Not Quite Married Page 13

  She sent him a fulminating glance and gestured sharply for silence.

  Rye answered on the second ring. “How’s your boyfriend?” He actually dared to sound smug.

  Oh, she was going to kill him—as soon as she finished murdering the man beside her. She glared at Dalton and muttered to Rye, “I take it you’re okay.”

  Rye actually chuckled, causing Clara to feel as if the top of her head might pop off. “I’m not all that pretty at the moment. But neither is he, right?”

  “I swear, Rye. If you were here, I’d beat you up myself. Did you have to get into it with him?”

  “Good question. Let me think. Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did—and if you ask him, I’m betting his answer will be the same.”

  “Men,” she grumbled to herself. And then she said to Rye, “I can’t talk to you now.”

  “Hey. You called me.”

  “Goodbye, Ryan.” Disconnecting before he could say another annoying word, she tossed the phone on the coffee table.

  Dalton said, “See? He’s fine. We’re both fine.”

  She folded her arms and rested them on the high swell of her stomach. “You could have broken a bone, gotten you head bashed in, ended up in the hospital breathing through a tube.”

  “Now, Clara, come on. You know you’re overdramatizing.”

  “Dear Lord, give me patience.”

  “We just needed to get a few things straight, Ryan and me.”

  “By beating the crap out of each other?”

  He swore low—as if that was some kind of answer.

  She sneered. “So, now do the two of you have it all worked out?”

  “It’s a guy thing. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  She seethed at him for a good count of five. And then she realized she couldn’t talk to him any more than she could to Ryan right now. “Get up, please.”

  He frowned—or at least, she assumed it was a frown. Hard to tell with all the swelling. “Why?”

  “I want to go to my room and you’re in my way.”

  “Clara...”

  “Get up.”

  Looking all grim and put-upon—as though she were the problem and not two pigheaded, ridiculous men—he rose and moved away from the couch. “All right. Maybe it’s a good idea if you give yourself some time to cool off a little.”

  She pressed her lips together, pushed herself to her feet, grabbed her laptop and phone and headed for the bedroom.

  He called after her, “I’ll bring you some dinner. That chicken smells wonderful.”

  She stopped just past the kitchen island and turned to him. “I’m not hungry, thank you. All I want is for you to leave me alone.” And then she turned on her heel and lumbered to her room.

  When she got there, she couldn’t quite stop herself from slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  Clara stayed in her room all that evening, only opening the door once at around seven when he knocked and insisted that she had to eat something. She took the tray from him and shut the door in his face.

  The next day was Saturday. She ate breakfast sitting across the table from him, but she resisted his efforts to make peace. Once she’d eaten, she returned to her room.

  She wasn’t really angry anymore by then. Just deeply disappointed both in Dalton and in her lifelong friend.

  And of course, word spread quickly among her family and friends that Dalton and Rye had come to blows in the back of McKellan’s.

  Elise and Tracy came by that afternoon. They made sympathetic noises at Dalton, whose face was a rainbow of colors, his jaw enormous, his right eye looking as if he would never be able to see out of it again. Clara took the two women to the back deck and gave them iced tea. They tittered and whispered that she ought to see Ryan.

  “He’s at least as bad off as Dalton,” Tracy announced with something way too close to glee. “His nose looks like a giant tomato.”

  Tracy sighed in an absurdly dreamy way. “A lot of people think it’s kind of romantic, the two of them fighting over you.”

  “A lot of people are idiots,” Clara replied.

  That snapped Tracy out of it. “Ahem, well, yes, Clara. They certainly are.”

  “Dogs fight. Tomcats fight. Men should be better than that.”

  “True,” intoned Elise. “Too true.” But Clara didn’t miss the look she shared with Tracy, or the way the two of them were trying so hard not to grin.

  Aunt Agnes came by after church on Sunday. She took one look at Dalton, pressed her perfectly manicured hand to the giant turquoise necklace that draped halfway down her bony chest and let out a cry of dramatic distress. “Oh, you poor man. I heard about what happened. I’m so sorry you were attacked.”

  Clara couldn’t let that stand. “He wasn’t attacked. It was a backroom brawl. And Dalton gave as good as he got.”

  Agnes did a little tongue-clucking. And then she told Dalton, “Ryan McKellan was not properly brought up. Hasn’t Clara told you? His father deserted the family when he was only a baby. He and his brother, Walker, were raised by their mother and a bachelor uncle.” She turned accusing eyes on Clara. “Without the steadying hand of a father, children grow up wild and undisciplined, lacking in self-control.” Her gaze swung back to Dalton and she poured on the sugar. “I do hope Clara is taking good care of you.”

  Clara couldn’t help remarking, “Actually, Aunt Agnes, I’m in no condition to take care of anybody. Dalton is supposedly here because he wanted to help take care of me.”

  “Of course I remember that, dear. I’m not as young as I once was, but I’m far from senile. And a man and a woman should care for each other in difficult moments of life. Even if you can’t be up and around, you can be supportive in an emotional sense.”

  Clara reminded herself that you could never win an argument with Aunt Agnes. She kept her peace.

