Marriage By Necessity Page 11

  He left the ranch not long after he graduated from high school. He’d lived in a lot of places since then and acquired a number of disparate skills. He’d even put himself through four years of college, though few people knew that.

  But most of all, he’d kept himself free. Nate was a man who needed to live free. It was something bred in the bone, this hunger to stay free. His mother had it. And so had Bad Clint.

  And nothing, not even big-eyed Meggie May Kane and that baby she just had to have, would make him start thinking about settling down.

  “Is something wrong, Nate?” She’d stopped chattering and started watching him across the table, those incredible eyes just a little bit troubled.

  Yeah, I just noticed you’re pregnant, he thought. “No, nothing,” he said. “Why?”

  “You seem...quiet, all of a sudden.”

  “Just thinking.” He pushed back his chair. “And it’s time I got out of here.”

  “Oh, Nate...” She looked adorably sad at his leaving.

  More reason to get out quick.

  They had a few things to talk about. But not now. He had to go now. They could face the music when he returned.

  Before or after the big Thanksgiving feast? a voice in his mind taunted.

  Ignoring that voice, he carried his plate to the sink, ran some water in it and then kept on going, back to the bedroom, where he had his bag already packed. He pulled on his jacket, scooped up the bag and headed out

  She was waiting for him by the front door. “I’ll miss you.” Her soft, warm body leaned toward him.

  And he couldn’t stop from dropping his bag and reaching for her. He pulled her close and settled his mouth over hers. She twined her arms around his neck. She tasted of peppermint tea and jam. And she smelled like a rose.

  It took everything he had in him to pull away. “Lock up after me.”

  “I will. I promise.” She watched him pick up his bag once more. “Come back by Thanksgiving.”

  “Right. Gotta go.” He drew back the chain, turned the dead bolt and opened the door. The brisk predawn air greeted him. He stepped onto the landing and then ran down the stairs.

  He knew she stood there in the doorway, watching until he disappeared, though he never turned to look back.

  Nate flew to San Francisco and rented a car to take him up the coast to Crescent City. There, he discovered that the guy who wasn’t going anywhere had decided to spend Thanksgiving in Chicago. Nate got out his cell phone and called his client, who reiterated that cost was not a factor and he wanted those papers served yesterday. Nate called the airlines and managed to get a seat on a flight out of San Francisco. And then he hopped in his rental car and drove like hell to get back there in time. He made the call he dreaded as he sped down the coast highway.

  As soon as she picked up the phone, he laid it on her. “It turns out I’ve got to fly to Chicago.”

  Meggie’s disappointment came at him through the silence on the line, as palpable as any words would have been.

  “Dammit, Meggie. I have to work.”

  He heard her sigh. “I know.” Then she made her voice pleasantly brisk. “Any chance you might make it back for Thanksgiving?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Another reproachful beat of silence, then she said, “Don’t be mad at me, Nate.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You sound—”

  “Meggie.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll try to get there for your party. That’s the most I can do.”

  She sighed again. “Okay.”

  “I have to go now.” He didn’t, but talking to her only reminded him of all the things they needed to say.

  “All right. Nate?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just...” She seemed not to know what to say. “Be safe,” she finished at last, rather listlessly.

  “I will.” He disconnected the call and tossed the phone on the empty seat beside him, wondering what in hell had ever possessed him to imagine that this whole crazy plot would work out. One way or another, it was a setup for heartbreak.

  He understood Meggie. To the very soul of her. He knew that for almost twenty years she’d maintained an irrational attachment to him. And he’d. always been scrupulously careful not to encourage her.

  Until he’d managed to let himself get roped into her scheme to save the Double-K. They’d played house—and slowly she had let herself believe the game was real.

  Hell, to be totally honest, so had he.

  Now he could see it coming. She had the marriage license and the baby she needed. But it wasn’t going to be enough for her. He’d agreed to be temporarily roped. She wanted him tied and branded, as well.

