Preacher's In-Name-Only Wife Read online

  Her heart vaulted into her throat. “You’re not…I mean, you don’t expect it to lead to—”

  He laughed and tugged at her hair. “Woman, you think about, talk about and allude to sex more than anyone I’ve come across in a long time.”

  Affronted, embarrassed because he was very likely right, she countered, “I do not.”

  He stepped closer, his voice dropped. “No? Maybe it’s that lack of a love life you were lamenting the day you got here.”

  She sucked in a breath. “That just came out of nowhere. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Mmm. But it’s stuck in my mind. Can’t help it. Can’t get rid of it. So, let’s see where it goes.”

  See where it…?

  He tipped up her chin and her palms went damp, her mouth dry.

  His deep brown eyes were filled with an intent that was all too easy to read.

  He held her with his gaze alone, waited until he had her full attention, until he was sure they were on the same page.

  His thumb stroked her jaw, made a pass over her bottom lip, his gaze following, focusing on her mouth, then slowly, ever so slowly, lifted back to her eyes.

  He didn’t sneak up on her, didn’t chase her face or act out of aggression.

  He got her attention. Slowly. Thoroughly.

  Then watching her, gauging her reactions, her readiness, he lowered his head and kissed her.

  His actions were those of a confident man. A man sure of his masculinity, of his skill, of his effect on a woman.

  A man who knew when he was welcome.

  And, oh, he was. Welcome. Skilled. He’d had some practice at this, made her feel like an absolute novice, made her yearn to see what he could teach her.

  Stunned, Amy stared at him for a full five seconds when he lifted his head, took another three seconds to clear her mind.

  “Oh, my goodness. Is that allowed?”

  His smile was slow and sexy. “You’re going to have to get over these preconceived ideas you have of me.”

  I’m a man.

  He didn’t bother to repeat the words as he’d done so many times before. Didn’t need to. They were implied.

  And proved. Oh, how they were proved.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “Um, very nice.”

  “I mean about the horseback ride. But thank you for the compliment. It’s good for my ego.”

  “I have a strong suspicion your ego’s just fine as it is.”

  He grinned. “Well? Want to saddle up and take a ride.”

  More than you know. Oh, for pity’s sake.

  She tugged at her denim jacket, took a breath and headed for the barn. There was surely a sin in having impure fantasies about a minister.

  Regardless that the minister in question was her husband.

  They were not going to consummate this union. No matter how much her hormones screamed otherwise.

  When she left in three months’ time, Dan Lucas would be entitled to his annulment. That was fair. That was her bargain.

  And she intended to stick to it.

  Now, if she could get a little cooperation from the man in question, life would run relatively smoothly.

  Yeah, right. And a blind chicken would find a kernel of corn in a hayloft.

  AFTER TWO WEEKS, Amy was starting to feel a little more at home, a little more relaxed. Since that second kiss by the barn, she’d gone out of her way to keep things impersonal between them, to treat him like a roommate.

  It hadn’t been easy.

  Her saving grace came in the form of Dan’s schedule. In his business, he was on call twenty-four hours a day. At least three times last week, she’d heard the phone ring in the middle of the night, heard his footsteps on the stairs as pastoral duties sent him out in the cold to counsel or comfort whomever had a need.

  She didn’t ask him where he went. She was afraid the sharing would create an intimacy she was trying desperately to avoid.

  But she watched. And she worried. People in need were wearing him out, dumping their woes onto his shoulders. Granted, they were wide, compassionate shoulders, but she couldn’t help wondering who he could turn to when he needed to unburden.

  Sighing, she got back to work. She’d been ignoring the roll of film with the wedding pictures on it for two weeks now. She wasn’t sure why, but every time she reached for it, her hands hesitated, began to tremble.

  Ridiculous. She might as well see if any of them were in focus. Dora Callahan had been in charge of the camera, and she’d seen for herself that Dora had a good grasp of photography. The woman’s main area of expertise, thought was art. Dora drew the cutest pictures of animals, which she sold to greeting card companies.

  Telling herself to stop being a ninny and get on with it, Amy developed the negatives and transferred the thumbnail images to a contact sheet, then picked up a loupe to view what was there.

  She loved to work with black-and-white film. The images were so much sharper, more dramatic. For the National Geographic job, she would use some color film as well, but here in Montana, she didn’t have the expensive equipment required for developing color film.

  Just as well. The images she saw through her loupe were spectacular.

  Her heart lurched when she got to the eighth frame, her stomach fluttering like a migration of monarch butterflies. She didn’t bother to look at the rest.

  Rushing now, cautioning herself to slow down, she located the correct negative and put it in the enlarger, adjusting the knobs until she was satisfied with the magnification, then switched off the focus light, leaving on only the red overhead bulb as she cut a test strip, then finished processing the print, gently agitating it through the developer, stop bath and fixer. Flipping on the overhead light, she gave the five-by-seven glossy a final rinse and wiped it dry with a squeegee.

  Heart in her mouth, her breath coming faster than was warranted, she stared at the black-and-white image before her.

  It was a photo taken seconds before their wedding kiss.

