The Pregnant Bride

Yeah, as if Sheriff Carson would come running to her aid. He despised her about as much as the rest of this morally superior town did.

The stranger’s gaze lingered over her every feature, leaving a trail of heat. The resulting blush swallowed the rest of her body in one languid flame. Meg’s instincts told her to run to the back room and never come out again.

But she’d never run away. Not from this town, not from this man.

“You obviously didn’t hear me when I said I’m calling the sheriff,” she said, hoping he’d do the running.

The man actually laughed. Sort of. It was more like a chuff than an expression of mirth. “The sheriff in this place isn’t worth fool’s gold.” He started to put his shades back on, then reconsidered and shoved them into his flannel-shirted pocket. As Meg stared in disbelief, he perched on one of the bar stools, leaned on the counter and ran a thumb and forefinger over his stubble. After a second, he laughed again and shook his head.

His identity balanced on the tip of her tongue, but she still couldn’t place his face. She thought she knew this man.

She caught his glance once more and, after something jabbed her heart, just as quickly found a spot on the counter to stare at. Had she somehow caused the pain she saw in those startling blue eyes?

He looked so darned run-down Meg couldn’t stop a rush of pity from overwhelming her. She wasn’t sure how to apologize for misjudging him, so she poured a cup of coffee and set it on the counter. A peace offering.

Something was bothering this man, and the soft part of her wanted to comfort him.

Who was he? Maybe his familiarity came from the way he moved like a stream of mercury in motion. Maybe it was those eyes, the hurt. Hurt she knew all too well.

The stranger accepted the coffee, drinking it black and bitter. Meg backed away from the counter, crossing her arms over her chest, biting her lip. What could she say to this guy? Usually, she didn’t have much trouble with small talk. She’d perfected it with the tourists who frequented her struggling bakery. The regular citizens of this town hardly bothered with her—not unless they wanted to poke some fun at the “town witch,” the unwed mother-to-be who wouldn’t give out the identity of her baby’s father.

Much to her surprise, the stranger broke the tension between them. “Seen Chad Spencer around?”

The name jolted her. “Not lately.”

When Deacon Chaney spoke up, Meg whipped her head toward the sound, almost having forgotten the elderly man was still in the room.

“Who’s asking?” He sat on the edge of the booth’s seat, his clothes hanging from his frame like rags draped over a scarecrow’s cross.

The stranger hesitated. “An old…friend.”

That voice ran over her body like a physical sensation. When had mere words ever been so sexy?

She shook herself mentally and tried to chase away the intimate air he brought to the room. “Are you from Kane’s Crossing?”

“I don’t claim this town.” His jaw, cut like the edges of a steel trap, tensed. Snapped shut.

That was enough information for Mr. Chaney. “Chad’s off cavorting in Europe, can-canning with the cream of the crop, I gather. Town’s better off without him, I suppose.”

“Don’t say things like that.” Meg didn’t mean to scold, but you just didn’t talk like that about the all-powerful Chad Spencer, high school quarterback hero of Kane’s Crossing. All-state college player. King of the family’s myriad of businesses. Pride of the town. Golden boy supreme.

Mr. Chaney pursed his lips and disappeared into the gaping black hole of the booth.

“Any idea when Spencer will be back?” asked the stranger.

Meg started busying herself, afraid to stand still, to give away the shaking that had started in the pit of her stomach and had coursed to the tips of her quaking fingers. She rattled around the dishes, not intending to answer the stranger’s question.

She hated that she was so nervous. Nervous because she hoped her secret would stay hidden when Chad returned to town.

A blur of colorful clothing fogged the bakery doorway, causing the bells to sound like giggling children poking fun at the town unfortunate. Four men entered.

Sonny Jenks was the first to bare a tobacco-stained grin. “Woo-hoo! What do we have behind door number one?”

Junior Crabbe poked his grubby baseball-hatted head out from behind Sonny and his dirt-caked T-shirt. “We have us the town whore! Say, Witchy Poo, where ya hidin’ that bundle of joy?”

Meg felt the stranger stiffen beside her. She hoped he wouldn’t do anything rash; after all, she put up with this garbage all the time. She’d learned to live with it since grade-school summers, when these boys had followed Chad around the town like fungi on a heel.

“Junior, you’re letting in the cold air,” she answered, struggling for calm. “In or out. And if it’s in, you’d better buy something.”

Two more men leaned against the wall. Meg could tell by the way they weaved that they’d had a tipple or two in the bar down the street. One of the guys, Gary Joanson, stared at the floor the whole time.

Sonny scratched his armpit. “What do you boys think? Do ya feel like buyin’ a magical cupcake from Chad’s castoff?”

Meg couldn’t stop the stranger as he bolted from his seat to loom in front of the good old boys. Sonny backed up. The stranger followed, causing the other man to cower against the wall.

Great. A rumble in the bakery. Kane’s Crossing had hit the big time. “Now, don’t do that, Mister—”

At the sound of her voice, the dark man peered over his shoulder and held up a finger, an emotional storm rolling over his features.

“Nobody talks to you like this, Meggie. Not now, not ever.”

Meg was so worried about a fight starting that she almost overlooked one fact.

Only one person had ever called her “Meggie.”

Aw, hell. Five minutes back in Meggie Thornton’s company and he’d already said too much. That’s the reason Nick Cassidy valued minimal conversation—you were bound to give out an excess of information at some point. And he liked to keep his agendas private. Very private.

The gutless wonder he’d pinned against the wall looked in need of a good cuff or two, but Nick wasn’t about to start a row in the town that had labeled him a criminal so many years ago. He wasn’t here to start fights with minions of Chad Spencer. He wanted the big boy himself.

Nick hovered closer to his new pal. “I don’t hear you apologizing to the lady.”

The man squeaked. Right. All talk and no action. Spencer’s buddies were bravest when their fearless leader was around.

“Hey,” Nick said, making sure a growl lingered just below his words, “I don’t speak chicken. Did you say something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry’?”

Meggie’s voice called him away from his immediate anger. “Sonny, Junior, just leave, okay?”

Sonny and Junior. Nick remembered them well. Two brain-dead little teenagers who’d helped Chad Spencer in making Nick’s life hell.

He clenched a fist.

Nick knew his temper was upsetting Meggie, and that’s the last thing he wanted. Idiot. Why had he even come in the bakery? He should’ve just strolled into Spencer’s Bank and gotten his information there. Meggie would never approve of what he wanted to do to Spencer. At least, not the Meggie he used to know, the butterfly who preferred skimming the high grass of distant meadows to giving Spencer the justice he deserved.

The cronies hesitated, then, with a nod from Sonny, they left with threatening glances. All but one, that is. The smallest guy lingered, then followed his friends.

Now that the trash had been taken out, Nick turned around to watch Meggie again. Hell, he couldn’t get enough of her. Same stubborn chin, same ribbon-curled red hair, same marble-green eyes. Yet now, with the passage of years, her chin seemed lowered, her hair a less vibrant shade, her eyes clouded with a pain he wanted to brush away. And her willowy body, once so free and spirited, wasn’t the same. The Meggie he knew had never worn baggy gray sweaters. Her evident loss of childlike wonder clutched at his heart, but he was experiencing a totally different, unexpected feeling at the same time. A pull, a pounding in his belly. More than the innocent companionship a summer friend had felt.

He averted his gaze from her, thinking he had no right to feel anything for Meggie. She no doubt remembered a fourteen-year-old boy who’d been thrown out of town for bombing Chaney’s Drugstore. Why would she possibly welcome him back to Kane’s Crossing?