Texas Wedding

“No, that never occurred to me,” she lied, swallowing hard. “I trust you to be sensible, and—”

“You trust me?” He threw his head back, laughing harshly. “That’s a good one, sweetheart. According to that prenup, you don’t trust me with the dinner forks. And obviously you didn’t trust me not to bring a bucket of STDs to the marriage bed, either.”

He bent his elbows slightly, and tilted his body toward her, just close enough that the heat and the pressure reminded her how powerful he was. He’d always been tall, even as a teen, with the promise of potency to come. But this was a man’s body, with all the promises fulfilled.

She tried to go numb. She didn’t want to feel the angles of his hips against hers. She didn’t want to be aware of the muscles in his legs, rippling with tension. She didn’t want to remember how this same body had once covered hers with tenderness.

“You obviously believe I’m an immoral bastard—and eleven years ago you told me I was a murderer, too.” His rough voice scraped her nerves. “What would stop a man like that from asserting his conjugal rights…with whatever force it required?”

“Nothing.” She pressed her head against the wall, struggling to create distance. “You’re obviously stronger than I am, Trent. Nothing can stop you except your own conscience.”

But did he have one? And what about her conscience? She had agreed to a sexual relationship, in exchange for this marriage. If she could anesthetize her conscience, perhaps he could do the same.

For a minute, she thought he might. He let his body press forward even farther, until the granite of his chest met her breasts. His heat scorched through her nightgown. Too fast for her to react, he thrust his knee between her legs and cocked it up, pressing it hard against the aching spot at the apex of her thighs.

She twisted against the wall, trying to escape both him and the hot desire that traitorously shot through her. Perhaps she wasn’t strong enough to prevent this, but she could fight. She didn’t have to make it easy for him. She pushed against his chest with her palms, but she might as well have been trying to move a mountain.

He let her squirm for a moment, just long enough for her to realize how helpless she truly was. And then, without warning, he stepped away.

If she hadn’t been propped up by the wall, she might have fallen. Her breath was coming so fast, it was as if she’d been running for hours.

He, on the other hand, looked as cool and contemptuous as ever. He picked up his shirt and began walking toward the door.

When he put his hand on the knob, he turned.

“It’s not my conscience stopping me,” he said, looking her over with a cool appraisal that somehow managed to be as insulting as if he’d spit in her face. “It’s my standards. I don’t much care for liars, or frigid, manipulative bitches. The truth is, sweetheart, you’re not worth it.”

CHAPTER TWO

YEARS AGO, Trent had learned that there’s no frustration, no pain or fury, no mental monster of any kind, that can’t be tamed by a treadmill—assuming you go fast enough and stay on it long enough.

This morning, with Susannah’s double cross less than twelve hours behind him, he’d logged about ten miles on the gym’s machine before he felt even semi-normal. He started Mile One with his cell phone in his hand, fingers itching to call a lawyer, any lawyer, and file for a quickie divorce.

Instead, he dialed up the treadmill speed and jogged till he sweated out some of the poison. Somewhere along the repetitive rubber highway, he found enough sanity to remember why he’d agreed to this marriage in the first place.

It hadn’t been just to help Susannah. It hadn’t even been just because he’d been fool enough to dream that this might be their second chance.

He’d also done it for Chase.

Originally, Chase had been Susannah’s chosen temporary husband. It had made sense. Chase was her best friend. He was unattached and, even more importantly, he was a born saint. The original Mr. DoGood. So he had been perfectly happy to marry her with no demands, no strings attached.

But then Josie Whitford had come along and hit Chase like a bolt of lightning. The poor guy’s dilemma had been painful to watch. Love or loyalty? Passion or past promises?

Trent had to say one thing for Susannah: though she was as cold as a meat locker toward Trent, she did seem to have a soft spot for Chase. When she’d realized the problem, she’d come to Trent and laid out a deal.

The way she figured it, Trent should marry her. If he hadn’t screwed up their relationship eleven years ago, she said, she wouldn’t be in the market for a husband in the first place. So Trent owed her. If he’d help her meet the husband clause in her grandfather’s will, she’d consider the debt paid.

Trent knew she was desperate, even to suggest it. He knew she would have exhausted all other options, sane or crazy, before coming to him.