  Dan had her face cupped in his hands, looking down at her. The emotions captured in that single moment in time were incredibly moving, incredibly confusing.

  It was a perfect shot, in perfect focus, more powerful than if Dora had waited five seconds more and snapped the actual kiss.

  Amy had seen her grandmother and grandfather in this same exact pose, wearing this same exact look as Gramps had cornered Grandma in the kitchen.

  Honey, babe, you’re the light of my life, Gramps had murmured an instant before he’d gently kissed her.

  Even as a young girl peeking around the corner, she’d known that look was special.

  How could she be seeing that same expression on her and Dan’s faces at a time when they’d only known each other for two days?

  Hands trembling, she took off her gloves, slipped the photograph out of sight in a binder, cleaned up her mess, then shut off the light and left the room.

  She needed some air to clear her head and to reflect on why her husband in name only had looked at her as if she was the love of his life.

  And why she’d mirrored that look.

  If she didn’t watch her step, she’d likely find herself in a wild bull’s pasture without a tree.

  Thinking Dan had gone out to attend to pastoral duties, she was dismayed to find him in the barn. Since he was the center of her turmoil, she’d hoped to be alone with the horses.

  “Hey,” he said. “Come to give me a hand mucking stalls?”

  “Might as well. I could use the exercise.”

  “Been holed up in that darkroom. Got a few kinks, huh?”

  “A few.”

  “Get any good pictures?”

  “A few.”

  He paused, crossed his gloved hands atop the pitchfork and looked at her. “Well, you’re a font of talkativeness today.”

  She smiled. “Is that even a word?”

  “Beats me. What gives?”

  “Nothing. It just takes me a little time to warm up after I
’ve been cooped up working.” Or been stunned by an unexpected photograph.

  “You’re sure?”

  She walked over and took the pitchfork from his hands, nearly knocking him off balance. Despite her seesaw emotions, his concern touched her.

  “You’re good at listening to people’s problems.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of it? Doesn’t it become a burden?”

  “I don’t shoulder my burdens alone,” he reminded her.

  “Still, doesn’t it ever get to you?”

  “Sometimes. Suffering’s hard to take. As is sadness.”

  “Is that what you do when you’re called out in the middle of the night? Deal with suffering and sadness?” Darn it, she’d told herself she wouldn’t ask about this.

  “In the middle of the night, usually. It’s not all doom and gloom, though. A couple months back I went out to sit with a young girl through the birth of her child.”

  “You were a labor coach?”

  “Yes. Lyssa Farly. Little more than a teenager, her boyfriend dropped her off at the trailer park telling her he had a home lined up for them, and never came back from his trip to the store. She spent her life in foster care, had endured unspeakable trauma and been shuffled from place to place, so she was pretty much inured to abandonment.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “As it turned out, the boyfriend had every intention of coming back for her, but a fatal accident involving black ice on the highway and a semi prevented it.”

  “And she was alone again. Except for you.”

  “It wasn’t a hardship spending time with her. She’d been slapped down so many times in her life, but she kept getting right back up. She didn’t rail at the world for her troubles. She just trusted that something good would be around the corner. I admired her strength and faith. Made me wonder if my own faith would have endured had I been in her shoes.”

  Without realizing it, she’d put her hand on his arm, stroking as though her touch had the power to soothe. He gave so selflessly. She didn’t think she had much to give back, but she wanted to try.

  For three months, maybe she could be his port in the storm of life, his friend, his shoulder to lean on when the burdens on his own got too heavy.

  And maybe she was fooling herself, building a need that wasn’t even there. Maybe he didn’t need anyone to lighten the load on those broad shoulders.

  She was so used to living with a needy mother, being the one to take care, it was hard to remember that it wasn’t her job to automatically come to the rescue.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “I imagine I could eat something, though I don’t know how. I’ve been eating so much lately, pretty soon I won’t be able to fit in my clothes.”

  His gaze skimmed over her denim jacket, down her red T-shirt tucked into belted jeans. “Doesn’t look like you’re in any immediate danger. You fit into your clothes very nicely.”

  “I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”

  “No. I don’t imagine you’d need to. With a face and body like that, I’d guess men have a fair amount of trouble picking up their tongues from the floor when you walk by.”

  “Oh, they do not. Half the time I wear men’s clothes and a ball cap. I blend in.”

  “I doubt that. What about the other half?”

  “The other half of what?”

  “You said half the time you wear men’s clothes. Probably when you’re trekking around looking for pictures to take. What about when you’re serving cocktails to gentlemen watching a naughty floor show? What do you wear then?”

  “Lingerie.” She wondered if she’d shocked him. It would serve him right. Besides, he kept her so off balance, it would be nice to turn the tables on him.

  His brows lifted. “Lingerie,” he repeated. “I take it that doesn’t mean a flannel granny gown.”

  She grinned. “Send that man to the head of the class.”

  “So, describe it for me. Just in the interest of expanding my education, you understand.”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “Hmm. A couple of pasties and a little black G-string—”

  “I serve drinks, Dan. I’m not part of the entertainment.” So much for keeping him off balance.

