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“Granny?” she called softly. There was no answer. The only sound was the whir of the big window air conditioner in the kitchen.
Molly stepped over to the hallway. The door to the back bedroom was shut. Good. She went into her own room and straight to the closet, where she lifted a hidden trapdoor to a two-by-four-foot space under the floor. She put the shotgun in there and closed it up. She was reasonably certain Granny didn’t know about that hiding space, which meant she wouldn’t be threatening any unfortunate men with the shotgun for a while.
The weapon safely hidden away, Molly put on her sandals, grabbed her red purse and went to tap on Granny’s door. “Tate and I have a few things to talk about. I’ll be gone for a while.”
The door opened. Granny looked at her sideways, graying brows drawn together. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
Molly forced a smile and leaned over to place a kiss on her weathered cheek. “I’ll be back later.”
“Where’s my shotgun?”
“Safe.”
“Humph,” said Granny.
Molly leaned closer. “You can’t go around shooting at men for no reason.”
“Molly, baby, all men need shooting at. No reason required.”
Molly shook her head. “You’re lucky he isn’t talking about suing you.”
“Suing me? That’s what’s the matter with this country nowadays. You fire a shot over a varmint’s head and he takes you straight to court. And besides, what do I have that a rich man would sue for?”
“Granny, just settle down and behave, will you?”
Granny pinched up her mouth. “You call me if he gives you too much grief. I’ll see he regrets the day he ever messed with us O’Dares.”
Back out on the porch, Molly told Tate, “We can’t talk here. Granny’s kind of fired up.” No telling what she would do if Molly and Tate started trading hostile words. “Let’s go out to the Double T. We can talk in private there.”
“Good idea.” He started to reach for her.
She stepped back. “I’ll take my own car.” That way, when the yelling was over, she wouldn’t be dependent on him for a ride home.
“Suit yourself.” He turned without another word and went down the steps ahead of her.
The Double T ranch house stood, graceful and welcoming, at the end of a long curving driveway lined with oaks. The main—or center—wing had been built at the turn of the last century by Tate’s great-great-grandfather, Tucker Tate II. The North Wing had been added by Tucker Tate III and the South Wing by Tate’s grandfather, Tucker Tate IV. Since Tate was the only family member currently in residence, he lived in the main wing and left the other two to the occasional attentions of his housekeeper and the day maids.
He pulled his Cadillac into the central turnaround at the front of the house. Jesse Coutera, who drove him occasionally and acted as a general handyman around the place, was waiting for him. “Thanks, Jesse. Go ahead and put it away.”
Molly’s little red pickup screeched to a stop way too close to Tate’s rear bumper. “And the lady’s pickup?” Jesse asked, looking nervous, the way most men did around Molly. Molly, scowling, got out of the pickup and slammed the door.
“Better just leave it here for now,” Tate said.
Jesse got in behind the wheel of the Caddy and headed down the side driveway. Molly approached. Though he’d already given her a good once-over back at her house, Tate couldn’t help but do it again. She was dressed to match her pickup: red knee-length pants that clung to every generous curve, red sandals and a tight red T-shirt with Prime Cut in white lariat script across those breasts that no red-blooded male could keep from gaping at.
“Let’s get this over with,” she growled.
It was kind of depressing, how hostile she was. But he figured her attitude would change as soon as she got a look at the eight-carat diamond he’d driven to Abilene and bought her that afternoon.
Tate allowed himself a smug little smile. Since she’d climbed in his window the night before and dropped the bomb on him, Tate had been giving their little problem a lot of serious thought. He’d decided he was going to do the right thing and put a ring on Molly’s finger.
“What are you grinning about?” She glowered at him, her big amber eyes narrowed to slits.
Uh-uh. She was not getting his dander up. “Shall we go inside?” He offered his arm.
She pointedly didn’t take it. “Fine.”
Tate led her to the big family room at the back of the center wing. The housekeeper, Miranda—Jesse’s wife—appeared briefly to ask if there was anything she could get for them.
