Texas Baby. Kathleen O'Brien
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