The Texan's Convenient Marriage

“Why Would You Want To Help Me? You Don’t Even Know Me.”

Mack kept his gaze fixed on hers. “I know more than you might think. I know that the father of your baby isn’t going to be around to take care of you or the child.”

Addy’s jaw dropped, then closed with an angry click of teeth. “You don’t know any such thing.”

“Yes, I do,” he replied calmly. “If his past actions are any indication, you’ll never hear from Ty again.”

Her eyes widened. “You—you know Ty?”

“He’s my half brother.”

“You mean, you knew about me and the baby before—”

“Yes, that’s why I dropped by your house. I was there to offer you money.”

Steam all but came out of her ears. “Well, you can tell Ty to keep his damn money. I don’t want it.”

“The money’s not Ty’s. It’s mine.”

“Well, I don’t want your money, either, Mack McGruder.” She pointed a stiff finger at the door. “Get out. And don’t bother coming back.”

The Texan’s Convenient Marriage

Peggy Moreland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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PEGGY MORELAND

published her first romance with Silhouette in 1989, and continues to delight readers with stories set in her home state of Texas. Winner of the National Readers’ Choice Award, a nominee for Romantic Times BOOKclub Reviewer’s Choice Award and a two-time finalist for the prestigious RITA® Award, Peggy’s books frequently appear on the USA Today and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. When not writing, you can usually find Peggy outside, tending the cattle, goats and other critters on the ranch she shares with her husband. You may write to Peggy at P.O. Box 1099, Florence, TX 76527-1099, or e-mail her at [e-mail].

To my daughter, Hilary. Thanks for your willingness to read my work, your encouragement when I need it most and for the smile you put in my heart.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Prologue

War is fear cloaked in courage.

—William Westmoreland

Smoke hung in the air cloaking the darkness, its acrid scent burning the noses of the soldiers hiding in the tall grass. Some had taken advantage of the lull in activity and had stretched out, eyes closed, their guns held at the ready across their chests, their packs pillowed beneath their heads. Others were hunkered down, watching…and waiting.

Antonio Rocci, or Romeo as he was called by his friends, wanted to sleep but couldn’t. Fear kept his eyes open and his ears cocked for any sound of movement in the inky darkness. In the distance, red embers and thin curls of smoke marked where a small village had once stood. Reconnaissance had reported that Vietcong soldiers had infiltrated the village and were using the area to store artillery. Earlier that day, while the sun was still up, an air attack had taken place. Constructed mainly of grasses and bamboo gathered from the surrounding countryside, the hooches that had once formed the small village had gone up like dry kindling. All that remained were burning embers and the cloying smell of smoke.

When morning came, it was the job of Romeo and the other soldiers in his unit to go into the village and search for the cache of artillery and ammunition reportedly hidden there. A side duty was checking for survivors and counting the dead. Bile rose in Romeo’s throat at the thought of what he might face, and he quickly swallowed it down. It’s war, he reminded himself. It’s either us or them, and he’d a hell of a lot rather it be them.

“Romeo?”

He jumped at the voice, then forced the tension from his body when he realized it was Pops, their team leader, who had spoken.

He set his jaw to steady his voice, hide the fear. “Over here.”

He heard a slight rustle of grass, and angled his head, watching as Pop’s shadowed form moved closer.

“You okay?” Pops whispered.

Romeo released his grip on his gun long enough to drag his arm across the nervous perspiration that beaded his forehead, then settled his finger over the trigger again. “Yeah, but I’d feel a whole lot better if I knew we were the only ones out here.”

“Yeah,” Pops agreed soberly. “I hear you.”

Silence settled between them, as both continued to watch the darkness.

Romeo would never admit it, but he felt safer, less vulnerable with Pops at his side. Older than most of the others in the unit, Pops—the nickname given to Larry Blair by the rest of the team—had already completed one tour of duty in Vietnam and was working on his second. Romeo couldn’t imagine why anyone would willingly sign on for another tour. From the day he’d arrived in country, he’d felt as if he’d been dropped down into the bowels of hell and couldn’t wait for the day he could board the plane that would carry him home.

“Pops?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever regret signing on for a second tour?”

“No sense regretting what you can’t change.”

Romeo angled his head to peer at the man whose opinion he respected as much as he would his father’s. “Do you ever get scared, Pops?”

“Yeah,” Pops admitted quietly. “It’s the soldier who fears nothing that gets himself killed. If you use fear to your advantage, it’ll keep you alert, on guard, prepared. Give in to it and it’ll make you helpless, weak.”

Romeo considered that for a moment, but found little comfort in Pop’s advice. He’d always considered himself brave, even cocky. Now he wondered if he had a bright-yellow stripe running down his back.

“Is being afraid the same as being a coward?” he asked hesitantly.

“No. A coward runs and hides.”

“Some of the guys think Preacher’s a coward.”