Everyone knew she’d tried to break the will legally, of course. But though old man Everly had been mean as a snake and the biggest male chauvinist in Texas, he’d also been clever and controlling, and he’d apparently found a lawyer who was his match.

The resulting will was apparently ironclad. Arlington had left Everly tied up so tight Susannah couldn’t sell a single peach tree, not one pebble on the property, no matter how much she needed money. Not till she got married, and stayed married, sleeping under the same roof with her husband for a full year.

Trent was surprised the will hadn’t required a check of the honeymoon bedsheets, to prove all marital obligations had been met. The nasty old bastard.

It had been tempting all on its own, to think of thwarting old man Everly.

But what really made Trent agree to the deal was his own soft spot for Chase, his childhood friend. He’d agreed to take Chase’s place. Minus the saint and celibacy stuff, of course. He was willing to help Susannah by presenting himself at the altar, not on it.

And look where he’d ended up anyhow. Lying right on that slab. Staring at the longest, coldest year of his life, beside a marble-hearted bitch who just happened to look like a girl he used to love.

But at least Chase was happy. And that was still worth protecting.

Finally resigned, Trent showered and headed back to Everly.

The house had seen better days—it could definitely use a coat of paint—but the fancy gingerbread Victorian looked its best on this cloudless spring morning, with roses bunched up everywhere, and the trees finally back in leaf.

The minute he opened the door, he heard voices. Susannah was here, but she wasn’t alone. He listened a second, and recognized Chase.

He scanned the large honey-pine foyer. The guest powder room door was open, the frilly area empty. No sign of Josie. So Chase had come alone.

Had Susannah sent out an SOS? Needed, one shoulder to cry on, because my husband is a beast.

“Hey!” Chase stood up from the table as Trent entered the kitchen. He grinned. “You owe me one, buddy. I just barely managed to keep Pastor Wilcox from coming over here. I told him I’d bring his present along, since I was going to stop by anyhow.”

Trent was surprised to discover how much the sight of Chase’s easy smile annoyed him—especially since he’d just been waxing sentimental about honoring the bond of friendship, taking one for your mate, all that band of brothers nonsense.

But he’d just gotten married last night, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t your band of brothers be willing to back off for at least one day? Give you time to…

Time to what? To break promises and fling insults? To call each other names and rip open old wounds? Maybe, when he thought about it, he and Susannah had already had all the togetherness they needed.

Trent glanced at her now, standing at the stove. In her usual outfit of sharp khaki slacks and white oxford-cloth shirt, with her hair in a glossy braid down her back, not a strand out of place, she looked utterly serene.

She turned gracefully and held out a blue mug, smiling. “Cup of coffee, Trent? It’s fresh.”

Her voice was angelic, smooth, as if she’d just this minute set aside her golden harp and stepped down from her cloud. He hesitated a beat before accepting the coffee, sorting the clues.

One thing was clear. She hadn’t invited Chase over. She was improvising, pretending that there was smooth sailing in the newlywed world. They weren’t going to tell Chase about last night’s nosedive into the emotional swamp.

“Okay, thanks,” Trent said, playing along. He turned to Chase. “Yeah, we owe you.”

But he wasn’t sure what to say next. Chase knew them both so well. He wasn’t going to be easily fooled.

Trent took a sip of coffee, though it was technically still too hot. Then he reached across the table for the present, wrapped in its flocked silver paper, and picked it up.

“So what did Pastor Wilcox send? I hope it’s not one of his wife’s samplers. I’ll never forget the one in her living room that said ‘Enquire not what boils in another’s pot.’ I swear the thing gave me nightmares.”

Chase and Susannah both laughed politely, which in itself was stilted, since this was an old joke. The three of them had made fun of that sampler for years, rewriting it into a hundred vulgar variations, like “Enquire not what rots in another’s boils.”

He pulled off the white bow and began to rip away the paper, just as if he gave a damn what was inside. They watched him, pretending to be equally transfixed.

It was a picture frame, arranged facedown, so that all he could see was the velvet backing and little gold clips. He flipped it over and readied himself to make some joke about Jenny Wilcox’s nutty quotations.