  He laughed. “Okay, a lacy black bra to go with the G—”

  “A camisole and tap pants and high heels, okay? It’s as modest as a shorts outfit anybody else would wear out on a hot summer day.” She didn’t mention that the camisole had been more of a handkerchief top tied at the back with strings that easily tugged loose.

  “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m not used to describing my sexy undergarments.”

  “So, now they’re sexy undergarments, not summer clothes.”

  “Oh, would you just hush?”

  He reached out and tugged at her hair. It was a gesture a pesky brother might do. Somehow, Dan made it seem incredibly intimate.

  “I like the way your accent gets all soft and breathy when you get flustered.”

  “So you bait me just to hear me talk?”

  He laughed again. “I didn’t have sisters, but my brothers will tell anyone who’ll sit still long enough to listen that I was an ornery cuss.”

  “Yes, well, why don’t you take your ornery self in the house and fry us up a steak or something. I’ve a feeling I need some protein if I’m going to be able to keep up with you.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who suggested we act like roommates. You didn’t have any problem asking about my wardrobe a couple weeks ago. I figured that was an acceptable topic of conversation.”

  “I was inquiring about church clothes.”

  “And I was inquiring about work clothes.”

  She shook her head and gave up. She wasn’t going to win this debate. Darn it all, the man was fun. Frustrating, to be sure. But fun.

  Every time she tried to build expectations of how he should be, he shot them down like a wrecking ball against a child’s building blocks. Pitifully easy.

  As they walked back to the house, Amy noticed a woman standing on the back porch, cradling a baby in a plastic infant seat.

  “Odd. That’s Mrs. Parnelli. She lives out in the trailer park on the outskirts of town. Next to Lyssa, the girl I was telling you about.” His steps quickened.

  Amy watched him go from a flirtatious man to a man a person would trust with their deepest secrets and hurts.

  He had a gift for compassion that didn’t in any way take away from his masculinity. It caused a flutter in the pit of her stomach to watch him, his different moods, the different sides to his personality.

  “Mrs. Parnelli?” Dan took the porch steps two at a time, automatically reaching out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. He noticed that she’d been crying.

  When fresh tears filled her eyes and spilled over her lined face, he got a bad feeling. Especially when he gazed down at the baby.

  Lyssa’s baby. Barely three months old.

  “Where’s Lyssa?” he asked gently.

  “She died, Pastor.”

  Grief, swift and immediate, gripped him. No. He’d just seen her last week. Young and full of plans for herself and her baby.

  “Died? How?”

  “Pneumonia. By the time Doc Hammond got there she was gone.”

  He knew she’d been battling a stubborn cold but thought that’s all it was. “Why wasn’t I called?”

  “There wasn’t time.”

  “You were with her?” He couldn’t bear the thought that Lyssa had died alone.

  “Yes. She just started coughing…couldn’t catch her breath. I didn’t know what to do. It happened so fast.”

  Dan glanced down at the baby, swallowed hard, felt his emotions swell.

  Lyssa was gone. And this child had no one.

  Lyssa had spent hours talking to him, telling him about her rough life. She had no family to support her, only the neighb
ors at the trailer park who watched out for her, who each took turns lending their couch for the sweet young girl to sleep on.

  Moved by her plight, he’d taken up a donation and helped her buy a used eight-hundred-dollar single-wide trailer. It was a sad-looking silver bullet, but in Lyssa’s eyes, it had been her cottage in the country. Each time he visited, she had a new decorating touch to show him and exclaim over.

  Ellen Parnelli shifted the baby in her arms and handed him a letter written on sheet of stationery scented with perfume and outlined with a border of smiling yellow stars. Typically Lyssa. She believed in stars smiling down with promises around every corner. Amazing, after all she’d been through.

  “She made me promise to give you this,” Ellen said. “And to bring Shayna to you.”

  Dan’s gaze jerked from the sweet-smelling paper in his hand to the baby, his heart rate doubling.

  “Heaven knows, I would have kept the child, but I’ve got children of my own and there’s not enough money to go around as it is,” she apologized. “Besides, you’re the only one Lyssa ever really trusted. This is what she wanted, Pastor.”

  Dan made himself focus on the words scrawled on the paper in a loopy back slant.

  Dear Pastor Dan: In case something happens to me, I wanted my wishes to be known. Shayna is my sunshine and I promised I’d give her the best life a girl could have, that she’d never end up like I did, never have to worry if she was safe in her own bed, or if the rise of the sun would mean she’d have to leave one home and go to another. I want my baby to have security, to know that there’s love and goodness in this world, to never have to be scared, to be raised by good people. You’ve been like a father to me, (I don’t mean to suggest that you’re old).

  Dan chuckled past the emotion clogging his throat.

  You’re the kind of man I’d wish for the father of my baby. I want her to have everything. And I believe you’re the person who can give that to her. So, please, Pastor Dan, promise me that you’ll look after my Shayna if anything happens to me. Ellen Parnelli knows my wishes, and I’ve trusted her to bring Shayna to you. If you’re reading this now, it means I’m in heaven. Until it’s time for my Shayna to join me, please take care of her. Raise her for me, Pastor Dan. Keep her safe. Promise me.