Читать книгу Texas Baby - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

CHASE ENDURED the next hour the way he’d endured most of the crises in his life—he kept busy.

He played host the best he could. He soothed the hysterical—Jenny Wilcox was hyperventilating and her husband, Pastor Wilcox, wasn’t far behind. He deflected the curious. He tried to get as many guests as possible to go home. This became much more difficult once the rumor began to circulate that the mysterious woman lying upstairs in the north guest room, being tended by Dr. Marchant, was Chase Clayton’s discarded, suicidal lover.

And he refused to dwell on worst-case scenarios. Josephine Ellen Whitford, twenty-five years old, from Riverfork—all information they’d learned from her driver’s license—was going to be okay. She had seemed dazed, scraped and bruised and maybe concussed, but surely not damaged enough to be in danger.

Whatever mischief she’d come here to start, he would face when it presented itself. If it ever did. He still hoped he might have misunderstood her last, slurred words.

He took a deep breath as he waved the Wilcoxes’ car down the drive, which was turning blue in the twilight. He shut his eyes for a minute, gathering his focus for the next job…probably finding a taxi for old Portia Luxton, who had stopped driving ten years ago.

He could handle it, whatever it was. He’d been through worse things than this. His parents’ deaths and the collapse of his first marriage, for starters. And of course the life of a horse breeder came with a hundred little agonies, from the liquid-eyed foals who take a few breaths and die, to the beautiful, doomed stallions whose wild streaks can’t be tamed.

“It’s going to be all right,” Sue said, appearing at his elbow. Her voice was soft. “It’ll be the talk of the town for a week or so, and then Elspeth Grimes will see Elvis in the oil stains on her garage floor and everyone will move on.”

“I know.” He appreciated Sue’s commonsense approach to things, which had been her trademark, even as a child. It was the main reason he’d agreed to this marriage. He could trust her to keep it clean. To carry their plan out to the letter. Marry him, satisfy her autocratic grandfather’s absurd will, then take the money and run.

No sticky emotional swamps. No tangles, no hidden agenda.

No last-minute complications, like sex. Or love.

“I know,” he said again. “I’m just sorry it spoiled your party.”

“It didn’t.” She smiled, but her mouth and her eyes didn’t match. She looked toward the house. “I hope she’s okay. She looked kind of…sick, don’t you think? I mean, not just hurt from the accident, but unwell.”

Chase nodded. He had thought exactly that. Miss Whitford didn’t look like a healthy woman. She was painfully thin, and so pale she might have been made of wax. She probably had beautiful eyes when she was rested, large and blue, with feathery black lashes. But right now they were dull, sunken into deep circles like river stones set in mud.

“I wonder who she is.” Susannah was still looking at the house.

Again, Chase merely nodded, trying to hide how much he, too, wanted the answer to that question. Susannah had no idea that the woman had spoken both their names and had even said she wanted to stop the wedding. He wasn’t planning to talk about those cryptic, disturbing words. Not until he had to.

But for the love of God, what could the woman’s motives be? No one had a problem with this wedding. No one wanted to stop it.

Everyone in Texas knew that Susannah Everly had inherited a raw deal from her grandfather, who had written his will while under the influence of alcohol, the leading edge of Alzheimer’s and one of his all-too-common rages.

It was only fitting, their neighbors believed, that her best childhood pal should help her out of it. A few romantics even dreamed that a butterfly of love might come winging out of the chrysalis of friendship, creating that storybook happy ending everyone craved.

No. No one wanted to stop this wedding. Not even Trent Maxwell. That’s how much the poor sucker loved her.

“Here comes Dr. Marchant,” Sue said. She put her hand on Chase’s arm. He glanced at her steady profile, and he wondered if she’d heard the rumors. What a mess. He remembered promising Trent, just an hour ago, that he’d never embarrass her.

He wondered how long he could keep that promise. Perhaps no longer than it took a seventy-year-old man to travel the few yards of oyster-shell driveway between them and the house.

He watched the old man striding toward them, his shock of leonine white hair glowing, even in this gathering gloaming. His face was unreadable in the dim light, but he’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. Something in his movements suggested that his news would not be good.

When Marchant reached them, he didn’t waste time with a preamble. He had always given his diagnoses the same way he gave his medicines—nothing more than you needed, and nothing less. And he expected you to take it like a man, even if you were only four and frightened.