“Well, they’re wrong. Preacher just can’t bear the thought of taking a human life. It’s his beliefs he struggles with, not cowardice.”

Romeo considered that a moment, then shook his head sadly. “Hell, it doesn’t matter if you’re a hero or a coward. We all die just the same.”

Pop pulled a package of gum from his pocket. “Don’t think about dying,” he warned, and offered a piece to Romeo. He unwrapped one for himself and folded the strip of gum in two, before popping it into his mouth. “Think about living, about what you’re going to do when you get home.”

Romeo gulped, thinking about what he’d left behind, what would be waiting for him when he returned. “Have I ever told you why I joined the service?”

“Can’t say as you have.”

“I got a girl pregnant.”

He felt Pop’s gaze and, for once, was grateful for the darkness so that Pop couldn’t see his face, his shame. “She was putting pressure on me to marry her. I figured the army was as good a way to get out of it, as any.”

If Pop had an opinion, he kept it to himself, which Romeo appreciated. He wasn’t looking for absolution…or a lecture. What he wanted was a sounding board, someone who would listen.

“It was wrong,” he admitted with regret. “Running away, I mean. Even if I didn’t want to marry her, I should’ve at least agreed to share responsibility for the kid. It’s mine, a part of me. I shouldn’t have left her to deal with it alone.” He glanced over at Pops. “Do you think it’s too late?”

Pop frowned in confusion. “For what?”

“To provide for the kid. I was thinking maybe I could send her some money.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate it,” Pop replied.

“Yeah,” Romeo said, warming to the idea. “And when I get home and get a real job, I could send her a set amount every month. Kinda like the child support my dad had to pay my mom after they divorced.”

“Sounds fair,” Pops agreed. “A man should take care of what’s his.”

Romeo frowned, as a new thought rose. “But what happens if I don’t make it home?” He glanced over at Pops. “Who’ll take care of my kid then?”

Pops clasped Romeo’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to make it home. We all are.”

Though Romeo appreciated the reassurance, he knew Pops was blowing smoke. There were no guarantees. Not for any of them. And if he did get killed, what would happen to the baby he’d fathered? He didn’t have anything of value to leave behind. No savings, no property. Hell, he didn’t even own a car. He’d sold his old heap to his cousin, before he’d left for ’Nam.

“Pops?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember the deed that rancher tore up and gave to us the day before we shipped out?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“The old man said he was going to give us his ranch when we got home. My portion of the deed is in my footlocker back at camp. If something happens to me, would you see that my kid gets it?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Pop maintained stubbornly.

“But if something does, promise me you’ll send it to Mary Claire Richards. Tell her it’s for the baby.”

There was a long pause of silence, before Pop said quietly, “Consider it done.”

One

Addy pressed the heel of her hand against the ache building between her eyes. Another five minutes on the phone with her mother and it would surpass the one that had throbbed low in her back all day.

Drawing in a deep breath, she searched for patience.

“I know you don’t like to talk about my father,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “But this is important. A lady called. Stephanie Parker. She said her father served with mine in Vietnam.”

“So what if he did?” her mother snapped. “Thousands of American soldiers went to Vietnam.”

Ignoring her mother’s bitterness, Addy forged on, determined to get through this conversation without screaming. “Stephanie told me that her father sent her mother a letter from Vietnam with a torn piece of paper inside. She thinks Tony might have had a similar piece and sent it to you.”

“The only thing Antonio Rocci ever gave me was you and that was an accident.”

Addy didn’t flinch at the jab at her illegitimacy. She’d had the circumstances surrounding her birth thrown in her face so often over the years that hearing it no longer had the power to sting.

“This paper may be valuable,” she persisted. “Do you remember Tony sending you anything like that?”

“That was over thirty years ago! How am I supposed to remember something that happened that long ago? I don’t even remember what was in yesterday’s mail.”

“A torn piece of paper, Mom. That’s odd enough that you should remember.”

“If you called to talk about him, I’m hanging up. I’m missing my shows.”

Before Addy could say anything more, the dial tone buzzed in her ear.

“The baby and I are doing fine, but thanks for asking.”

Scowling, she slammed down the phone, furious with herself for letting her mother’s lack of concern get to her. Mary Claire Richards-Smith-Carlton-Sullivan was a neurotic, self-centered woman who raced from one bad marriage to the next, fueled by a bitterness she’d clung to for more than thirty years and oblivious to anyone else’s needs, including her daughter’s.

With a sigh Addy swept a stray lock of hair from her face and told herself it didn’t matter. She’d survived thirty-three years of her mother’s disregard. Why should she expect her to show any concern now?