The joke died on his lips. It wasn’t a sampler, after all. It was a photograph of Susannah and Trent, standing out in one of the Everly peach orchards. It must have been taken a long time ago. At least eleven years, in fact, because Susannah was laughing, something she hadn’t done in Trent’s presence since the night of the fire.

She wore a flower-sprigged gypsy dress, and her skirt was full of peaches. She held the fabric up in both hands, just high enough to expose her knees.

Trent was staring at her, goofy and love-struck, peaches littered around his feet. He had been juggling them, and when Susannah lifted her dress, they’d all come tumbling down.

For an aching instant, just looking at the picture, he was there again, at the church picnic, with Pastor Wilcox taking snapshots. Trent could feel the summer sun on his cheeks, and he could taste the sweet, sticky peaches on his tongue. He had made love to Susannah that night, lying under the moonlight on the cooling grass, and she had tasted of peaches, too.

He glanced up at her now, to see how she had reacted. The past had been so alive that it shocked him to see how different the real Susannah was. Not much older, amazingly, and not any less beautiful, but somehow muffled. Empty, as if whatever spring had fed the laughter had dried up and turned to dust.

Though she, too, stared at the picture, she hadn’t reacted at all. She still wore that lovely robot smile. The eyes above it were as empty as a doll’s.

He held the picture out. It was cruel, perhaps, but he wanted her to touch it. He wanted her to say something, anything, that proved she was still a real human being.

She took it in her hand. “What a lovely thought,” she said blandly, looking down at it without blinking. “That was nice of them.”

Then she set it on the table gently. “I’m sorry to leave you, boys, but I’ve got to talk to the foreman about some new hires. Several of my best workers had a terrible car accident last weekend, and I’m going to be shorthanded.”

Obediently, Chase stood up and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled, and waited for Trent to do the same. Still part of the charade for Chase’s benefit. Trent kissed her, surprised to find that her cheeks were still soft and warm, not firm plastic like a mannequin’s.

Then she was gone.

The silence in the kitchen held a million unasked questions—and a million unspoken answers. Trent didn’t rush to fill it. Between the two men, words were often unnecessary.

Chase pulled open the cabinet door that hid the trash can. Then he wadded up the wrapping paper and tossed it toward the container. He missed. Trent retrieved it and tried again. He missed, too.

“Pathetic,” Chase said. They both stood staring at the misshapen ball of glittering silver paper on the tiled floor.

“Look, Trent. Maybe I should stay out of this but…don’t give up on Sue, okay? It’s early days, you know. Things could get better, with a little time.”

Trent grunted, then went over and stuffed the paper into the trash can and kicked the cabinet door closed. “Yeah, and you could get drafted by the Mavericks, but I’m not holding my breath.”

Chase shook his head. “What the hell happened? I was hoping I’d find you two still in bed. But I get here, you’re gone, and she’s doing her bookkeeping like it’s just any other day. Damn it. I honestly thought that, once you guys were married, she might—”

“Well, she didn’t. And she’s not going to. I was an idiot to think she ever would. She was always strong, Chase, but it’s different now. She’s changed. Maybe her grandfather did it to her. Hell, maybe I did it. But she’s turned…tough.”

“No, she hasn’t.” Chase chewed the inside of his lip. “Or if she is tough, it’s tough like an avocado. Just on the outside. You’ve got to remember that, you know. She can still be bruised on the inside. Are you sure you didn’t do something, say something that might have made her feel—”

“No.” Trent took his coffee cup to the large stainless steel sink and tossed the dregs down the drain. “I didn’t say a damn thing. And, frankly, I’d prefer not to get lectures from you on this. Why don’t you go home and take care of your own wife?”

Chase smiled. One of his best traits was his easy nature. He rarely took offense at anything.

“Gladly,” he said. “But I think you’re passing up some pretty useful advice. After all, I do have an embarrassingly happy marriage.”

Trent made a harsh sound. “Then your advice is no use to me. Last night made one thing perfectly clear. Susannah and I aren’t married.” He felt his shoulders tighten. “We’re at war.”

