In Name Only

He saw her chin quiver before she caught herself and gave it a defiant lift.

“Yes, but they’ll get over it.”

He snorted a laugh. “That’s yet to be seen.” Having reached the end of the alley, he made a wide turn, then started back the way they’d come, stopping to let Danny Boy graze on a clump of grass growing at the edge of the dark drive. “I’ll be leaving right after we tell them,” he said after a moment. “I have a rodeo in Pecos on Friday.”

He felt her fingers tense within his before she forced them to relax.

“That’s fine,” she replied, though he could tell the thought of being left alone to deal with her father scared the hell out of her. “I didn’t expect you to stay.”

“Exactly what am I supposed to say when we talk to them?”

“Nothing. I’ll do the talking. I just need you there as proof.”

“Proof,” he repeated, then snorted again and shook his head. He released her hand and moved to tie Danny Boy to the side of the trailer. “I don’t know what in the hell my being here proves.”

“That I really do have a husband,” she said in surprise, then clamped her lips together when he whipped his head around to look at her, one brow arched high. “Well, you know what I mean,” she said, flustered.

Chuckling, Troy hung a net filled with hay within Danny Boy’s reach, checked the level of water in the bucket, then placed a hand at the small of Shelby’s back as he guided her to the narrow iron stairs that snaked up the rear of the building. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

He stepped out of the way while she dealt with the locks, then followed her into the dark apartment. He stopped, waiting for her to turn on some lights. When she did, he glanced around.

Though definitely larger than his horse trailer’s sleeping loft, which was home to him when he was on the road, the room was small, yet comfortable. A love seat, upholstered in a floral chintz, dominated the center of the room. Two wicker chairs, one covered in a cheerful yellow fabric, the other in mint-green, sat opposite. Between the sofa and chairs was a small trunk that served as a coffee table of sorts, he supposed. As he studied the cozy seating arrangement, he tried to imagine squeezing his large frame onto that little sofa and shook his head.

“I told you it was small,” she said as she headed for the kitchen tucked into a corner of the room. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you. Just a place to stretch out and catch some shut-eye.”

She did a neat U-turn and lifted a hand to a panel of wood on the wall. Troy’s chin nearly hit the floor when the panel lowered, exposing a bed.

“It’s a Murphy bed,” she said in explanation as she fluffed pillows. “I don’t have a bedroom.”

He snapped his head up to look at her. “You don’t have a bedroom?”

Her cheeks pinkened, and she shook her head. “No. There’s just this room and a bath.” She settled the pillows at the head of the bed, then turned back the quilt, folding it neatly at the foot of the bed. “You can sleep here, and I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Troy shifted his gaze to the sofa. It was so small he doubted even Shelby would be able to comfortably sleep on it. “I have a better idea,” he said. “We’ll share the bed. Me on top, you underneath.” At the horrified look that came into her eyes, he felt his own cheeks heat. “The covers,” he growled with an impatient wave of his hand at the bed. “I’ll sleep on top of the covers, and you sleep underneath ’em.”

Acutely aware of the man who lay on the bed beside her, Shelby held the sheet to her chin, her eyes wide as she stared at the dark ceiling. For the past forty-eight hours, ever since leaving Derrick’s apartment after learning that he wanted nothing to do with her or their baby, she’d felt as if she was moving in a thick fog—lost, her thoughts jumbled, her nerves frayed—knowing that she couldn’t go home and face her parents. Not without a husband, not without a name for the baby she carried.

She stole a glance at Troy who lay beside her, his eyes closed, his breathing even. She was still unable to believe that she’d had the nerve to ask a complete stranger to marry her. But even now, as she looked at him sleeping in her bed beside her, she didn’t feel any fear. There was something about him—exactly what, she wasn’t sure, but something—that told her he was a man whom she could trust.

She supposed it was fate that had placed them both at the truck stop’s café at that exact moment in time. Her desperately in need of a husband to give her baby a name, and him in need of money so he wouldn’t have to sell his horse. But whether it was fate or God’s divining hand, she didn’t think she would ever in a million years be able to repay him for the sacrifice he was making for her and her baby.

