“To us,” he said, lifting his glass.

“Yes, to us,” Amanda said, taking a sip. “My darling Gus. How I love and count on you. We have survived so much together, and now, with Sonny soon to be lost to me, you are the only constant in my life. Of course, we’ll still have Mother,” she added somewhat dismissively, “but the mother I once loved and respected no longer resides in that woman’s body. And there is Toby, my adorable playmate, and our diligent and faithful Montgomery, and all the other employees here on the ranch and in Virginia, and our staff at the Alliance for whom I feel lovingly responsible. But you are my rock. Only you.”

His eyes misting over, Gus reached over and stroked her hair. “Thank you, my darling,” he said. “You are far and away the most important person in my life.”

Amanda leaned close and kissed him. Just a soft brush of her lips, but it left him light-headed. He took a sip of sherry then cleared his throat and said, “Mother seemed glad to see us.”

“Perhaps. Poor Montgomery. Can you imagine putting up with Mother day in and day out? But with her unpredictable behavior and not knowing what trash is going to come out of her mouth, it’s best this way. She has her television to watch, and I think she takes a perverse pleasure in giving poor Montgomery a hard time.”

Gus put his glass on the side table and turned to face his sister. “There’s something we need to talk about, Amanda,” he said.

“Oh, dear,” she said, affecting a pout. “You’re using your stern voice.”

“I have seen stories in several publications from supermarket tabloids to Newsweek that claim you and Toby are expecting a baby in April,” Gus said.

“So?” Amanda said with a girlish smile. Then she actually giggled. “I’ve bought this little padded thing that looks quite authentic. I plan to start wearing it after Christmas. And I’m having some perfectly lovely maternity clothes made for me. In the meantime, I have opted for a loose, more ambiguous look.”

“So you plan to pass this girl’s baby off as your own?”

“It is my own baby,” Amanda said. “I have a contract that says it is.”

“Do you plan to pass this baby off as one to which you yourself gave birth?” he amended.

Amanda nodded. “You sound displeased. Would that bother you?” she asked.

“Is Toby the biological father of Jamie Long’s baby?” Gus asked.

Amanda squared her shoulders. “Damn it, Gus. It is not Jamie Long’s baby. It is my baby.”

“Answer my question, Amanda,” Gus said, his voice quite firm. “Is Toby the biological father of this baby?”

“What difference does it make?” she demanded.

“It could make a great deal of difference. When I first started hearing these rumors about your being pregnant, it occurred to me what your motivation might have been for keeping poor Sonny alive all this time when there is no hope of him ever recovering. After his accident, you were absolutely incapacitated by grief, refusing to leave his bedside, hardly eating anything, and putting your own health in jeopardy. And then all of a sudden you announce that God is great and you are going to get married. Don’t play games with me, Amanda. If I am going to protect you, I need to know if Sonny is the father of the baby that now resides in the womb of Jamie Long.”

“Of course, he is,” she said, anger in her voice. She took a deep breath, downed the last of her sherry, and carefully put her glass on the table. Gus could see her mentally shifting gears. Anger was not her style.

She took his hand and leaned very close, her lovely scent filling his nostrils. For an instant, he thought she was going to kiss him again. She looked so beautiful in the firelight. Her skin glowing, her eyes glistening, her lips moist. “Just think, Gus, this baby is of our blood. A baby that will continue our mother’s ministry and the Hartmann legacy. A baby for you and me to love and raise. He will be blessed by God, just like our Sonny was. And he will have the call. God has promised me. It will be like having Sonny back with us,” she said. “Freda did a sonogram on Jamie. She is carrying a healthy baby boy. That’s why I can let Sonny go. I will have his son to raise.”

The son of his beloved Sonny. Gus closed his eyes, imagining the love he would feel for such a child, who would be beautiful and perfect and incredibly dear, just like Sonny. A child who would love him in that same sweet, uncomplicated way that Sonny had loved him.

“And what does Toby say about this plan?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He doesn’t know. Of course, he realizes that I plan to assume the role of the baby’s natural mother and agrees that it’s better that way. Our people will more readily accept the baby if they think he is my flesh-and-blood son. Just think of the television ratings when we introduce him to the world,” she said, clasping her hands together.

Gus realized that there was some rationale to this logic. Many of Amanda’s flock had been followers of their mother before her. It would indeed mean a great deal to them if the baby was of the Tutt lineage and had entered the world with a birthright and would carry the Tutt ministry into the fourth generation. And the child would inherit the ranch and the family’s vast oil and gas business. Gus could groom him to take over. Like he had once planned to do with Sonny. Perhaps the child would be more interested in the family business than Sonny had been. There was so much he could teach the boy, things that only he could impart.

But the warming of his heart to Amanda’s scheme did not erase his anger at her. She should have told him from the beginning what she had in mind. He could have managed things better.

“How could Toby not know?” Gus asked.

“All it took was a little dry ice,” she said with a shrug. “When the day came for the insemination procedure, Toby and I made a little game of it. I ‘helped’ him, so to speak. When we were finished, I carried the semen out of that little room while he got himself back together. But the contents of the vial I gave to the nurse came from Sonny. We left before Jamie arrived. It was quite simple, really.”

“And how did you get Sonny’s semen?”

Amanda folded her hands in her lap and looked down, avoiding her brother’s gaze and his question.

“Freda helped me,” she said, staring into the fire. “I did what I needed to do. Sonny would have wanted me to.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Gus observed.

“Of course it is,” Amanda insisted. “He will have a son to carry on for him. And we will have the next best thing to Sonny.”

“Amanda, I don’t think you’ve thought through the implications of what you have done.”

She lifted her chin. “Such as?”

“Such as Jamie Long realizing that the baby you are publicly claiming to be your own natural-born child is no such thing.”

“Jamie believes that I also am carrying a child,” Amanda pointed out.

“A child that just happens to be born the same time as the one she is carrying? You are a very famous woman. The girl is going to see photographs of you and your miracle child everywhere. And read heartwarming stories about how God miraculously healed you with another child after your son’s tragic accident even though you were postmenopausal or whatever. Those stories will say nothing about a second adopted child. There will only be one baby, Amanda, unless you and Toby plan to go out and find yourself a kid to adopt and raise alongside the miracle child.”

“I’ll tell Jamie that my baby was stillborn,” Amanda said.

“And maybe she will believe you and be ever so happy that you have the baby she carried to raise. But she will still know that the baby you are claiming to be your own child is no such thing. She would know that you, Amanda Tutt Hartmann, who is supposed to be above reproach and has millions of followers who think that you have a direct line to God Almighty and can save their souls and heal their bodies and make their pitiful little lives seem worthwhile, you are living a lie. The girl could blackmail you, Amanda. Or sell her story to the media. And if all those millions of followers lose faith in you, they are not going to donate the money we need to elect our candidates to high office. The Alliance of Christian Voters would wither up and die. We wouldn’t have friends anymore in Washington, and without the right people in Washington, the oil industry would suffer. We’d have to live at the ranch and feed out more cattle in those cruel, smelly feedlots you hate so much. Maybe we could turn the ranch house into a hunting lodge for rich, old cigar-chewing men-as long as the deer and quail population holds out, of course.”