Lassoed into Marriage. Christine Wenger
“Are you and Aunt Lisa going to get married?”
“Why do you ask that?” he said to Rose.
“Because I heard Grandma Sullivan say that it’s wrong for you to live together without being married.”
Leave it to my mother, Sully thought.
He was at a loss as to how to answer her question, but he knew he had to give it a go.
He was about to say no, when he thought about it.
Married to Lisa?
He could almost imagine being married to her. They laughed together. They had Rose in common, bull riding and the big house on twenty acres. They both liked RV-ing, and chili, and cowboy boots. He grinned. And the sex was great, too.
Some marriages were built on less.
Life had been pretty amazing during this arrangement.
So exactly what was his answer to Rose’s question?
About the Author
CHRISTINE WENGER has worked in the criminal justice field for more years than she cares to remember. She has a master’s degree in probation and parole studies and sociology from Fordham University, but the knowledge gained from such studies certainly has not prepared her for what she loves to do most—write romance! A native central New Yorker, she enjoys watching professional bull riding and rodeo with her favorite cowboy, her husband, Jim.
Chris would love to hear from readers. She can be reached by mail at PO Box 1823, Cicero, NY, 13039, USA, or through her website at www.christinewenger.com.
Lassoed into
Marriage
Christine Wenger
To my very special friends and fans of the Professional
Bull Riders: Pat Prestin of Florida, Marilyn Day of
Illinois and Necia Green of Australia.
And to PBR champion Chris Shivers of Louisiana:
I’ll miss watching you ride, but enjoy your retirement!
Chapter One
The door of the huge, white Victorian opened and Brett “Sully” Sullivan walked in, his cowboy boots making a dull thud on the gleaming hardwood floor.
Standing in the middle of the great room, he seemed to be larger than life, larger than the room. He held his black cowboy hat to one side, nervously turning it between his thumb and index finger.
Lisa Phillips hadn’t seen Sully in three years, and time had been good to him. His pitch-black hair was cut short with haphazard peaks on the top, and it gave him a devil-may-care look that fit his personality. Without the boots and hat and in his gray suit and maroon tie, he looked more like a lawyer than the bull rider that he was.
“Where’s Rose?” Sully asked, his turquoise-blue eyes full of concern.
“She’s in her room. My parents and your parents are putting her to bed,” Lisa answered, spooning sugar into her coffee.
He nodded then shifted on his feet. He seemed not to know whether to stay or go. He probably wanted to retreat back into his motor home instead of trying to make polite conversation with neighbors and relatives who were paying their respects.
Lisa would just like to fly to some place tropical. Some place where she could soak up the rays and water on a beach … and maybe stop crying.
“Is that coffee?” Sully finally asked.
“Yes. And it’s hot and strong.”
He pulled out a chair next to her and helped himself from the pot that someone had graciously put in front of her on a silver tray. She noticed that he drank his black—just like a tough cowboy should.
Lisa thought back to the day of Rose’s christening. She and Sully were Rose’s godparents and it had been a festive affair. No, it was a festive weekend—in direct contrast to today.
The evening of the christening, Rick and Carol, Sully’s brother and her sister, had called a meeting with the two of them and asked them to be Rose’s guardians in case something happened to them.
Lisa was stunned yet flattered that she had been chosen to see to Rose’s upbringing.
Then the unthinkable happened.
Rick and Carol were gone now. Deceased. Their car had hydroplaned during a rainstorm and hit a bridge support. Rose was with them in the car, but she escaped without a scratch, safely belted into her car seat.
The realization that she’d never see her sister, Carol, again rocked her from her hair roots to her toes, and tears pooled in her eyes. When would she ever stop crying?
And Rose … She was an orphan now.
And she and Sully were Rose’s guardians.
“Sully?”
“Yeah?”
He turned to her. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. For a second, she felt sorry for the cowboy. Rick was his brother and her brother-in-law. She had loved Rick, too.
“Remember sitting here three years ago?” she asked. “Rick and Carol had us sign guardianship papers.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re Rose’s guardians now.”
“I know.” He pushed his cowboy hat back with a thumb. “I never thought in a million years that—”
“Me, either. I’m not cut out to be a mother.”
“I’ll be the worst father in the world.”
“What was my sister thinking?”
“My brother must have been drunk.”
Lisa took a sip of coffee. It was too strong, so she added more cream. “What do we do now?”
“Damned if I know.”
Lisa kicked off her heels and shrugged out of her black blazer that matched her black skirt. Sighing, she thought how she hated the suit, which she reserved for funerals.
In the mirror on the wall she noticed that her pale blond hair had frizzed in the drizzling rain at the cemetery. Her face looked drained of all color despite the makeup she’d applied.
She was trying to hold her emotions together, but she felt another wave of tears threatening. All she wanted to do was to find the nearest bedroom, pull the comforter over her head and sleep. When she woke, she’d find that all of this had just been a nightmare.
Before they could talk anymore, the doorbell rang and more neighbors arrived, carrying casseroles and cakes. Lisa let the capable Mrs. Turner from across the street handle everything, bless her.
As if someone had turned up the volume on a TV talk show, the high-ceilinged room came alive with noise. Both sets of their parents, Gordon and Betsy Sullivan and Clyde and Melanie Phillips, were deep in discussion. It soon reached a crescendo.
“We can take the child,” Betsy said. “We have more than enough room at our Palm Beach condo. Eighth floor. Great views.”
“You can’t raise Rose in a condo,” Melanie argued. “We live in a child-friendly commune in Kentucky. She’ll have a lot of children to play with.”
“And to dig a new outhouse with at your commune,” Gordon