A Home In His Heart

By Jean Kincaid

Kayla Guerroro has never had a home. So when she inherits her grandmother's place in the Rio Grande Valley, she settles in for good – until her tall, dark and handsome neighbour offers to buy her out. She tells Marcelo Fuentes she'll never leave.

Marc offers to buy Kayla's land because her house is gone. He doesn't have the heart to tell her she's living in his storage building. Soon the rancher is falling for the feisty newcomer, and is unprepared for her fury when she learns the truth.

How will Marc convince Kayla that the only home she needs is…in his heart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781743644461

Jean Kincaid

Most mornings find Jean Kincaid knee deep in devotionals covering various topics. She enjoys early hour Bible reading, praying, writing and reading. Jean and husband, Dale,served seventeen years as missionaries to Novillero, Mexico. She now enjoys the title of pastor’s wife in Donna, Texas, a much more sedate lifestyle. Jean loves to hear from her readers. You’ll find her on Facebook, and at www.jeankincaid.blogspot.com. You may email her at [e-mail].

Book preview

Chapter 1

Marcelo Fuentes followed the trail of dust through the binocular lens, his curiosity piqued by who dared trespass on his land. He urged his horse around a clump of mesquite bushes to get a better look.

Whoa, boy. Stand still. Raising the binoculars, he focused again, disbelief mingling with surprise at what he saw. A red Mercedes convertible raced along the dirt track. Idiota! Who in their right mind would drive that fast along an unused, rutted road in such an expensive car?

The horse blew through its nostrils and stomped, causing him to lose sight of the vehicle. He spurred the horse into a gallop, determined to confront the trespasser and set him straight on a few things. Mainly that he was on private property, and that he should treat his vehicle like a woman—with great care and attention. Not send it barreling down a rutted track.

He arrived just in time to see a suitcase disappear inside the door of his line shack.

Hey! he shouted. He almost fell off his horse as the intruder stepped outside.

Well, ‘hey,’ yourself.

He closed his mouth with a snap. A beautiful woman, not a man, stared back at him. Hands on her hips, she gave him a big Texas smile, making her honey-brown eyes squint. Her hair, swept back into a catch of some kind, was the color of rich honey.

I don’t suppose you carry a hammer with you? she asked.

Beneath the sink. Left side. Marcelo shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. What are you thinking, man, to give an intruder—albeit a gorgeous one—directives on where to find your supplies?

She reappeared seconds later with a sign and prepared to nail it to the outside wall. He slid from the horse and strode to the steps.

Now, wait just a minute, here. He had to stop this and quick, no matter if she looked like an angel.

Just a minute, Tex. She tapped the nail a few times till it was secure, then hammered it all the way home. The words read, As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. That’s the only family heirloom I have. It belonged to my grandmother. I only met her a few times, but this was her motto. I figure if it worked for her, it will work for me.

She walked to him and shook his hand, her grip firm. I’m Kayla Guerrero. Now, who are you and what are you doing on my land?

He cast an approving glance over her face. He recognized the plaque. It hung over his neighbor’s door until the house flooded a couple years back. By then, his neighbor was in a rest home and passed away two weeks later. He himself had salvaged the little wooden sign after the house had caved, and he’d given the piece to the family attorney. This must be the granddaughter. The lawyer said someone would arrive to claim ownership. He just hadn’t said it would be two whole years later.

Excuse me! Her voice reclaimed his attention, her smile wavering only slightly. You are?

Wondering if you’d like to sell the property you inherited? He pointed northeast of where they stood.

Sell my property? Not on your life! She spoke as if Marcelo had insulted her.

You have twenty head of cattle and three horses. That’s a lot of work for a woman. Your land has the only natural water source around for miles. I could use that here on my ranch. I’ll pay top dollar.

Not interested. This is family land. I intend to settle here, put down roots. Maybe we could work out a deal with the water. You care for the animals and in return I’ll grant you water rights. A sparkle returned to her eyes. She seemed so proud of her suggestion, happy that she’d thought so quickly on her feet.

