In spite of his disdain for all things religious, Gus loved and admired Amanda immensely. He had been relieved when her brief marriage to a professional football player ended, and she and her infant son came home to Victory Hill. The football player, who had a history of bar fights and an addiction to gambling, refused to give up parental rights and allow his son’s last name to be changed to Hartmann, but less than a year after the divorce, the man had been the victim of a drive-by shooting.

Amanda’s son had no memory of his father. Gus had been the father figure in Sonny’s life, a role he had cherished. Still, he had never completely realized how profoundly he loved his nephew until the accident. It was almost six months ago now since Sonny had been found pinned under an all-terrain vehicle at the bottom of a shallow canyon in the far northwest corner of the ranch. He had been taken by helicopter to Amarillo, but after more than a month in intensive care, Amanda had him moved back to the ranch, away from prying eyes, and taken up the mantle of a grieving mother. Her millions of followers assumed that Sonny was dead and grieved along with her, but the press had not given up so easily. With their telephoto lenses and audacity, they drove up the isolated road that led to Hartmann Ranch. They stayed until the frigid reality of a Panhandle winter drove them away.

Technically, Sonny Hartmann was still alive. He still moved and even mumbled at times. But the essence of the boy who had been Gus’s beloved Sonny lived no longer.

Gus now conducted his life under a staggering burden of grief.

His sister had prayed a thousand prayers to her God, asking that Sonny be restored to her. Gus even reconsidered altering his own religious beliefs for a time. Even though he had not prayed since childhood, when his grief became unbearable Gus had given it a try. On bended knee he made his bargains and promises, but they had been to no avail.

He looked into the face of the stone Christ and pondered trying once again.

“YOUR TEN O’CLOCK appointment is here,” Lenora’s voice announced when Bentley picked up the phone.

“What do you think?” Bentley asked. “Does the young woman live up to your expectations?”

“My expectations aren’t what matters. Her file is on your desk.”

“Offer her coffee and give me a few minutes.”

Bentley headed for his private bathroom to take a leak, run a comb through his hair, and remove a speck from his right contact lens. With the lens back in place, he grinned at his face in the mirror, remembering last night. He thought he’d lost Brenda after Gus’s second phone call, but she’d hung in there. And turned into a tigress. A fuckin’ tigress. And he had risen to the occasion. God, had he ever. And he hadn’t even taken Viagra.

Bentley gave his crotch an affectionate pat.

Still wearing a self-satisfied smile, Bentley emerged from the bathroom and took a quick glance around his office-at the book-lined walls, the Persian rugs on dark wood floors, the carefully selected works of Native American art on the walls. He picked up a remote from his desk and adjusted the blinds on the wall of windows overlooking the river.

The room was designed to impress, of course. Lately though, Bentley had begun to wonder if the decor was a bit too contrived.

He used to take more satisfaction in the trappings of his success. After all, his first law office had been over a garage, and he and Brenda set up housekeeping in a one-bedroom apartment. Of course, that had all changed after Gus Hartmann anointed him. Now he drove a late-model Mercedes sedan and lived in a mansion in a fine old Austin neighborhood, but sometimes he found himself foolishly longing for those days of yore when he and Brenda were young and struggling. Sometimes he wondered how she would react if he closed his practice and went to work for legal aid, helping the down-and-out instead of the filthy rich. Or if he gave up law altogether, and they took up fishing and gardening and enjoying their grandchildren-if their kids ever got around to providing them with any. But with a million-dollar mortgage, three sons still in college, and a daughter married to a worthless bum, he was pretty much locked into the present arrangement.

Bentley put on his suit jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and sat on a corner of the desk while he looked over the fact sheet Lenora had prepared on Jamie Amelia Long.

Twenty years old.

Dropped out of college midway through second year to care for dying grandmother.

Outstanding ACT scores.

Ran track in high school.

Parents killed in a plane crash when she was six.

Raised by aforementioned grandmother.

One sibling-a half-sister sixteen years her senior from whom she is estranged.

Blond hair.

Blue eyes.

Five feet ten inches tall.

Weight 135 pounds.

Right-handed.

No serious illnesses.

No known genetic disorders in her family.

Doesn’t wear glasses.

Never been married or pregnant.

No current romantic involvement.

Sounds good, Bentley thought. He hoped she looked okay. One of Amanda Hartmann’s specifications was that the young woman be “winsome of face and body.” In addition, she was to be “extremely intelligent, in perfect health, athletically gifted, willowy, graceful, soft-spoken but articulate, virtuous, industrious, and loyal.” She also must belong to a church and believe in God, and must never have been married. And Amanda “strongly preferred” a young woman without family ties.

On paper, at least, Jamie Long seemed like a match.

He really would like to get this business settled. Of course, he would bill the Hartmanns for every hour he’d spent educating himself on the legal aspects of surrogate motherhood and the time he and Lenora spent looking for and screening the candidates, but he needed to move on. He had two important trials coming up-both concerning environment infractions by Palo Duro Oil and Gas.

Bentley put down Jamie Long’s file, straightened his tie, and opened the door that separated his office from Lenora’s domain. Lenora and the young woman were seated on the sofa, coffee cups on the table in front of them.

Bentley extended his hand. “Bentley Abernathy. Nice to meet you, Miss Long.”

She had a firm handshake and met his gaze. “Thank you for seeing me,” she said.

Bentley escorted Jamie Long into his office and seated her on the leather sofa. After establishing that she did not want another cup of coffee, he retrieved the file folder from his desk and sat across from her.

Jamie Long was pretty in an unassuming way. Good cheekbones. A full mouth that would be sexy on another face but somehow only made her look sweet and vulnerable. Her eyes were a deep shade that must have some more exotic name than simply “blue,” and her hair was a glistening pale blond that surely could not have come from a bottle. With a little makeup and a better haircut, the girl could be a knockout.

“I assume that you saw our ad in a student newspaper,” Bentley began.

“Yes, in The Daily Texan. But that was a couple of months ago. I was a bit surprised that you were still looking for someone.”

“What would you have done if we weren’t?”

“I’ve found similar ads on other college newspaper Web sites and met several interested parties in chat rooms. I knew from the phone number that you were in-state, so I decided to start with you.”

“And just what made you interested in becoming a surrogate mother?” he asked.

Her hands were folded in her lap. She was very young to be alone in the world, Bentley thought.

“Well, I thought it would be a satisfying way to help a couple who really wanted a baby and at the same time earn the money I need to finish my college education and pay my debts,” the girl said.