She stooped to untie her shoelaces but froze when she caught a glimpse of her reflection on the patio door. Straightening slowly, she stared, barely recognizing the woman who stared back. Her stomach looked as if she’d swallowed a soccer ball, her feet and ankles so swollen they looked like an elephant’s, and her long, black hair—which she usually considered her best feature—was wadded up in a frizzy knot on top of her head. Add to that lovely image nurses’ scrubs in a putrid shade of green and a well-worn pair of Reeboks and she was almost glad Ty wasn’t around to see her now.

Grimacing, she reached to untie her shoelaces again. “As if I’d let him past the front door,” she muttered under her breath. Ty Bodean was a lying snake and she was better off without him, even if it did mean she’d be raising her baby alone.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she eased the shoe off her swollen foot, thinking what all that meant, what lay ahead of her. Money was going to be a problem. Eighteen months ago, she’d bought the house, which had depleted her savings and shackled her to a mortgage payment that already stretched her monthly budget to the limit. At the time she’d made the purchase, it had seemed a wise investment. She’d always wanted to have her own home, and the previous owner had offered it to her at a ridiculously low price. Of course, when she’d agreed to buy the property, she hadn’t been pregnant and had no plans of becoming pregnant in the near future. An unforgettable—albeit brief—affair with Ty Bodean had changed all that.

The second problem—which was tied directly to the first—was child care. She hated the thought of her baby being raised by strangers, but as the major and only breadwinner in the family, there was no way she could quit her job and stay at home with her baby.

The third problem was raising a child in a single-parent home. Again she had no other option, but she was determined to do a better job of it than her own mother had done in raising her.

The reminder of her mother sent her thoughts segueing to the father she’d never known and the phone call she’d received concerning him. She frowned thoughtfully as she considered the torn piece of paper Stephanie Parker had mentioned.

Could it really be valuable? she asked herself, then sputtered a laugh. Even if it was, which she seriously doubted, she couldn’t cash in on something she couldn’t find. She supposed she could paw her way through the trunk her mother had left in her garage for safekeeping. If it was anywhere, it would be there.

But not tonight, she thought, heaving a weary sigh. She’d put in a long, back-breaking eight-hour shift in Emergency, and she wasn’t doing anything more strenuous that evening than propping up her feet and watching TV.

Bracing a hand against the counter for support, she lifted her foot to tug off her remaining shoe. As she did, a pain knifed through her midsection, stealing her breath. Eyes wide, she hugged an arm around her middle and sank slowly to her knees. With a hand propped on the floor to keep herself upright, she forced herself to take slow, even breaths, and tried to think of a logical explanation for the pain. It couldn’t be labor, she told herself. Her due date was still almost two months away. It had to be Braxton Hicks, she decided. False labor. She’d experienced similar pains before. None as severe as this, but she knew it would soon pass, just as the others had.

But as she knelt, waiting for the pain to lessen, it grew stronger, more intense, as if a vise had been clamped around her middle and cinched up tight. Sweat broke out on her brow, beading her upper lip. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe. She glanced up at the counter and the phone just out of reach, and gulped back the nausea, the fear, knowing she had to call for help. But who? She hated to call 911, if this turned out to be false labor. She worked in Emergency. She knew how much manpower and time was wasted on expectant mothers who were convinced they were in labor.

She’d call her neighbor, she decided. Mrs. Baker would stay with her until she could determine that this was the real thing and not a false alarm.

As she lifted a hand to the counter to pull herself up, another pain, nearly blinding in its intensity, dragged her back down to her knees. Moaning, she curled into a ball, trying to smother the pain. She felt a gush of moisture between her legs and watched in horror as a dark stain spread from the crotch of her scrub pants, soaking her to the knees.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the sight, knowing all too well what this meant.

“Oh, God, please,” she prayed tearfully. “Don’t let me lose my baby.”

Mack climbed from his car and checked the number on the house against the return address on the envelope he held, then tucked it into his shirt pocket and studied the house. Its modest appearance and old-fashioned charm surprised him. Similar trips in the past had taken him to ultramodern condominiums in singles’ neighborhoods and upscale apartment high-rises, but nothing even close to this. This house seemed almost…well, homey. From the border of impatiens that lined the sidewalk, to the baskets of ferns that swung lazily from hooks on the porch eaves, it looked like a place where a family might live.

Reminded that it was his own family who was responsible for him being here, he swore under his breath and started up the walk, anxious to get the unsavory task over with. Reaching the door, he rapped his knuckles against wood painted a warm, cheerful red, then rocked back on his boot heels and waited.

After a full minute passed without a response, he lifted a hand and knocked again. Frowning, he strained to listen for any sound coming from inside that would indicate that someone was home. He heard a female voice call out, but wasn’t sure what was said. An invitation to come in, he wondered, or simply a signal to let him know she was on her way to the door?