AS SUSANNAH SAT with her foreman in his cluttered office just off the barn, listening to him sputter indignantly about the young slacker they’d just interviewed, she really was trying to focus. Every time her mind or her gaze wandered toward the house, she dragged it back.

She had been more relieved to see Trent show up this morning than she wanted to admit. When she’d awakened and found him gone, she hadn’t been sure whether he was ever coming back.

But he had come, and that’s all that mattered. As long as her plan to break her grandfather’s will was safe, she didn’t care what Chase and Trent were saying now. Trent had undoubtedly already spilled all the gory details, and they’d begun bashing her, employing the usual macho insults for women who promise things they refuse to deliver.

But so what? That wasn’t important. This was. The peach crop was going to be good this year, and, even if she wasn’t sure she had buyers for the fruit, she’d still need as many skilled workers as possible to bring it in.

Even the worker she’d just interviewed. Eli Breslin.

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw the cheeky little son of a gun.” Zander was so outraged he sputtered. “He has the nerve to walk in here? As if you’d hire that one to shine your shoes!”

She smiled. “I can’t afford to have my shoes shined by anybody. But I do need someone to pick peaches. And he’s the only one who showed up, right?”

“Well.” Zander shuffled papers on his desk. “There were a few calls.”

“Yes, but those men weren’t good enough, either.”

They’d already discussed this. One candidate used to work for the Ritchie spread, which was notoriously badly run, and the second applicant had been on the wagon for only six months, which wasn’t long enough in Zander’s eyes, and…well, the bottom line seemed to be that most of the callers failed to meet the foreman’s standards.

Eli Breslin wouldn’t have made the cut, either, except that he hadn’t bothered to phone first. He’d just knocked on the office door, and Susannah, despairing of getting anyone past Zander’s gauntlet, had insisted on interviewing the kid.

Zander leaned back in his ancient, squeaking leather chair and tapped his pencil against his knee. “He’s got zero experience with peaches.”

“He can learn,” Susannah said. She moved her hand and almost overturned a teetering stack of paperwork. Ironic that Zander required perfection of everyone but himself. “Things are desperate right now. We may have to lower our standards a bit.”

Of course, that was the wrong thing to say. The big man sat up straight and puffed out his chest. “I’m glad your grandfather isn’t around to hear you say such a thing. He never abandoned his standards, no matter what. Not even when the Alzheimer’s laid him low.”

Sighing, Susannah stood and walked to the window, where she could see the east forty, which looked beautiful in May, with all the trees wearing full green. The sight calmed her a little.

She and Zander had been through this a dozen times in the two years since Arlington H. Everly had died, and she didn’t feel like hashing it out again.

Her grandfather’s “standards” were, in her view, simply mule-headed stubbornness and excessive pride. His refusal to face economic facts had brought Everly to this current disaster, and she and Zander both knew it.

When Susannah was a kid, before her parents died, Everly Industries had owned ten thousand acres of fertile land here near Austin, and almost as many in West Texas, where the land was so rich the oil just boiled out of the ground. Today, they had one tenth that, only one thousand acres, a mere three hundred of them producing. Oh, and a dried-up two-acre plot in West Texas that looked like Swiss cheese from all the useless holes Arlington had kept drilling after Alzheimer’s had claimed his brain.

“I need hands,” she said, trying to stick to the topic. “Lots of hands to prune and thin, and then, in a few weeks, start bringing in those peaches before they rot on the trees. Eli Breslin is a healthy, willing worker with two excellent hands. Hire him.”

The silence behind her was full of disapproval. Finally Zander spoke, his voice a deep, censorious rumble in his chest. “You can’t mean that. What about Miss Nikki?”

She bit her lower lip. That was the big question, of course. When Eli Breslin had worked next door at Chase’s Double C quarter horse ranch, Nikki had fallen for him like a too-ripe peach dropping from the tree. In fact, Eli Breslin was one of the main reasons Susannah had decided to spring for Nikki’s expensive art school. It had simply been too hard to keep the two from sneaking off together into the orchard late at night.

And Susannah knew all too well what could happen in the orchard, under a milky moon, on a warm spring night.

On the other hand, Nikki was gone, and during his interview Eli had apologized with a lot of grace and maturity. Maybe, without her wild little sister to distract him, Eli Breslin could be a good worker.