Miss, this is the twenty-first century. You don’t settle for water rights. You own the water. That’s why I’d like to purchase the land. Unless you have loads of money, there is nothing you can do to improve your property, and it’s already in a sad state of disrepair.

The woman started to speak several times then held up her hand signaling him to wait. She disappeared into the shack then reappeared, striding forward till they were almost nose to nose.

Get on your horse and get off my property. She spoke through gritted teeth.

The situation proved too humorous for Marcelo. In spite of himself, he chuckled. Or what? he challenged.

She extended her right arm, fingers clutched tightly around a can of mace poised roughly two inches from his eyes.

Or I’ll tell the sheriff there’s a blind man staggering around in my yard.

Marcelo figured his mama hadn’t raised any fools and his poppi always declared a good run better than a bad stand any day, so he did as the crazy woman asked. He got on his horse and rode off into the sunset. Literally. He squinted against the sun’s evening rays and noticed that the cattle he’d fed moments before still munched on the sweet-smelling hay he’d tossed over the fence, uninterested in the tableau before them. She hadn’t even thanked him. She probably didn’t realize they were her cows.

He turned in the saddle, glancing back at her. She stood defensively, a small pink camouflage canister grasped in one hand, the other raised to shade her eyes. He waved a brief salute; she stiffened and haughtily tossed her head. Marcelo could hold it no longer. Laughter floated up from his throat, rocking his shoulders, deep and jovial. He planned to have the last word with this beautiful spitfire.

He topped the small rise that hid the back of the ranch from Route 281 bypass traffic. He’d chosen the western section of land he and his brothers had inherited. Juan Antonio, the middle son, had chosen the eastern section near the Gulf of Mexico. He’d planted sugar cane. Raoul, the youngest, had been left with the family hacienda, the middle acreage known as the Citrus Queen. Grapefruit, the main crop, along with oranges and lemons, supplied livelihood for fifty-plus workers, and they had squeezed by with a fairly decent crop yield this past winter. Even though the brothers went separate ways with their inheritance, it was understood that the land belonged to the three of them and in time of need, help was guaranteed.

From where he sat astride his horse, he could easily view the spread before him. For miles on the flat land white-faced cattle grazed, their red bodies fat and healthy. A one-story barn that looked more like two small schools, and a grain silo sat off to the right. A mile away he could make out the deep brown terra-cotta roof tiles, complementing the cream-painted stucco walls of the ranch house. He was too far away to make out the arches and the courtyard partially hidden by mesquite trees, palms and tall cactus, but it never failed to move him that God had so blessed and provided. Yes, he had a huge mortgage payment each month, but Lord willing and a few good cattle sales and he would cut the time in half.

But there had been an emptiness in his soul lately that hadn’t been there the past few years as he’d worked long, hard hours to make the ranch a success. Sometimes he’d worked sixteen-hour days with little rest but he’d lived on adrenaline, always celebrating every achievement. Now, even though he still loved and enjoyed his work, he found himself wanting more. Maybe it was seeing Juan Antonio so happy with his fiancée, Carina, and hearing the wedding plans they made. The special looks that passed between them and the loving touches they thought no one noticed. He wasn’t sure what caused the restlessness but on days like today it would be nice to share his life with someone.

At the barn entrance, Marcelo removed the saddle and started to brush his horse down.

"Hola, jefe. How was the ride? His foreman, Flipper Cantu, took the brush from him and quickly finished the task. Marcelo hired college boys during the summer months to help with roundup, vaccinations, cleanup and mowing. One of the white college boys knew no Spanish and could not pronounce Felipe," the foreman’s name, so he’d called him Flipper. It stuck.

We’ve got company.

Flipper looked around quickly. Where?

Marcelo brushed the dust from his clothing and walked to the outside faucet to wash his hands. "Señora Guerrero’s granddaughter moved in this evening."