  But a lifetime arrangement wasn’t the deal.

  He stepped on the gas and pushed the speedometer needle over the speed limit. He had a plane to catch.

  And his own heart to outrun.

  In Nate’s bedroom, Meggie hung up the phone feeling wounded and weepy. She sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes, her shoulders slumped, staring at the far wall. Then, with a soft, pitiful sigh, she got up and plodded out to the living room. She dropped into the jewel-green chair. She stared at an amethyst-centered geode on one of Nate’s bookcases and allowed a grieved litany to play through her mind:

  He promised before he left that he would be here. And now he suddenly has to fly off to Chicago. It’s not fair. I’ve planned such a beautiful party. He could make a little effort. it’s a special, special time. And he should be here. He should keep his promise and get home in time. Because I want him here. And he said before he left that he would be here....

  About the third time through, she started to get sick of herself.

  By the fifth time through, she’d had enough.

  “I am being disgusting,” she said to the amethyst-centered geode, since there was no one else to hear. “I am acting exactly like the clingy, demanding wife I swore I would never be.” She stood. “I just better buck up.”

  The next morning, early, she knocked on Dolores’s door. “Come on,” she said, when the landlady opened the door.

  “Where?”

  “To the store. We have a lot of shopping to do.”

  Dolores beamed. “You know I adore to shop. Let me get mi bolsa.” She disappeared down the hall and reappeared a moment later, clutching the big black patentleather purse she carried with her whenever she went out. Then she called, “Benito, we are going shopping!”

  From somewhere in the living room, Benny shouted, “Go! Have fun!”

  “We will!”

  They went to Dolores’s favorite carnicería to pick up the turkey and the ham—and to Ralph’s supermarket for most of the rest of the food. They visited a florist shop for fall leaves and autumn-colored flowers, with which Dolores planned to create twin centerpieces, one for each end of the two long pushed-together folding tables. They went to the party supply house, where they bought orange candles and adorable miniature turkeys and Indians and Pilgrims, which Dolores planned to include in her centerpieces.

  They ate lunch out, at a little Mexican café Dolores liked. Of course the landlady insisted on treating. When they got home, in the late afternoon, they made pies. Mince and pecan and pumpkin and apple, rolling out the dough and filling the pie pans at Nate’s, and using both their ovens for the baking.

  Mrs. Tyrell came over for a few minutes while they were putting the pies together. They already had two in the oven.

  “Oh, my, is that pecan pie I smell?” she asked.

  “It is,” Meggie answered. “Get yourself some coffee,” Meggie said, “and have a seat.”

  Mrs. Tyrell helped herself and they talked for a few minutes of the party tomorrow. Mrs. Tyrell explained that she and her husband had been married only a few years. They had met as tenants of the same building, in the Valley. After their marriage, they had decided to move to West Hollywood when Mr. Tyrell found a part-time job with a recording company nearby. />
  “He likes to keep his hand in, you understand,” Mrs. Tyrell said. “Once, he was a record producer. But that was years ago.”

  Dolores winked. “See? They are newlyweds, the same as you and Nate.”

  The sound of Nate’s name sent a small surge of yearning through Meggie. She banished it with a nod and a grateful smile for Mrs. Tyrell. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate the loan of your beautiful things.”

  Mrs. Tyrell waved a perfectly manicured hand. “It will be lovely for me to see them put to use.” She sighed, and for a moment she looked very sad. “Times change, don’t they? But still, we cling to our mementos of the past.”

  Meggie wondered what Mrs. Tyrell meant by that exactly. But she didn’t ask. It would have felt too much like prying. Each day, she learned a little more about Nate’s neighbors. But friendship and trust weren’t things a person could rush; they made their own timetables.

  Her stay here was temporary. Meggie had to remember that. She might or might not remain long enough to learn of Mrs. Tyrell’s past.

  Strange, she thought later, lying in Nate’s bed alone, she felt so comfortable here. How quickly these two little Spanish-style apartment buildings in West Hollywood had become almost like home.