He didn’t believe in sugarcoating.

“She’s going to be fine,” he said.

“Oh, thank heaven,” Sue breathed. She squeezed Chase’s forearm.

Chase knew Marchant’s expressions better than Sue. He knew there were more pills here to swallow. “But?”

“The girl is a Type I diabetic,” the doctor said, looking grim. “She hasn’t eaten since this morning, and apparently she vomited that up hours ago. She was very nearly in insulin shock. It’s amazing she could still drive at all.”

“Good grief,” Chase said. “I knew it was something, but I wouldn’t ever have thought of that.” He watched the older man carefully. “Is that all?”

“No.” Marchant glanced toward Susannah. “Maybe we should talk privately?”

Sue’s hand was very still on Chase’s arm. He could feel the slight tremor that ran through her index finger. “Of course,” she said in an even voice. “Whatever you prefer.”

“No,” Chase said. “I don’t have any secrets from Sue, Matt. Whatever it is, tell us both.”

Marchant shrugged. “Okay. Ms. Whitford is generally in very poor condition. Recent weight loss, maybe a little anemic. I’d say she’s overworked, underfed and possibly depressed.”

He hesitated, an uncharacteristic move. It chilled Chase to the bone. Whatever came next, Marchant really didn’t want to say it.

“The bottom line is, the girl is pregnant.”

Sue’s hand dropped. “Oh, my God,” she breathed. She looked at Chase. “Pregnant?”

Chase looked at her, and he shook his head. “No.” He turned to Marchant and shook his head again. “No.”

“I’m afraid so,” the doctor said, looking first at Chase, then at Susannah, and then back at Chase. For the first time, his dark intelligent eyes showed his age. “I confirmed it, of course, before I agreed to speak to you at all. She is indeed with child. I’d say about three months gone.”

“And…” Chase couldn’t finish the sentence. He shifted his feet to find firmer ground, and then he tried again. “And—”

“And I’m sorry, son. She says that you’re the father.”

JOSIE WRAPPED HER PALMS around the cool glass of orange juice brought to her by a uniformed maid moments ago. She used both hands, because she still felt a little shaky, even though the doctor had assured her that the injection he’d given her should stabilize her blood sugar just fine.

She leaned her head back against the cool sheets and shut her eyes. She must have been pretty far gone this time. She’d had insulin reactions before, of course. They had been a part of her life for two decades, since she was diagnosed at only five years old.

But this one had been the worst ever. The doctor had told her about the crash, though she remembered nothing after she took that last left turn, steering her car under the arching iron sign that said Clayton Creek Ranch.

He said she was lucky, given how fast she was going, to escape with only some cuts and abrasions. But she didn’t feel lucky. She hurt everywhere. And she knew the car was totaled. It probably didn’t look like much to a rich doctor, but it had meant the world to her.

It had meant she could get to work, at least. And to the clinic.

Now what would she do?

Especially if, as she feared, Chase refused—

She heard footsteps coming down the hall, and her hands flew to her hair, trying to smooth the tangles. She caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror, and forced them down again.

What was the use? Her hair had lost the shine he used to admire. It wouldn’t spill like honey through his fingers anymore. She’d lost ten pounds, in all the wrong places. She’d cried off her mascara and worried away any hint of lipstick long before she got to the ranch. And now she had a bandage on her forehead and a black eye that made her resemble an off-kilter raccoon.

Chase had turned his back on her two months ago, when she’d been pink-cheeked and bright-eyed with first love. His lust wasn’t likely to be reawakened by her “beauty” today.

She’d have to appeal to his honor, or nothing at all.

Which was why her hands started to tremble again as the footsteps drew closer. This was a man who hadn’t even bothered to leave a goodbye note. Honor probably wasn’t his strong point.

She forced herself to watch the door steadily. She squared her shoulders, trying to look as dignified as possible. She didn’t need to cower before him. She hadn’t created this baby alone. They had done it together, with laughter and tenderness and passion, however short-lived it had been.

She might be a poor waitress, and he might be a rich rancher. But this was the twenty-first century, and she had no intention of slinking away to starve nobly on the streets for her sins. She wasn’t a martyr or a fool.

They’d made the baby together, and they would face the consequences together. She lifted her chin and waited for him to show up in the doorway.