Even as the gratitude swelled inside her, guilt stabbed at her conscience as she realized she’d never properly thanked him.

“Troy?” she whispered urgently.

“Hmm?”

“Are you asleep?”

“No. But I’m working on it.”

“Oh,” she murmured in embarrassment, realizing too late how tired he must be. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” He stretched his arms up to the ceiling and his bare feet over the foot of the bed, growling, then sighed, relaxing his body as he laced his fingers across his bare chest. “Whatcha need?”

“Nothing, really. I just wanted to—” she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, unable to find words adequate enough to convey the depth of her feelings “—to, well, to say thank you,” she finished futilely. “I don’t think I ever did.”

“No thanks needed,” he said gruffly.

“Oh, but there is,” she insisted, turning her head to peer at him in the darkness. “You’ll never know how much I appreciate your letting me use your name. And taking me to Las Vegas and handling all the arrangements,” she added. “I hadn’t thought about the time involved, obtaining a license and such. It was fortunate that you did.”

“Like I said,” he repeated. “No thanks needed. Now why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

She turned her face back to the ceiling and pulled the sheet to her chin once more, but was too keyed up to even think about sleeping.

“Troy?” she whispered again.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t think I can sleep.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and throaty in the darkness. “Want me to tell you a bedtime story?”

“No,” she replied, and bit back a smile at his teasing. “I think I’m a little old for that.” She glanced over at him again and nervously pleated the sheet between her fingers. “But would you mind talking to me for a while?” she asked hopefully. “Just until I get sleepy?”

She could feel his gaze as he turned his head to peer at her, though his features were nothing but a play of shadows in the darkness. “About what?”

“Anything. Just talk. Tell me where you’re from,” she suggested and rolled to her side, slipping a hand beneath her pillow to support her head as she peered at him in the darkness.

He turned his face away to stare at the ceiling. “Texas. I’ve got a place near Tyler. Know where that is?”

“Yes,” she said in surprise and pushed herself to an elbow. “I go to Canton for First Monday several times a year on buying trips. Tyler is near there, isn’t it?”

“Not far. First Monday, huh?” She could hear the smile in his voice, though his face remained in shadows, hiding his expression. “Now there’s a circus, if ever I’ve seen one.”

She smiled, too, remembering her reaction upon visiting the flea market for the first time and experiencing its vastness and the variety of merchandise displayed there. “Yes, it is, and just as much fun.”

“Haven’t been in years,” he replied absently, then added, “My place is about twenty or so miles from Canton.”

“Really?” she said, her curiosity piqued as she dropped her head back to the pillow.

“My grandparents’ place originally,” he clarified. “About three hundred acres, give or take a few. They farmed the land, but I never took to it. Preferred riding a horse to driving a tractor. I run a few cattle on the place now to keep the grass down. Probably will increase my herd when I quit rodeoing.”

“Are you planning on retiring soon?”

His shoulder brushed hers in a shrug. “Someday. Haven’t really given much thought as to when.”

With the sound of his husky voice beginning to relax her, Shelby murmured, “Who takes care of your cattle while you’re gone?”

“I stop in pretty regular, but I have a neighbor I pay to keep an eye on the place when I’m on the road.”

“What’s it like, traveling the—rodeo circuit? Isn’t that what it’s called?”

“Close enough.” He shifted his shoulders more comfortably on the bed. “It’s a lot of driving or flying when the schedule’s tight and the rodeos are on opposite sides of the country. Being wound up tighter than a new spring when it’s your turn to compete, and drained dry and limp as a wet rag once you’re done. Eating breakfast in one state, dinner in another, trying, best we can, to hit as many rodeos as possible. Me, Pete and Clayton have been rodeoing together for about three years now. We take turns with the driving, spelling each other so we all have a chance to catch some sleep.” He lifted a shoulder again. “That’s about the size of it.”

