“This may not make any difference to you, but I thought about my children after I left you. I found out my wife was alive after all, and that she’d taken them with her to Europe. I went after them. Hell, I think I might have known I was going after her, too, but at the time all I could think about was that I hadn’t even met my children and I’d lost them.”

“Your wife is alive? You must have been very happy to hear that.”

Steve laughed ruefully. “I didn’t know if I wanted to kill her myself or was relieved she wasn’t dead. I did know I wanted my children. Laura and Franco. They’re beautiful, smart and just mischievous enough to escape sainthood.”

A faint smile curved her mouth. “I have three now. Two boys and a girl.” She put a hand on her belly and he saw that it was rounded, swelling out the front of her dress. “And another one on the way. Odd to think now that I once thought I was barren.”

“Will you let me see him, Beth?”

It was said quietly, and the smile faded from her mouth to leave her expression strained. After a moment she nodded, and blew out a heavy breath.

“Yes. Yes, you may see him.”

He followed her to the Burneson spread, a modest but thriving operation, with outbuildings and a two-story main house protected by fences on two sides, and a high cliff on the back side.

As if he’d expected them, Martin Burneson came out to meet them, a dark-headed boy in his arms. The child was squirming slightly, impatiently demanding to be allowed to go and play with Pedro and Fidelito.

“In a moment, Matt. We have a visitor. Remember your manners.”

Steve dismounted, aware of Elizabeth anxiously watching him as he moved toward the child. Martin had set him down, and now held out his hand to Steve.

“You’re welcome for a short visit, Mr. Morgan.”

He nodded understanding and shook Burneson’s hand. When he turned, the boy, a sturdy youngster with dark-blue eyes and surprisingly long lashes, held out his hand in a perfect imitation of Burneson.

“How do you do, sir?”

It was said with a slight air of impatience, the blue eyes cutting toward the side of the house where a small Mexican boy was playing with a large, shaggy dog.

Steve shook his hand solemnly. He recognized some of Franco in the boy, in the set of his eyes and the dark hair and skin.

“I have a son a lot like you,” he said, and smiled at the look of polite disinterest the boy gave him. “Maybe you can meet him one day.”