Victor parked his Corvette beneath the mighty maple he’d planted with Daddy and his younger brother. Mama loved all sorts of plants, but especially roses. They’d dug so many holes over the years they’d begun to joke they’d run out of acreage, which was hardly a possibility with Daddy’s thousand-acre spread. He’d built the house with his own two hands, determined to make his own way and provide for the woman he loved who could have purchased the finest mansion in Dallas. A busted-up cowboy who’d ridden his first bronc before he could read, Tyrell Connagher had been a man of few words, hard hands and a heart as big as Texas itself. Virginia Connagher waited on the wraparound porch as though she’d known her son was coming home, even though he hadn’t made the hour drive up from Dallas in months. She wore the same thing she always did; riding jodhpurs, English riding boots and a spotless white shirt, even though her hands and knees were dirty from digging in her garden.