“Do you have family?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

He seemed to hesitate a moment, then replied, “A grandmother. But she’s in a nursing home now.”

“Is she ill?”

“Alzheimer’s.”

“How sad,” Shelby said sympathetically, somewhat familiar with the disease. She stared at his profile a moment, her eyelids growing heavier and heavier. “Will you tell her about our marriage?”

“No. Probably not. Half the time she doesn’t even recognize me. No need to confuse her more. Doubt she’d understand, anyway.”

Though she couldn’t see his expression, Shelby heard the regret in his voice, the sadness. Without thinking about the action, she reached over and placed her hand over his folded ones on his chest, giving them a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Troy,” she murmured. “That must be hard on you.”

Troy didn’t say anything in response, couldn’t. Just stared at the ceiling, trying his best to swallow the baseball-size wad of emotion that had risen to his throat. The comfort of her hand on his, the softness, the warmth as her body heat seeped slowly into his skin. He lay still as death, fearing if he moved she would, and not wanting to lose that contact. Finally he worked up the nerve to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted and relaxed in sleep. Careful not to disturb her, he turned his hand over, opened it beneath hers and wove their fingers together.

An angel, he thought wistfully, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. Too bad he’d been handed a pitchfork at birth instead of a set of wings like hers. If he’d had the wings, maybe he could’ve flown with her, offered her more than just his name. Maybe he could have offered himself as a real husband to her and as a father to the child she carried.

As it was, the name he’d given her was sullied enough. No sense trying to tie her to the man folks claimed was responsible for dirtying the Jacobs name.

Sighing, he turned his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes.

He fell asleep with his fingers still woven through hers, steeped in her warmth and comforted by her touch.

Three

Troy was dreaming. He was sure he was, though there were no color or images in the dream. Just sound. An irritating scrape and clatter that began to work on his nerves. A metallic jiggling sound, as if someone was testing a lock. A squeak of hinges badly in need of oil. Then a loud, indignant inhalation of breath.

It was at that moment that Troy realized this was no dream.

But the realization came too late for him to react. A hand closed over his bare shoulder, blunt nails biting deep.

“What do you think you’re doing in my daughter’s bed? Get out! Out! Do you hear me? Out!”

There was a yank on his shoulder—a yank that lacked the strength required to budge a man of Troy’s size—and Troy blinked open his eyes and met those of Shelby’s father. He knew the man had to be her father. There was enough righteous indignation in his dark eyes to condemn a hundred men to hell for their sins.

Troy heard a soft moan beside him, then the fullness and curve of a hip bump up against his. Nervously he released the hand he still held and cleared his throat. “Shelby?” he said quietly, hauling himself to a sitting position. “Sweetheart, I think you better wake up.”

The man staggered back as if Troy had punched him. His chest swelled, his nostrils flared and his neck turned a mottled red against the white collar that bound it. “Shelby Ruth Cannon,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “You’d better have an explanation for this abomination. A very good one,” he warned and spun to drop down onto one of the wicker chairs. He sat, his spine rigid, his hands splayed along thighs covered by unrelieved black gabardine, and drummed his fingers, waiting, his eyes narrowed on the window in front of him.

Shelby slowly pushed herself up on one elbow, swallowing hard as she stared at her father’s profile. “Good morning, Daddy.”

“Good morning?” he raged, snapping his head around to glare at her, his eyes shooting fire. “And what is good about a morning in which a father finds a strange man in his maiden daughter’s bed?”

“He’s not a stranger, Daddy,” she said quietly. “He’s my husband.”

The man was on his feet so fast it made Troy’s head swim.

“Husband!” he roared.

Though Troy felt inclined to offer an explanation of some kind, he thought it best to remain silent and let Shelby do the talking. After all, she was the one with all the answers, not him.

He felt the mattress shift slightly as she slipped from beneath the covers to stand beside it. “Yes, Daddy,” she said as she pulled on her robe. “My husband. Troy and I were married yesterday.”

“Married! Where?”

“Las Vegas.”