Molly shook her head tightly and tossed her shiny red bag on a chair. Tate thanked Miranda and told her he wouldn’t need her again that night. She smiled and nodded and left them alone.
Molly was pacing, her heels clicking on the Spanish tiles of the floor every time she cleared one of the bright Navajo rugs.
“Sit down, why don’t you?” Tate gestured at a tufted leather love seat as she stalked past it.
“Thanks. I’ll stand.” She stopped, wrapped her arms around herself, and faced him. “So, okay. Talk.”
It wasn’t exactly an inviting opening. But then, a man didn’t get a lot of good openings with a prickly type like Molly.
She made a low, impatient sound and started pacing again. He watched her, admiring the sway of her full hips, aware that she was probably worried he would give her a hard time, maybe even try to tell her he didn’t think the baby was his.
Tate had no doubt it was his. After all, she’d been a virgin the first time he made love to her—a damned eager virgin, but a virgin nonetheless.
He grinned every time he thought about that. Her virginity had shocked the hell out of him, if you want it straight. Molly was as sexy as they come and not the least bit shy. He’d just assumed she’d had her share of men.
But she hadn’t. And she was honest. Crazy as she made him sometimes, Tate knew her word was something he would never have cause to doubt. If she said she was having a baby and that baby was his, well, then he had to accept that he really was going to be a dad—which meant he was obligated to do the right thing and make her his bride.
Tate was feeling just fine about this particular obligation. He had a sense of a certain nobility within himself. He’d made the right decision; he would do the right thing.
Yeah, there would be talk. First, because everyone in town assumed that he and Molly hated each other, no one knew that they’d had an affair. Secondly, folks generally expected that when the time came for him to choose a bride, he would marry a woman from a socially prominent and well-to-do family.
Truth to tell, he’d had the same expectations himself. But he was thirty-four. And he’d yet to meet the paragon of womanhood who was supposed to make him want to settle down. And now there was Molly.
If before, Tate Bravo had shown little interest in finding himself a paragon, since Molly, his interest has dropped to flat zero.
So no problem. He would get by without the perfect wife. He would do his duty and have Molly in his bed from now on.
And there was another benefit beyond the great sex. Once Molly was his wife, he might get a little control over her when it came to running his town.
Molly stopped pacing again and braced her fists on the fine, womanly swell of her hips. “Well.” She tapped her red toes. “Are you just going to stand there all night, gaping at me with that ridiculous, self-satisfied grin on your face?”
He felt his temper rise a little and ordered it down. “Molly, Molly. There is absolutely no reason for you to be so damn mean to me.”
“Look. Can you just say it? Can you just go ahead and say it, please?”
Every word had an icicle hanging from it. But at least she’d said please.
Tate launched into the speech he’d been composing and rehearsing all day. “Ahem. Molly. Since your, er, visit last night, I have been giving long and serious thought to what you said to me. I have looked at the situation from just about every angle, and no matter how I approach it, there seems to me to be only one solution.” Tate paused.
He couldn’t read Molly’s expression. Struck dumb with shock? Moved beyond words? No way to tell. He crossed to the pinero wood mantel that his great-great-grandfather had ordered from Mexico and rested an elbow on it. Above the mantel hung one of his mother’s paintings. Penelope Tate Bravo had studied art—to little effect that Tate could see—for a year at UCLA. It was there, in L.A., that she met Tate’s father, the mysterious Blake Bravo. Tate pretended to admire the painting—of a poorly proportioned chestnut gelding and a stunted looking vaquero in a huge sombrero—as he gathered his thoughts to go on.
“Molly, there are many who will be shocked when they hear of our plans. And to that I say, so be it. I don’t care in the least. They’ll get used to it soon enough. The important thing is that you and I give our baby the right kind of start in life, that we put aside our differences and work together to ensure—”
“Tate…” Molly said his name hoarsely and then swallowed. With obvious difficulty.