Figuring it was the latter, he waited, listening for the sound of footsteps from inside. When he heard nothing but silence, he tried the door and found it locked. Frowning, he glanced to his left and noticed a set of windows. Though covered by blinds, he crossed to peer through them, hoping they would offer him a peek inside. A narrow gap between the slats provided him with a slim view of the living room. Finding no sign of life, he shifted his gaze to a hallway beyond that led toward the rear of the house. A flutter of movement on the floor caught his attention and he pressed his nose against the glass for a better look.

“What the hell,” he murmured, as he stared at what appeared to be an outstretched hand, its fingers clawing against the hardwood floor. Was the woman drunk and had fallen? he wondered. Had she OD’d? Either possibility wouldn’t surprise him, considering the crowd Ty ran with. But it was the other possibilities that came to mind—attempted burglary, possible rape victim—that had him leaping off the porch and running around to the rear of the house. His heart thumping wildly, he cleared the back porch steps in one leap and shoved open the door.

Braced for a possible attack, he stepped cautiously inside. “Ma’am?” he called. “Are you okay?”

“Help me…please.”

The voice, weak and thready, came from the opposite side of the room.

He quickly rounded the island that separated the room and found the woman lying on the floor, her back to him. From her sprawled position, it appeared she had heard his knock and had tried to drag herself to the front door.

He dropped to a knee behind her and laid a hand on her arm. “Are you hurt?”

“I—”

Moaning, she curled tighter into herself.

“My…water…broke,” she managed to gasp out between breaths.

A chill skated down Mack’s spine. He had known the woman was pregnant but hadn’t realized she was that far along. “How far apart are the contractions?”

She dragged in a breath, slowly released it, then rolled to her back and looked up at him.

“Continuous.” She wet her lips. “Please…help me.” Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over dark lashes. “I don’t want to lose my baby.”

He set his jaw against the fear in her eyes, the desperation in her voice. He didn’t need this nightmare, he told himself. He could walk out the door right now, tear up the check he’d brought along to end whatever responsibility the woman felt his family owed her, and no one would ever be the wiser.

Her hand closed over his, her fingers digging deeply into his skin. “Please,” she begged. “You’ve got to help me.”

He hesitated a moment, then swore under his breath and pushed to his feet. With his mouth slanted in a scowl, he snatched the phone from its base and punched in 911.

Mack paced the waiting area of the Emergency Room, his stomach in knots, his palms slick with sweat. His uneasiness wasn’t due to his concern for the woman who had been wheeled away by EMS thirty minutes earlier. It was the hospital. He hated them. The antiseptic smell. The sterile decor. The constant pages over the PA system for doctors and nurses and the dreaded words “code blue.” He didn’t know what had possessed him to come here. He’d done what the woman had asked of him. He’d called 911, then stayed with her until the ambulance arrived. He’d done his duty. If she lost her baby, it was no skin off his nose. It wasn’t his kid.

He dropped his head back with a groan, unable to believe that he would even think such a thing. He didn’t wish the woman ill. And he sure as hell didn’t want her to lose her baby. He knew what it was like to lose a child. The grief, the guilt, the hole it left in your heart, in your life.

“Mr. McGruder?”

He whirled at the sound of his name and found a nurse standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Ms. Rocci is asking for you.” She opened the door wider. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the way.”

He hesitated, knowing it was a mistake to see the woman again, to get involved any deeper than he already was. He should leave. Go back home where he belonged. Forget about Adrianna Rocci and her unborn child.

Instead he found himself following the nurse down a long hall.

She glanced over her shoulder. “You’re a bit of a hero around here, you know.”

He frowned, uncomfortable at being tagged as such. “I’m no hero.”

“You are to us. You came to the aid of one of our own.” At his confused looked, she explained. “Addy works here. If you hadn’t happened along when you did, there’s a chance she would’ve lost her baby. Maybe even her life.”

Before he could think of a response, she stopped before one of the curtained-off cubicles, pushed back the drape and held it aside.

When he hesitated, she gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “She’s resting more comfortably now.”

Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside. The room was so small the curtain brushed the backs of his legs when the nurse dropped it into place. The woman— Addy, he remembered the nurse calling her—lay on a gurney parked no more than a foot from where he stood, a sheet draping her from chin to toes. A white identification bracelet circled her left wrist and an IV needle was taped to the back of her hand. He followed the tube to a bottle hooked to a stainless steel pole wheeled close to the bed, then shifted his gaze to her face.

With her eyes closed and her hands folded over her swollen stomach, she looked serene, peaceful. Thinking she was asleep, he eased closer to the bed and was relieved to find that there was more color in her face than there had been when the attendants had loaded her into the ambulance.

She wasn’t beautiful, he thought as he studied her, but she wasn’t homely, either. Her complexion was dark, as was her hair, a testament to her Italian surname, he supposed. Her cheekbones were high ridges, her neck long and graceful.

As he stared, trying to remember the color of her eyes, her lashes fluttered up. Brown, he noted. Her eyes were brown.