Secondhand Bride by Linda Lael Miller Page B

Concepcion’s savory meals, and a good soaping and sluicing in the creek, he felt better, and he was almost in a good mood when he reached the outskirts of Indian Rock, about sunset.
    He stopped at the Bloody Basin for a shot of whiskey before squaring his shoulders and setting his course for the Arizona Hotel, where he figured he’d find Chloe. If she was pregnant, he’d decided on the way to town, he might be willing to live as a bigamist, at least for a while. He grinned, thinking of the looks on Rafe’s and Kade’s faces when he told them they’d be working for him in a few months’ time. He’d see that they got their fill of digging post holes, rounding up strays, and stringing barbwire.
    Oh, yes, revenge would be sweet.
    He found his ladylove in the lobby, sipping tea from a china cup and reading a book. There were little spectacles perched on the end of her nose and, as he drew closer, he saw that her eyes were red-rimmed.
    She closed the book with a snap and snatched off the glasses. “Well,” she said imperiously, “you’re back.”
    He exercised forbearance and did not point out the obviousness of that statement. He even took off his hat. “Have you been crying?” he asked, though he hadn’t intended to voice that particular thought.
    “No,” she said.
    “Liar.”
    “If you’ve come here to insult me, Jeb McKettrick, I will thank you to leave. I’ve had quite enough disturbing news in the past twenty-four hours.”
    He sighed, drew up another chair, and sat facing her so that their knees were almost touching. “I’m not here to bother you, Chloe,” he said truthfully. “I was hoping we could talk. Without tearing into each other, I mean.”
    “Inconceivable,” she said, but her mouth twitched a little at one corner and, in the next instant, she actually hauled off and smiled. “You look very handsome,” she added.
    It wasn’t the first time Jeb had been told he was handsome—he’d been trading on it for years—but the effect was entirely new. He felt shy as a schoolboy all of a sudden, and oddly tongue-tied, and that unnerved him. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” he said.
    She gave a pealing laugh.
    He turned his hat between his fingers and searched for words that might be accepted in a peaceable spirit. “Chloe, you said there was a child—”
    She looked away.
    “Is there?” he pressed, but without rancor.
    She met his gaze, shook her head. “No,” she said, and he thought he heard a note of regret in her voice.
    He hung his head for a moment, surprised by the depth of his disappointment.
    “You want that ranch very badly, don’t you?” Chloe asked. He might have expected recrimination, since she’d already accused him of using her as a means to an end; but she spoke gently, almost tenderly.
    He looked up, searching her face. If he lived to be a thousand, he’d never figure this woman out, and that was part of her appeal. She was a mystery, a challenge, and a pure hellcat between the sheets. “Yes,” he said.
    “Why didn’t you tell me the real reason you wanted to get married?” She reached for her teacup, but it rattled in the saucer, so she turned loose of it and folded her hands in her lap. “I thought it all happened awfully fast. Our courtship, I mean.”
    “I guess I figured you’d tell me to go to hell,” he answered. “Say you were a woman, not a broodmare, or something along those lines.”
    Her smile was strangely fragile. “Well, I might have,” she admitted. “But the truth is always best, don’t you think?”
    He considered the question and refrained from pointing out that she hadn’t been such a believer in telling the straight story back in Tombstone. “Not always,” he said, and left it at that. “Chloe, why were you crying? Was it because of John?”
    She nodded. “Did you know he was my father?” she asked, almost meekly, as if she feared the answer.
    He shook his head. “No.” He reached out, took her hand. “Come on,”