He felt a tad irked with her for interrupting. “Can’t you let a man say what he’s trying to say?” In a minute would come the part where he got down on his knees in front of her. He was a little nervous about that. After all, he wasn’t the kind of man who spent a lot of time on his knees.
“But, Tate…” She swallowed again. “I…I have to know. Are you, well, I mean, is it possible you are sneaking up on suggesting we get married?”
He smiled. How could he help it? She looked so damned adorable in her bewilderment. Also, it was occurring to him that he could skip the part where he got down on his knees. She’d pretty much blown right on by that, anyway.
Yeah. This was fine. It would work out just great. And with everything settled, she would be spending the night—and all the nights to come. “Yeah, Molly.” Pride made him stand away from the mantel and draw himself up straight and tall. “I am. I’m asking you to be my wife. I figure, at this point, there’s nothing else we can do.” He reached into his pocket to get the ring.
Before he could slide it out, she said, “No.”
Tate was certain he hadn’t heard right. “Molly, did I just hear you say—?”
“No. I said no.”
He pulled his hand from his pocket—without the ring—and took a careful step back. She’d got him on this one. Got him good. This was as unexpected as a rattler in his bedroll.
And damned if he wasn’t as hurt as if he’d really been snake bit. Why, she hadn’t even let him get to the part where he could flash that diamond at her. To cover his hurt, he gave her a curled lip and a cold eye.
She backed away a step herself and did some more gulping. “Look, Tate, it would never work. You have to see that. And why would you want to even try? Think of your granddaddy. Of what he’d say.”
“My grandfather is dead. It doesn’t matter what he’d say. Like I already told you, it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn what anybody says. It’s the right thing to do. And we are going to do it.”
“No.” She put up both hands, palms out, kind of warding him off. “No, Tate. We’re not.”
It took all the considerable will and self-restraint he possessed not to grab her and turn her over his knee. She could use a good paddling, oh, yes, she could. “Molly, darlin’.” He kept his voice low—and deadly. “You have said a lot of stupid things since I have had the pleasure of knowing you. But saying no to me right now, that’s a new high in stupidity. Even for you.”
She fell back another step—but her eyes had that look in them—the look that said he’d better watch out. “Don’t you call me stupid, you big macho butt-head.”
Macho butt-head? He felt his blood pressure go up a notch and ordered it back down. “Molly, you have got to see—”
“I don’t have to see squat. We are not getting married, Tate Bravo. What do either of us know about marriage? Not a damn thing. Well, except this. I do know this. When people get married, they ought to at least know how to get along with each other first. You and me? We never get along. We’re either fighting or ripping each other’s clothes off and racing for the bed. What kind of marriage would the likes of us have? I shudder to imagine, I truly do.”
By then, Tate’s urge to yank her over his knee and paddle her good was so powerful it caused a pounding behind his eyes. With great effort, he clung to reasonable discourse—or at least, to a low, controlled tone. “You are the future mother of my child, Molly. And by God, you are going to marry me.”
She marched over and snatched her purse off the chair. “No, I am not.” She was already headed for the front hall.
“Molly,” he commanded. “Molly, get back here.” She didn’t so much as break her stride. “Molly. Damn you.” He took off after her.
In the hallway, she turned on him. “Stop, Tate. Stop right there.”
“Molly—”
“I’m going home now. Do you hear me? Home. Alone.”
“The hell you are. Why can’t you be reasonable?”
“Reasonable?” she scoffed. “Now, that’s one of those words, isn’t it, Tate?”
“One of those words? What are you babbling about?”
“You know what words I’m talking about. The kind of words that mean do things Tate’s way. There are a lot of words like that, in case you haven’t noticed. Words like right and good and logical and fair. Around you, Tate, those words always mean one thing. They mean your way. Because your way is the right, good, logical and fair way. Isn’t it?”
How, he wondered, could he want her so much when she was such a complete bitch? It was, and probably always would be, a mystery to Tate. “Don’t you walk out that door on me, Molly.”
“Oh. Oh, of course. Give me orders. Dream that I’m going to obey them.”
“I mean it. Don’t leave.”