  The next morning, Meggie and Dolores were up and cooking before the sun. All morning, the neighbors wandered in and out, bringing contributions to the feast or just stopping by for a few minutes to see how the preparations were getting along.

  At nine, Benny took the van he and Dolores owned and drove over to the party store, which was open until noon that day so that customers could pick up any rental equipment they’d reserved. By ten-thirty, the two long tables extended from the kitchen halfway into the living room and Dolores had begun the intricate process of setting and decorating.

  Meggie had just checked the turkey when Dolores asked her where the bag from the party store had gone.

  “You know, the one with my little Indians and Pilgrims?”

  “It’s in the bedroom. I’ll get it.” Meggie headed down the hall.

  As she passed the office, she heard Nate’s business phone ring. She froze, her heart lurching in her chest. It could very well be Nate, calling from Chicago to check his messages.

  Well, all right. It probably wasn’t.

  But it could be. And if she answered, she could wish him a Happy Thanksgiving. She could be upbeat and cheerful, show him that she’d gotten over her attack of the sulks the other day.

  The phone rang for the third time. On the next ring, the machine would take it.

  She shouldn’t...

  But she couldn’t help herself. She shoved open the door and raced to the desk.

  “Yes. Hello?” She remembered she probably ought to try to sound professional. “Um, this is Bravo Investigative Services, Megan speaking.”

  On the other end, there was nothing but silence. She wasn’t sure how Nate’s message-pickup device worked. Maybe it was all electronic, which would mean that if Nate were on the other end of the line, he would have no idea that she had answered instead of his machine.

  “Hello?” she said, trying again.

  She heard a cough, and then a throaty woman’s voice asked hesitantly, “Is Nate Bravo there?”

  It wasn’t Nate. Disappointment made Meggie sigh.

  And then she realized that she would have to take a message. She yanked open the center drawer of the desk in search of a pencil and paper.

  “Are you there?” the woman asked.

  Meggie found a pen and a yellow legal pad and shoved the drawer shut. “Yes, I’m here. But Mr. Bravo isn’t.”

  A silence, then, “Oh. I see. Well. All right, then.”

  Meggie sensed that the woman meant to hang up. Nate would not be happy that she’d picked up his phone—and possibly cost him a job. She spoke briskly. “May I take a message?”

  The woman let another silence elapse before admitting with reluctance, “It’s...personal.”

  A girlfriend. Meggie just knew it. She wanted to scratch the woman’s eyes out. She wanted to shout, “Stay away from my husband!” But then, she had no claim on Nate. Not really. And she had no right to try to frighten his girlfriends away.

  And come to think of it, wouldn’t a girlfriend call on the house line?

  The woman said grimly, “I suppose, though, that I might as well leave a message. Would you wish him a happy Thanksgiving?”

  “I’d be glad to. From who?”

  “From his mother, Sharilyn.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Hello? Are you still there?” asked Sharilyn.

  Nate’s mother. Meggie couldn’t believe it. She’d never met the woman herself. People said Sharilyn had grown up in South Dakota somewhere. She and Bad Clint had met in Cheyenne and stayed there through the years of their marriage. Since Bad Clint and his father, Ross, never could stand each other, Clint refused to go near Medicine Creek or the Rising Sun.

  But then, when Bad Clint died, Ross had convinced Sharilyn to let Nate live with him. And after that, Nate’s mother had pretty much disappeared. To Meggie’s recollection, Nate hadn’t mentioned her since that first year he came to the Rising Sun—and then only to say how he hated her for making him live there.

  “Hello?” Sharilyn asked again.

  “Yes. Don’t hang up. I’m still here. I’m just... surprised, that’s all.”

  A wry laugh came over the line. “Didn’t think Nate had a mother, did you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “It’s all right. Just give him the message, okay? Goodbye.”

  “Wait.”

  A pause, then warily, “What?”

