Peggy Moreland – The Texan's Convenient Marriage (страница 2)

“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.