But the man who appeared there wasn’t Chase. He was older, for one thing. Short and neat, brunette and sober-faced.

“Hello, Ms. Whitford,” he said. “I’m Chase Clayton’s lawyer. May I come in?”

“His lawyer?” She felt some of the bravado whoosh out of her, as if a hole had been torn in her sail. So far she’d seen Chase’s doctor, his maid, and now his lawyer. Apparently he had an army of people he could send ahead, like the military’s front lines, to wear the enemy down.

“Yes. Jim Stilling. May I come in?”

She nodded. “Of course, Mr. Stilling. It isn’t my room. I’m not in a position to deny anyone access to it.”

He smiled, waving that idea away and entered the room. He sat on one of the soft chairs, which were covered in butter-colored silk. He looked at home there, even though the decor was so feminine, with powder-blue and butter-yellow-flowered wallpaper, a white lace canopy on the bed and a huge window overlooking rolling green hills.

She’d never slept in a room this beautiful, much less owned one. She’d been trying not to let that intimidate her.

“And please,” he said, still smiling softly. “Call me Jim. So. Are you feeling better?”

Josie knew a lot of lawyers. The Not Guilty Café was full of them. Her stepfather was a lawyer, too. But she’d never met one with such warm eyes and gentle smile.

All the better to fool you with, my dear.

“Yes,” she said politely. “Much better.”

“Good. I’d like to talk to you a minute, if you don’t mind. Dr. Marchant has told me about your condition. Apparently you gave him permission to discuss it?”

She flushed slightly, remembering. She’d told the doctor he could shout the news to the whole world if he wanted. She had been angry, embarrassed that she’d caused such a ruckus, ashamed of her scrawny, scraped-up body, which she’d been required to lay bare for his inspection, so that she could prove she wasn’t lying about the baby.

“Yes,” she said. “He has my permission. The pregnancy isn’t something I’ll be able to keep secret very long, anyhow.”

The lawyer steepled his fingers. “And is it your contention that Chase Clayton IV is the father of this child?”

Her eyes narrowed. That sounded like something on a subpoena.

“Maybe we should dispense with this prologue, Mr. Stilling, and get to the point.” She drew herself up even straighter in the bed. She put her hands under the blanket, to hide the tremor that hadn’t quite disappeared. She didn’t want to appear weak. She was tired of being weak. Now that she knew why she had been feeling so sick and exhausted lately, she wasn’t afraid anymore.

And she was all through with cringing and enduring. She was going to be a mother, and that was a job that called for courage. It was time to find out if she had some.

“Yes,” she said. “It is officially, legally, my contention that Chase Clayton IV is the father of my baby. Is it his contention that he is not?”

“I didn’t say that,” the man said, shaking his head as if alarmed by her sudden adamance. “I haven’t spoken to Chase about this yet. I assume Dr. Marchant is filling him in on the situation at this very moment. He doesn’t know I’m here. In fact, I probably shouldn’t be here. It’s just that, I’m very fond of Chase, and I thought perhaps I might—”

“Make me go away? Make me change my story? That isn’t going to happen, Mr. Stilling. Back in January, Chase and I spent a month as lovers. He may regret that now. In fact, given that he’s planning to marry someone else, I’m fairly sure he does. But regret doesn’t change the fact that it happened. It also doesn’t change the fact that I’m carrying his child.”

“There’s no need to upset yourself, Miss Whitford. I’m not trying to make you do anything. It’s just that…” Stilling looked sincerely uncomfortable. “You see, I’ve known Chase a long time, and it’s hard for me to believe that—”

“Chase is the father,” she said firmly. “I understand that you know nothing about me, about my character. Maybe you think that…I don’t know, that I have dozens of lovers, and I just picked the richest one to pin it on.”

The lawyer shook his head. “No. Really. I’m not implying anything of the sort.”

But he was thinking it. Of course he was. It would be the perfect out for Chase, if he could prove she was a tramp. This Stilling guy was a lawyer, and he represented a rich man accustomed to taking what he wanted and throwing it away when he was through.

Like her stepfather. Funny, how that seemed to be her pattern. Her mother’s husband had forced her out of the house at eighteen. For her own good, he said. So that she’d learn to stand on her own two feet. A year later, in a moment of weakness, she’d asked him if she could move back home for a while, just until she got her AA. He was drunk, of course, but his answer was unequivocal. Hell, no. Having her show up again was the equivalent of having the trash guy bring back his garbage.