  “I tried to make you think I was Nate’s secretary. But I’m not really his secretary.”

  Sharilyn chuckled. “Yeah. I was onto you. I don’t know a lot of secretaries who work on Thanksgiving.”

  “I’m...Nate’s wife.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  Was she sad or happy to hear such news? Meggie hadn’t a clue. “Everybody calls me ‘Meggie.’ I own a ranch not far from the Rising Sun, back in Wyoming.”

  “Well,” Sharilyn said. And nothing else.

  “Does Nate have a number where he can reach you?”

  Sharilyn laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “He knows how to reach me. We...don’t talk much. But we kind of keep tabs on each other.”

  “I understand,” Meggie said. Though she didn’t, not at all. Nate’s Rolodex sat in the right-hand corner of the big, old desk. She pulled it close and flipped to the Bs.

  And there it was. First name only: Sharilyn. With a phone number. And a Los Angeles address.

  “You live here,” Meggie blurted out.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Here. You live here in L.A.”

  “So?”

  “So...what are you doing this afternoon?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Thanksgiving. Have you made plans for dinner?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Stop. I can tell by the way you said ‘Well.’ You’re free.”

  A low sound escaped Sharilyn. “Free,” she murmured, as if she didn’t think much of the word.

  “Well, are you? Are you free?”

  “Yeah, all right. I’m free.”

  “Great. So that means you can come here, to Nate’s. We’re having a feast.”

  “A feast,” Sharilyn repeated, sounding a little dazed.

  “Yes. A big Thanksgiving Day feast. Most of the people in Nate’s building will be coming. And some from next door.”

  “Oh, really, no. I couldn’t.”

  “Yes, you could.”

  “Nate wouldn’t—”

  “Look. Don’t worry about Nate. He’ll be glad to see you, I’m sure.” Meggie spoke with a good deal more confidence than she felt.

  “But I—”

  “And besides, to tell you the truth, I can’t even be sure he’ll be here for dinner. He had to fly to Chicago unexpect
edly. He said he’d try to get back in time, but I don’t know if he’ll make it. So will you come?”

  “I really—”

  “Please, Sharilyn. Say you’ll come.”

  Sharilyn said nothing.

  Meggie added in a wheedling tone, “I would really like to meet you.”

  “You’re...a very sweet girl.”

  “Great.” Meggie spoke with finality. “You’ll come.”

  Sharilyn let a lengthy silence elapse before conceding apprehensively, “All right. I will.”

  An hour later Meggie answered the door to find a tall, slim woman with black hair waiting on the other side.

  Meggie smiled tentatively, thinking that the woman must once have been stunningly beautiful, though signs of a hard life showed in the lines that bracketed her mouth and fanned out from the corners of her dark, deep-set eyes. “Sharilyn?”

  Sharilyn nodded. “And you’re Meggie?”

  “Yes.”

  The two women regarded each other. Meggie felt misty eyed. Here was Nate’s mother, standing right in front of her. And for some crazy reason, she found herself thinking of her own mother, Mia, who had left her adoring husband and infant daughter behind to go in search of bright lights and good times.

  Mia had found what she sought. She had died on a Manhattan street corner, run down by a reckless driver at dawn after a night spent club hopping and drinking fine champagne.

  Always, in her most secret heart, Meggie had nurtured an impossible fantasy. That her mother hadn’t really died. And that someday, Mia would come to see her. She would be beautiful, but a little sad, a little worn—a lot like Sharilyn, actually. She would have tears in her eyes. And she would say, “Whatever I did, wherever I went, I thought of you, Megan May. And I always, always loved you....”

  Sharilyn arched a dark eyebrow. “Well?”

  Meggie shook herself and stepped back. “Come on in.” She led Sharilyn to the kitchen, where Dolores stood at the stove and Yolie worked at the sink, cleaning shrimp for the seafood cocktail that was Dolores’s specialty.

  “Welcome,” Dolores said, beaming her wide, warm smile.