“Your other sister,” she told him. “Your biological half sister. She is younger than you by nearly eleven years.”
The firmness in her voice—the staunch look in her eye, as if she was the one who was right—unnerved him. “Mrs. Hardaway...”
Lizzie put a hand on his arm. Her sister darted a look from him to the old woman and back, as if embarrassed for him. Or her. Or just plain embarrassed to be there.
“She gave that baby up for adoption, too, because she came here and no one stepped in to take care of that baby girl, and there’s plenty of shame to go around about that. When your folks offered to take her in, too, seeing as she was your sister, they were told ‘no’ because of tough family finances.”
She wasn’t making sense, and yet... He remembered hushed whispers around that time. He’d been plenty old enough to realize something was going on, but never knew what. Snips of private conversation came back to him, conversations that meant nothing then...and everything at this moment. “That makes no sense, because we weren’t poor. My mother was a schoolteacher and Dad was a contractor. He worked all the time. We were always financially solid.”
She locked her eyes with his, then said something that tipped everything into sharper focus. “Your sister is white.”
And there it was. A divide he’d never personally felt in Shepherd’s Crossing because the Middletons had been some of the earliest pioneers in the area. But now—
A mix of raw emotions began churning inside him. “How can that be, Mrs. Hardaway?”
She held his gaze, held it hard, as if this whole thing hurt her more than it pained him. Then she spoke, and he understood the wounded expression. “Because I am your grandmother, Jace. And my daughter Barbara was...” Her mouth trembled slightly. And her eyes looked sad. “Your mother.”
None of this could be true.
It couldn’t.
He’d seen his birth certificate. He had it, back at the house. “You’re wrong, I’m afraid. I have proof of who I am at my home. My family home, Mrs. Hardaway.” He stood, ready to end this nonsense and get to work.
“Your birth certificate,” she said.
He nodded. “It lists everything. Mother. Father. Date and time of birth. Place of birth. We’re haying today, but if you give me a day or two, I’ll bring it by so you can see it for yourself.” Whatever had happened back then, he had government-certified proof of who he was. Clearly the old woman was mistaken.
“It is the practice in many states to alter the birth certificates of adopted children, Jace. Adoptions back then were meant to be private affairs for a reason. I have the original certificate here.” She reached into an old purse and withdrew a folded, faded sheet of paper. Then she handed it over.
He didn’t want to look at it.
What if it was true?
He unfolded the paper and read the information there. And his heart chugged to a slow, draining stop in his chest.
“Jace.” Lizzie had stood, too. She gripped