The Pregnant Bride

And, most important of all, he wondered what those cronies had meant by calling her “Chad’s castoff.”

Nick hoped to God it didn’t mean what he thought it did. He wasn’t sure he could stand the thought of his childhood friend in the arms of the enemy.

When he turned back to her, Meggie was shaking her head, fists propped on her hips. Nick felt a powerful heat steal through his body at this glimpse of her returning feistiness.

She said, “I can’t believe this.”

He ducked his head, feeling like a dog being reprimanded for chasing skunks. “Sorry, ma’am.” Maybe he could play this down, just leave, pretend as though he’d never stood outside the bakery, staring at the sign, wishing he could see Meggie again.

“Nick Cassidy?”

Her voice broke on the end of his last name. It wasn’t the one he’d been born with, but who the hell cared. He’d located his real parents years ago, and the disappointment of their reality still ripped his self-respect to shreds every time he thought about it.

A haunted shade cooled Meggie’s gaze. He’d give anything—the millions of dollars he’d made from his ridiculously successful business ventures, even the shirt off his back—to still her sadness. Usually, words rammed against his lips, anxious to escape from the prison of his mind. But, right now, he was truly speechless, and the silence weighing over their heads felt even more oppressive.

He wanted to walk to her, run his thumb over her soft-looking skin, trace the light freckles he remembered. He wondered if she still had those playful flecks of color on her cheeks. If he could just get close enough to smell the strawberry-tart scent he remembered so well, he’d be able to see for himself. But he didn’t dare. Best to just leave.

Nick started to turn around, to exit the bakery and make Meggie a distant memory, but the elderly man from the corner booth blocked his way. He seemed so familiar…

“Cassidy?” the man asked, watery eyes intense with a purpose Nick didn’t understand.

Nick fit his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans. It was habit. An I-don’t-give-a-hoot gesture he’d perfected through the journey of too many foster homes.

The old man’s mouth twitched, then he grunted and left the building. The bells echoed through the air, mocking Nick with their laughter.

“That was Mr. Chaney,” said Meggie. “You probably remember him.”

Was that accusation in her voice? Of course. When they’d hauled him out of town, with Spencer and his buddies snickering behind the sight of red-and-blue cop car lights, Nick had never gotten the chance to talk to anyone—not his foster mom or dad…not even their son, Sam.

Or Meggie.

He’d never been able to explain that Spencer had invited him to Chaney’s Drugstore to fight, but, instead, had set off a homemade bomb. Everyone in Kane’s Crossing had believed Spencer when he accused Nick of exploding the device. Nick had been there, he’d seen it destroy the building, and who was going to believe the rantings of the town hard-luck case when the town golden boy was accusing him of a crime?

His foster parents had been so sick with disappointment, they’d refused to see him; they’d even called off their plans to adopt him into their family. Even Sam, whom Nick had just about worshiped with a younger foster brother’s devotion, had refrained from contacting him. The state of Kentucky had moved Nick to another home after he’d served some time in a juvenile delinquent facility.

But now he was back in town to right some wrongs. The car crash he’d lived through mere months ago had given him some perspective, had made him realize that there was a little town in the middle of America that still thought the worst of him. He couldn’t live with himself knowing that he’d never erased this falsehood. Clearing his name and serving justice to Spencer on one of his own silver spoons became top priority.

He gritted his teeth. What the hell, Meggie deserved at least some explanation. “I see this place hasn’t forgotten my name.”

“How could they? You’re an urban legend in a provincial town. Almost a celebrity.”

Her tone teetered on the edge of sarcasm, and his crusade against Spencer increased twofold. Even Meggie had been infected by Spencer’s lies. Nick felt something in the area of his heart crack, but he stiffened his jaw and narrowed his eyes to fight the feeling. “You’ve made up your mind.”

Meggie’s eyes flashed, and she stepped to the end of the counter. For the first time, Nick saw the slight roundness of her stomach. He felt the wind get knocked out of him.

Do ya feel like buyin’ a magical cupcake from Chad’s castoff?

Say, Witchy Poo, where ya hidin’ that bundle of joy?

Dear, God, please have him be wrong.

She said, “It’s pretty easy to form an opinion over the course of years. Have you finally come back to explain yourself, Nick?”

Explain himself? He didn’t play the explaining game. “Whatever I have to say would fall on deaf ears.” He couldn’t stop his gaze from straying to her belly.

A short laugh cut the air when she noticed his scrutiny. “Oh, great. You’re curious, too. Don’t even ask.”

He kept his mouth shut. It’s what he knew how to do best, and it frequently kept him out of more trouble than he was worth.

“So?” She reached up to skim a red curl away from the corner of an eye, but she couldn’t hide the tremble of her finger. “Why did you come back?”

Why? Because he wanted to see justice done. Because he wanted to find his foster family, to see if they’d come to forgive him for a crime he didn’t commit in the first place.

Yes, he was guilty of never trying to contact them—their rejection had stung too much the first time to give them another chance to hurt him again—but surely the passage of years had lent them some sense of leniency.

He clenched his jaw, unwilling to answer her simple question. Simple. He almost laughed at the word. Nothing was ever simple.

Meggie chuckled, but the accompanying smile was far from happy. “I assume your return has something to do with your childhood buddy. Why are you looking for Chad?”

She’d whispered the name, but somehow it seemed to crash through the room like a wrecking ball. “No reason.”

“Right.”

He didn’t want it to be like this with Meggie. He wanted summer rains experienced from the shelter of a small cave. He wanted cool dips in the local swimming hole and long talks about the future as the sun braided the sky into a bluish-orange sunset. He wanted the girl who laughed in the face of anyone who dared call her “Witchy Poo.” But that girl was gone.

Meggie sighed, and he related to her frustration. He’d never suffered a tied tongue around her because she’d always understood him.

“Have you gone by your old home?”

Evidently, she’d given up her attempt to wheedle information out of him. “No one was there.”

“It’s too bad, you know. It used to be such a neat house, all comfy with those flower beds and the huge lawn. Now it’s just…”

Her eyes had gone all dark, almost like water from a Venetian canal, littered with so much beneath the surface. In all his travels, weighed by a rucksack and too many painful memories, he’d never seen a green like Meggie’s eyes. He’d done his damnedest to erase his memories after he’d earned his way through college, crossing Europe in second-class train cars, crashing night after night in youth hostels. But instead of filling his head with the beauty of new experiences, his adventures had only succeeded in feeding his hate for Spencer. After all, he’d never have run away from his real world if he hadn’t been thrown out in the first place.

All those roads he’d walked only led to one place— Kane’s Crossing. Back to a tiny, loving home he’d lived in for one shining year, enough time to know he was capable of having a chance to be loved by foster parents and a brother who would’ve hung the moon for his younger sibling.

He rehooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “What do you mean my house ‘used to be’ so cozy?”

“You don’t know?” Her eyes widened, teared up.

Nick shook his head, steeling himself for bad news.

“I thought somehow someone would’ve told you. Your foster parents died about five years ago.”

It felt as if an invisible force had jump-kicked him square in the chest. Stunned, he could only think to look away, to hide the pain he knew was marking his face like a bloody wound. Gone? He’d always meant to come back someday, to thank his foster parents for their glimmer of hope and acceptance. And now it was too late.

“How?” He hoped to God his voice had come out strong.