As if the insult had happened yesterday, she felt tears pressing at the back of her eyes, and she fought them away. They were part of the old weakness, and she was done with them.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But it simply isn’t true. I have had only one lover. It was Chase. I met him at the restaurant where I work, and he was—”

Somehow she stopped herself. She didn’t need to justify herself to this man. She wasn’t on trial for immorality here. She didn’t have to tell him how lonely she’d been, and how the handsome cowboy had swept her off her feet, which were aching like fire from twelve-hour shifts. She didn’t have to admit how easily he’d romanced her with a fancy car, expensive meals and whispers about the stars in her eyes and the honey in her hair.

That story wouldn’t make her look one bit better. It would make her look gullible and pathetic, which was worse than trashy any day.

And anyway, how could she ever describe how sweet Chase had seemed, at the beginning? The first night, after they’d made love, they had stayed up for hours, eating the chocolates he’d brought her and telling each other stories about their childhoods.

The sex had been nice, but it was those stories that had made her fall in love with him. She’d been able to picture him as a little boy of eight, fishing in the creek that bore his name and throwing everything back. And at nine, killing a rattlesnake with a golf club and shaking for an hour afterward.

She’d never known a man so willing to admit he had a tender heart.

“Anyhow, it’s all true,” she said. “We spent a month together. Every day. I know all about him, Mr. Stilling. I know he got his first horse when he was fourteen, and its name was Captain Kirk. I know that when he was ten his collie died, and he carved the gravestone himself.”

The lawyer’s eyes widened slightly.

“The doctor says I can’t get out of bed, but if I could, I’d go to that window, and I bet I could see the stone from here. It says Yipster, the World’s Nicest Dog.”

“Anyone could know those things,” he said carefully. “Anyone could—”

“No,” a harsh voice from the doorway said. “Not anyone.”

Stilling leaned forward. “Chase!”

The man in the doorway didn’t take his gaze from Josie. “Only someone who knew me well could have told you those stories, Miss Whitford, and I’d like to know who it was.”

She shook her head, feeling nauseated again. She wondered if her blood sugar might have dipped again, from all the stress. She couldn’t quite follow what seemed to be happening. Who was this? Were they trying to fool her, bringing in someone to pose as Chase and hope she’d snap at the bait?

The man glaring in at her was very tall and beyond handsome, with thick golden hair and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. They were also the coldest eyes she’d ever seen.

“It was Chase who told me,” she began, her voice betraying her anxiety. It was like walking on a road rigged with land mines. She didn’t know what they were trying to do.

“No,” the man said roughly. “That’s a lie.”

A woman stood at his elbow, just behind him. She looked familiar, though Josie had no idea why. “Chase,” the woman said gently. “That’s too harsh.”

“It’s not harsh—it’s true. You are lying, Miss Whitford. I told you nothing. Until you wrecked your car in my driveway this afternoon, I had never seen you before in my life.”

Dr. Marchant’s low, gruff voice came from the hall, somewhere out of sight. “Chase, really.”

Josie tilted her head back, trying to make enough room in her lungs to breathe. Thank God she wasn’t standing up. She would have fallen into a heap, like a puppet with no strings.

“Well? I’m waiting for an explanation, Miss Whitford. I swear on my life, I have never seen you before.”

He sounded…so certain. So indignant.

So exactly how an honest man unjustly accused would sound.

The bed seemed to tilt. Her heart hitched.

But then everything cleared. And suddenly she understood.

Yes, she thought as she took in the man’s generous mouth, his wide, clear brow and his intelligent eyes, everything finally made sense. The one mystery, the one thing she hadn’t ever been able to figure out, came clear. She’d never understood how a boy who had cried over killing a rattlesnake could grow into a man who could break a woman’s heart without batting an eye.

How could anyone change so much?

He couldn’t. That was the simple, terrifying answer.

He hadn’t changed. The dashing heartbreaker she’d met, and the tenderhearted rancher’s son whose stories had won her heart…they were two different men entirely.

“Damn it, woman. Say something.”

She met his furious gaze helplessly. She had nothing to say. Not to him. All she could possibly say was…

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Clayton. I’ve never seen you, either.”