Molly gave him a long, hot look. And then she whirled, marched to the door and flung it open. She went through and slammed it behind her. It was a heavy, carved door. It had come up from Mexico with the mantel in the living room. It made a loud, echoing, final sort of sound when slammed.
Tate stood in the entry hall with his blood pounding in his ears and listened to her pickup rev high outside. Peeling rubber, she took off.
This is not the end of it, Molly, he silently promised her.
Whether she wanted to or not, it was reasonable, right, good, logical and fair that she marry him. And one way or another, Tate Bravo always did what was reasonable, right, good, logical and fair.
Chapter Four
L ena Lou Billingsworth stuck her hand out from under the red cutting cape and fluttered her thick eyelashes at Molly. “Molly, you didn’t even ask to see it.”
Molly took Lena’s soft little hand. “Gorgeous,” she declared. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
Lena preened. “Four carats.” Back in high school, Lena and Tate’s wandering younger brother, Tucker, had been an item. But that was a decade ago. “Dirk is so generous.” Lena’s fiancé owned a couple of car dealerships on the outskirts of nearby Abilene. “You know, Molly, some say every girl is only lookin’ for a man like her daddy. I believe that now, I truly do.” Lena Lou’s daddy, Heck Billingsworth, was a car dealer, too—a big, bluff fellow who never met a man he didn’t like, let alone a vehicle he couldn’t sell.
A man just like her daddy, huh? Finding such a man would be a big challenge for Molly, as she’d never met her daddy and wouldn’t have recognized him if she bumped into him on the street.
At fifteen, Molly’s mom, Dixie, had lost her virginity to a traveling salesman who discovered the next morning that the pretty young thing he’d seduced the night before was underage. On hearing the news, the salesman promptly threw his samples in the trunk of his Chrysler New Yorker and burned rubber getting the heck outta town.
Dixie never heard from the guy again—and nine months later, Molly arrived. So, truly, Molly never knew her father. In fact, she didn’t even know his name. When Dixie asked for it that fateful night, the salesman replied in a lazy Southern drawl, “You just call me Daddy, sugar-buns.”
Funny, Molly was thinking. She’d never known her dad—and her mom seemed more like a sweet and wild and often absent big sister to her than any real kind of mom. Mostly, in Molly’s growing-up years, Dixie was busy with her active social life. Dixie would climb out the window as soon as Granny Dusty went to bed and wiggle back in around dawn, half-drunk, with her mascara running down her cheeks and her clothes looking like she’d torn them off and rolled around on them—which, more than likely, she had. She would sleep until noon, then get up and eat cold cereal or maybe cream cheese on a cracker and wander around the double-wide trailer in a kind of good-natured daze until dark—at which time she would lock herself in the bathroom to shower, fix her hair and do her makeup. As soon as Granny went to bed, she would climb out the window all over again.
Dixie O’Dare had always been a woman on a mission to find the man who would love her forever and treat her right. She never had a lot of luck in her quest. And since it consumed most of her time and energy, Granny Dusty had ended up taking care of Molly.
Molly wanted things to be different for her baby. She was going into this all grown up with her eyes wide open. She wouldn’t be wasting her energy chasing after men. She would take her child-rearing seriously. And her baby girl—Molly just knew her baby had to be a girl—would at least know who her father was, even if Molly did not intend to marry the man.
Tate, Molly thought, shaking her head. She’d imagined him saying a lot of ugly things. But a marriage proposal? Not on your life.
And okay, maybe she’d been a little hard on him last night. Especially considering he’d put up with Granny shooting at him and he hadn’t called Molly one single rude name. But she was not going to marry him, and he had to accept that.
Sadly, Tate was one of those men who never heard what a woman said unless she shouted it out good and loud. And even then, the chance was never better than fifty/fifty the words would get through that thick skull of his.
Lena was still talking. “The wedding will be next June—I know, I know. It’s a whole year away. But a wedding is something a girl plans for her whole life. I want everything to be perfect. And it’s always been my dream to be a June bride.”