Flipper gazed at him with a half-bland smile. What you talking about, boss? Moved in where?

The line shack. Lock, stock and barrel. Even hung her gramma’s sign on the front porch.

Flipper’s smile vanished, wiped away by astonishment. Now why would she go do a fool thing like that?

Not sure, but I intend to find out. Marcelo pulled open the door to his truck. I’m too tired to worry about it tonight. I’m going to the house. He climbed wearily behind the wheel then as an afterthought said, Tell the boys not to bother her. I’ll feed and care for her livestock until we settle things.

Sure thing, boss. Flipper pulled the big barn doors closed, jumped on a four-wheeler and headed in the opposite direction.

* * *

Kayla stomped into the house, which was more like a hotel room, a war of emotions raging within her. The offensive man had laughed at her. And he’d not stated his name. Could that have been deliberate? She’d wanted to knock him off his high horse. And a beautiful horse it was, at that. The man wasn’t too bad to look at, either.

A quick and disturbing thought invaded her emotional rampage. He could have easily been a murderer, could have overpowered her. What if he came back during the night? She had no means of protection. A can of mace wasn’t much of a defense. Momentary panic flickered through her. The door had not been locked. She had walked right in. She checked and sure enough, no locks. She began to shake as fearful images built in her mind. She sat down on the bed and fought for control.

The man had not seemed combative or dangerous. He’d been friendly up till the point she demanded he leave. She had not felt threatened. Those were the facts. He’d also been helpful. He told her where the hammer was. How had he known that? He must have worked for her grandmother. Maybe as a handyman. If her grandmother trusted him, then she would, too.

Her courage returned and she looked around for a way to bolt the door.

Her things took up all the available floor space, yet she’d brought only what she’d had in her dorm room. How had her grandmother lived in this small place? Granted, it was larger than the college living quarters; plus she’d roomed with two other girls, so this step up would work nicely. Positive thinking, that’s what she needed.

She drove her car around to the back of the house. To her way of thinking, if someone came up the drive and didn’t see a vehicle, they’d think no one was home and would leave. Back inside she secured the door with a chair under the doorknob. With the door closed, the only light came from the small bathroom window. She flipped a switch beside the door and light flooded the room. Thank God. The tiny bathroom sink had running water. Another plus. But the closed door had shut off the breeze and in minutes the room was sweltering hot. Toward the top of the back wall, a window air-conditioning unit had been installed. She turned it on high, and cold air filtered slowly over her face. She breathed a sigh of relief. Perfect. This would work, and it was better than some of the places she’d lived in her lifetime.

A small refrigerator occupied one corner of the room; a microwave cart held a collection of ketchup packets, salt and napkins but no microwave. Two chairs and a table made up the kitchenette, but there was neither a stove to cook on nor a kitchen sink. Two doors led off the left, one to the small bathroom, the other to a cubicle the same size as the bathroom. A shovel, various other odd-looking tools, paint cans and a roll of barbed wire sat neatly on the floor or leaned against the inside wall. Why on earth had her grandmother needed those things? Why, still, had she kept them in her house?

She dragged the boxes of clothes, shoes and books into the cubicle room along with the satchel that held her parents’ papers, photos and the memorabilia that recorded Kayla’s life from birth till now. The cubicle would serve as her closet. She started to unload her toiletries in the bathroom but the shower drain, positioned in the center of the floor, the lack of a stall, shower curtain and cabinet under the sink meant the water from the showerhead most likely would cover every inch of the tiled walls and floor. Surely a man had designed this place. How had her grandmother endured the inconvenience all that time? As soon as she opened her party store, Confetti, and began making a profit, she’d remodel this mess, though she had to admit the tile was beautiful and the sink so clean she’d have no compunction at washing dishes in it.

She sank down on the bed then sneezed. Dust rose in the air around her. She sneezed again. She stood and gently folded the Mexican blanket covering the