  Agnes gave Dalton a beatific smile. “I just hope you’re all right.”

  Dalton said he was doing fine and then Agnes mentioned what a beautiful day it was and she would just love a little private time with Clara out on the deck.

  Private time with Agnes was the last thing Clara needed right then. But her great-aunt insisted. So out they went. Dalton brought them cold drinks and left them alone.

  At which point Agnes started in with one of her lectures. “You need to marry that man, dearest. You need to do it right away. He’s a good man from a fine family. With a man like that, you’ll never want for anything.”

  “I’m not wanting for anything right now. I have plenty of my own money.”

  “Money isn’t all of it. You know that very well. And you must face the fact that whatever happened to cause that altercation between him and Ryan McKellan had to have been greatly exacerbated by poor Dalton’s frustration that you keep dragging your heels about marrying him. You’ve driven him to distraction and violence with your shilly-shallying and you need to stop stalling and let him do right by you and the child.”

  “I’m not stalling. And it is in no way my fault that he and Ryan behaved like a couple of yahoos and beat each other’s faces in. Plus, I’ve never said I would marry him.”

  “Of course you will marry him.”

  “Aunt Agnes. Stop. Please. Dalton and I are...working on this.” Or they had been, until he traded blows with Ryan and thoroughly pissed her off.

  “Working on it? What does that mean?”

  “Just what I said. We’re working on our relationship, trying to figure out if maybe we could make a life together, after all.”

  “There is nothing to figure out.”

  “I disagree.”

  “The man is ready to marry you. And you’re hanging back, hesitating to make the right choice because of the emotional damage inflicted upon you by a father who refused to honor his marriage vows and broke your poor mother’s tender heart.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “An informed opinion that happens to be correct.”

  “You need to let it go, Aunt Ag
nes. It’s not your decision to make.”

  Agnes harrumphed. “Well, at least you’re finally admitting that you’re trying to work it out with him.” She heaved a giant, weary sigh, followed by, “I only hope you come to your senses and say yes before your baby grows up into another fatherless hooligan, brawling in bars and unable to hold a productive place in society.” There was more in the same vein. Finally, Agnes seemed to run out of steam.

  She finished her lemonade and admired Clara’s xeriscape garden and got up to go, bending as she left to give Clara a kiss on the cheek. “I only want what’s best for you and the child.”

  “I know, Aunt Agnes. And I love you.”

  “I love you, too, dear—I’ll see myself out.”

  Clara remained on the deck alone for a while, enjoying the May sunshine, and admitting to herself that some of what her overbearing great-aunt had said did make sense. Her mother’s longtime suffering over her father’s betrayal had gotten to her, made her warier than she might otherwise have been, made her more careful about giving her heart.

  That night at dinner, when Dalton tried again to make it up with her, she said, “There are two things I won’t put up with from you, Dalton, if we’re ever going to make it work together.”

  He stared across the table at her through his one good eye and said, “Let me guess. Cheating and lying.”

  Her heart softened toward him—minimally, anyway. “That’s right.” It came out sounding almost tender.

  And he replied gently, “I told you I would never cheat on you. And I won’t. And I have not and will not tell you any lies.”

  So much for tenderness. Her fork clattered against her plate. She scoffed, “Oh, please. Did you or did you not tell me that you would get along with Ryan?”

  “I did. And I am getting along with Ryan.”

  “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  He set down his own fork, but quietly, and enjoyed a slow sip of the pricey red wine he’d served himself with dinner. “What a woman sees as ‘getting along’ and what a man has to do to reach a mutual understanding with another man can be two different things.”

  She was having that exploding-head feeling again. “Are you trying to tell me that when you said you would get along with Ryan, to you, ‘getting along’ meant it was perfectly okay for you to beat each other up?”

  “No. When I said I would get along with him, I fully understood that to you, getting along does not include hitting, punching, kicking or physical aggression of any kind.”

  “So, then, you lied to me.”

  “No. I did what I had to do to get along with your good buddy. I went to see him to talk it out with him, and when talking didn’t get us anywhere, we...did what men do. It wasn’t any fight to the death, Clara. It was more on the order of a conversation. With fists.”

  “A conversation.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Right this minute, Dalton, I feel like we’re not even from the same planet.”

  He drank more wine. “I am no liar. And I admit I do regret promising you that I would get along with your friend. But that’s because ‘getting along’ in this case means something different to you than it does to me. And while we’re on this subject, for the record, I just want to say that when you asked me to ‘get along’ with Ryan in the way that you mean ‘getting along,’ you were asking too much.”

  “Asking too much because I didn’t want you two beating the crap out of each other? That’s insane.”

  “No, it’s not. Ask Ryan. He thinks you were asking too much, too.”

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “He told me. After he punched me the first time and before I hit him back.”

  “Wait a minute. Ryan threw the first punch?”

  “Yes, he did. But only after I egged him on.”

  Clara decided she’d had more than enough of this bizarre conversation. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”

  He picked up his fork again. “Maybe you ought to ask Ryan.”

  “Ask Ryan what?”

  “If he thinks that the two of us are learning to get along.”

  * * *

  After the meal, Clara went to her room and did just that.