The preacher sent Troy to hell with one damning look. “You took my daughter, my innocent daughter, to Las Vegas? What kind of man are you!”

“Daddy, please—” Shelby began.

He waved away her plea with an angry swipe of his hand. “You told your mother and I that you were going to Denver to spend Labor Day weekend with your cousin. I suppose that was a lie, as were the buying trips you’ve been taking for the past several months.”

When Shelby guiltily dropped her gaze, he swelled his chest, his face a furious red as he turned his glare on Troy. Obviously he didn’t like what he saw. “Is that your truck and trailer parked in the alley, and your horse tied to it?”

Troy refused to be cowed and met the man’s eyes squarely. “Yes sir, it is.”

“Am I to assume, then, that you are a cowboy?”

“I like to think so.”

Troy’s flippant response seemed to anger the man even more. He whirled to face his daughter. “I’ll have the marriage annulled.”

“Daddy!” Shelby cried in horror. “You can’t!”

The preacher stared at her a long, gut-clenching moment, his eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. “And may I ask why not?”

Troy glanced at Shelby and watched the blood drain from her face.

“B-because—” She faltered for a moment, then gave her chin a stubborn lift. “Because I’m an adult and responsible for my own actions.”

“Responsible?” her father said contemptuously. “And eloping with this—this cowboy is what you consider acting responsibly?”

Though the slight was directed at him, Troy ignored it, more concerned with the effect the man’s words were having on Shelby. Her face had gone from ghostly pale to beet-red in a matter of seconds, and she was trembling like a leaf. Though he’d had very little experience with pregnant women, he suspected emotional scenes like the current one being played out couldn’t be good for her or her baby.

Hoping to intercede before any damage was done, he swung his legs across the bed and rose to his feet to stand beside her. Though the Reverend Daniel Cannon was tall, Troy was taller, and broader as well, a fact that he thought, for some stupid reason, might count in his favor.

But he’d failed to remember that he’d grown uncomfortable in the night and unfastened the waist of his jeans.

“For God’s sake, man,” the preacher cried, whirling away from the sight and covering his eyes. “Have you no sense of decency?”

Troy turned and quickly snagged up his zipper, shooting an apologetic look Shelby’s way before turning back around.

“Mr. Cannon—”

The preacher stiffened, but kept his back to the two. “Reverend Cannon,” he clarified with an imperious lift of his chin.

Troy set his jaw. “Reverend Cannon,” he amended, putting the same inflection on the title the preacher had. “I’d appreciate it if you would lower your voice. You’re upsetting my wife.”

The man turned then, and the look of contempt in his eye was so strong Troy felt it like acid against his skin.

“In God’s eyes, and my eyes, she isn’t your wife and won’t be,” he added, turning to glower at Shelby, “until you are properly married in a church.”

“But, Daddy—” Shelby cried.

He held up a hand, cutting her off. “I don’t have time to discuss this further. I have a men’s Bible class to teach.” He gave his waistcoat a tug, then marched for the door. At the threshold he stopped and looked back, singeing them both with a last, contemptuous look. “We’ll discuss this at dinner tonight. Seven sharp. Don’t be late.” Before either could form a response, he slammed the door behind him with enough force to rattle the windows and set the art on the wall askew.

With the slam of the door reverberating in the small room, Troy crossed to the window, braced a wide hand on its frame and looked down below. Shelby knew by his frown that he was monitoring her father’s departure.

She wanted desperately to throw something, anything. Rant, scream, chase down the stairs after her father and rail at him until she’d freed herself of the anger that burned through her.

But she didn’t.

Instead she did as she’d learned to do years before—she took a deep breath…another…then yet another…suppressing the anger, the frustration, until it was nothing but a knot of burning tension in her stomach.

“I’m sorry, Troy. You didn’t deserve that.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter. More, she suspected, than he would ever admit. “Yes, it does,” she insisted. “He had no right to speak to you in that way.”

His scowl deepening, he closed his hand into a fist on the window frame, making the muscles cord across his bare back. “He was angry. I was the natural target.”

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