Or maybe Zander was right. Maybe Eli was just too iffy….

She pressed her hand over her eyes. She’d been staring out into the sun too long, and she was getting a headache.

She heard someone open the office door behind her, and then the sound of Zander levering himself out of his squeaky chair.

“Trent! Thank God you’re here! Maybe you can help me talk some sense into Ms. Susannah!”

Oh, great. She needed this right now.

Susannah turned to see Trent moving into the office, his lean height dominating it more thoroughly than even Zander’s bulk could ever do. He shut the door behind him, then came over and shook the foreman’s outstretched hand, simultaneously slapping him on the shoulder. They were old friends, and suddenly she felt outnumbered.

“No one needs to talk sense into me.” She included both men in her scowl. But damn it. What was it about Trent’s lazy, amused grin that made her feel like a kid stamping her foot? “I make my own decisions. I know what I’m doing.”

Trent raised his eyebrow, as if she’d said something cute, and transferred that annoying grin to the foreman. “Come on, Zan. You know her. When she makes a decision, you and I and Hell’s army couldn’t talk her out of it. Save your energy for a battle you can win.”

“I would. God knows, I usually do. But this is different. She’s getting ready to hire Eli Breslin.”

Trent’s eyebrow went up even farther. “Really?” He glanced at Susannah. “Why?”

“Because I need workers, that’s why. Because Eli applied, and he sounded sincere about needing the job. He went out of his way to apologize for everything that happened with Nikki. He explained that he was just lonesome. Homesick. That’s why he wants a second job now, to save up to buy a plane ticket back home to El Cajon.”

Trent chuckled. “He actually said that?”

“You should have heard the little weasel.” Zander grimaced. “Kid should be an actor. He spread honey on her like she was his own personal biscuit. Ninety-three percent of it pure baloney, if you ask me.”

“But I didn’t.” Susannah tightened her voice. “I didn’t ask either of you. It’s my decision.”

Zander growled under his breath, like a fussy old hound. “You do remember what he did at the Clayton place, don’t you? You remember he walked away from a sick horse, didn’t care whether the animal lived or died? You remember Trent had to fire him?”

“She remembers.” Trent’s smile was gone. In its place was cool speculation. “Is that part of the appeal, Susannah? Do you think it would be fun to tweak my nose a bit?”

It might be fun, she thought, to see if she could slap that insufferable arrogance off his face. But she gritted her teeth and braided her hands behind her back. Her famous self-control was the only thing that kept Zander from quitting. She’d heard him say it was beneath him to work for a woman, but Ms. Everly didn’t really act like one, so he didn’t mind too much.

She lifted her chin. “As I’ve pointed out before, Trent, not everything I do is about you.”

But he just grinned again, and her palms itched. How did he do this to her? Why couldn’t she learn to be immune to his snarky comments and his laughing eyes?

She had been vacillating about Eli, but suddenly her mind was made up.

She moved to the door, opened it, then turned to her foreman. “Hire him. Ask him if he has a brother, an uncle, a dog. Hire them all.”

“Dumb decision,” Zander muttered. “You’ll regret it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Trent said pleasantly. Susannah had let the door begin to fall shut, so she almost missed the rest of the comment.

But his words were loud enough to follow her, like a dart finding its bull’s eye.

“Our Susannah’s a clever woman, Zan. Trust me. If she regrets it, she can always find a way to wriggle out of it.”

CHAPTER THREE

AT THREE O’CLOCK that afternoon, Trent knocked at the baby blue door of a little white cottage over in Darlonsville.

“Trent!” Peggy Archer held out her hand. Her eyes were wide, and she seemed momentarily speechless. “I didn’t expect to see you today. Shouldn’t you be with…her?”

Trent sensed the trembling in her fingers and squeezed them reassuringly. “I’ve had a date with you every Saturday afternoon for five years now, Peggy. Marriage isn’t going to change that.”

She nodded slowly. “Especially that marriage.”

“Not any marriage. You told me your satellite dish is broken. I know you can’t live without your Sunday night football.”

He smiled, aware that Peggy never watched sports on TV, but hoping to distract her from the subject of Susannah. It was a sore one in this house.