  Ryan answered on the first ring, his voice full of good cheer. “Hey, beautiful. What’s up?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “A whole lot better than I look. How’s your boyfriend holding up?”

  “About the same as you. I have a question...”

  “Shoot.”

  “Would you say that you and Dalton are learning to get along?”

  “Yeah,” he answered breezily, without even giving it a second thought. “I would. I wasn’t sure about him at first. I knew that he’d hurt you and I didn’t like that. And initially, he kind of comes across like he’s got a poker up his butt. But I’m getting used to him, beginning to think he’s for real. After our conversation the other day, I’m starting to see he’s an okay guy.”

  “Your conversation...?” Good grief. Dalton had called the fight a conversation, too.

  “Yeah. You know the one. It started with talking and ended up on the floor.”

  “I just... Rye, I don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  Where to even begin? “You. Dalton. Beating each other up in the interest of communication.”

  Rye chuckled. “You’re thinking too much. Guys aren’t that complex.” And again, he was sounding way too much like Dalton. Then he spoke more softly. “I think you ought to give the guy a chance.”

  Her throat clutched. “Oh, Rye...”

  “You and me, Clara, we’re good friends. I’ve tried for years to tell myself that someday it will be more. But I’m getting a clue finally. It’s not going to happen, is it?”

  Softly, she answered, “No, Rye. It’s not.”

  “Yeah. Got it.” His voice was tight, pained. He was quiet. And then he said, “You and your boyfriend need to work a few things out. And you know what? I’m kind of an idiot sometimes, but I get it. I’m not helping by getting in the way.”

  She insisted, “You’re not in the way.”

  He grunted. “Yeah. I kind of was. But not anymore.”

  Tears burned at the back of her throat. She gulped them down. “What does that mean? Are you saying you won’t be my friend anymore?”

  “No way am I saying that. I’m your friend, Clara. And I’m here for you. Always.”

  She still didn’t get it. Not really. But it did seem that he and Dalton had come to some sort of understanding, after all. So maybe she needed to just leave it alone for now.

  And maybe Rye thought so to, because he changed the subject. “How about you? How’re you feeling?”

  She sat up a little and rubbed at that achy spot at the base of her spine. She’d been having some cramping. And then there was the heartburn and the swollen ankles. “Like I swallowed a whale. I cannot wait for this little girl to be born.”

  “Follow the doctor’s orders. Stay off your feet.”

  “I am, I am.”

  “You need anything, call.”

  “I will.” She thanked him and said good-night.

  Faintly, from the great room, she could hear the TV, which meant that Dalton hadn’t gone upstairs yet. She considered getting up, going to him, making up with him, and telling him all about her surprising conversation with Rye.

  But her back was achy and the cramping was getting to her. She didn’t have the energy to crawl out of bed. She just wanted to rest a little. Maybe after a nap, if he was still up, they could talk.

  Turning onto her side, she put a pillow between her knees and one under her belly. As she closed her eyes, the bedside clock showed nine thirty. Her whole body ached and she feared it would take her forever to drift off to sleep...

  * * *

  Clara woke with a startled cry.

  She stared in disbelief at the clock. Somehow, hours had passed. It was one in the morning—and she was right i
n the middle of a full-on contraction.

  She rode it out, holding her belly, watching the clock, trying to relax, to breathe slow and even, and switching to panting when the pain got too bad.

  After about a minute that went on for a decade, the contraction faded off.

  Then she realized that the bed was wet. With a whimper, she pushed back the covers and stared at the soggy sheet.

  Her water had broken.

  Chapter Nine

  Clara crawled from the bed and staggered to the door that led to the hall. Flinging it open, she shouted up the darkened stairs.

  “Dalton!” And then she sagged against the doorframe and waited for him to come.

  He did, and quickly. Not twenty seconds after she called his name, he came racing down the stairs to her, wearing only a pair of boxers, his thick dark hair, slept on, standing on end, his battered face grim. “The baby...?”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So she kind of did both as a chuckling sob escaped her. “I woke up.” She looked down at the little puddle at her feet. “My water broke.”

  He took her by the shoulders, his big hands so careful, so gentle. “Do you need an ambulance?”

  She bit her lip and looked up into those beautiful eyes of his—well, one beautiful eye, anyway. The other was still swollen shut. Oh, dear Lord. Let our baby have his eyes. “I just need you to get dressed and dig out my suitcase.” It was all packed and waiting in the space under the stairs. “And take me to the hospital.”

  “You got it.” And then he pulled her close for a quick hug, tipping up her chin afterward, bending close and brushing his nose against hers in the sweetest, most reassuring little caress. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  She forced her lips to turn up into a smile for him, and gave him a nod.

  And then he let her go. The instant he did, she wanted to grab him back. She swallowed the cry that rose in her throat. Slumping against the doorframe again, she watched him race up the stairs.

  “Dressed,” she reminded herself out loud. “I need to get...”

  And then another contraction took her. She groaned and slid down the doorframe, ending up on the floor on her hands and knees, riding it out, hearing the strangest animal grunting sounds and then gradually realizing they were coming from her.