Preacher's In-Name-Only Wife Read online

  Instead, she wished fervently for a nice hole to gape open in the drab tile floor and swallow her up.

  She’d rambled on like a person who didn’t have sense enough to pour rainwater out of a boot. And heaven above, this man was gorgeous. He was nothing like she’d expected, nothing like she’d pictured.

  She’d expected him to be, oh…nerdy, perhaps. He was as far from nerdy as a Kodak Instamatic was from a Nikon F5. This man topped her five-foot-six height by a good eight inches, had shoulders better suited to a linebacker, and could give Matthew McConaughey—one of her most fantasized about movie idols—a run for his money in the sex appeal department.

  Cryin’ all night, he looked like a mouthwatering cowboy in those pointy-toed boots, faded jeans and a Stetson clutched loosely in one hand.

  Where the heck was his clerical collar? A robe? Something. Anything to give her a clue he was a minister and not just a guy in Western clothes with more than his fair share of good looks?

  And darn it all, he had no business being her preacher!

  “Why don’t we start over. My name’s Dan Lucas.”

  “I know that now.”

  “Then you have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Maybe I like it that way.” She wasn’t normally given to petulance. At the moment it was nearly impossible to suppress the emotion.

  He laughed. The sound reverberated around the room, wrapped around the corners, invaded her insides, invited participation.

  She wasn’t going to get suckered in. But she couldn’t stand here and not reciprocate introductions. It was time to take control.

  “Amy Marshall.” If he expected her to hold out her hand and indulge in another of those lightning flashes of heat at the touch of their skin, he’d have to think again.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, Amy. The man’s a minister. He’s not thinking about sex.

  She waited to see if her name drew a spark of recognition, but he didn’t respond, merely watched her, quietly, carefully, gently.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells?”

  “I’m sorry. I have a feeling it should since you say you’re here to…um, propose. Maybe you could give me a few more details and we can go from there?”

  Oh, she had plenty of details, murky and outrageous as they were. But a streak of cowardice shot straight up her spine. “Later, okay? Right now, I need some time to regroup.” She ducked her head, tried to inch past him.

  “Amy.” He stepped into her path, stopping her. On any other man, the action could have been construed as threatening.

  His wide shoulders were within touching distance. She could smell the crisp scent of winter on his clothes, the lingering trace of shampoo in his hair. Scents that would alert an animal in the wild to the presence of a human, and possibly danger—reasons Amy herself never wore perfume.

  She felt those danger flags now, as though she were the cornered animal, unsure whether to choose flight or fight.

  “Look, I’m more embarrassed than you can imagine right now.”

  “There’s no need. I’m as much to blame—even more. I should have told you I wasn’t the doctor right away.”

  She could tell he genuinely felt bad and decided to give him a break. “As you so aptly pointed out, I didn’t give you much chance. It’s a failing of mine. I tend to go at mach speed, and I don’t stop to think.”

  “All the more reason you should wait for the doctor. You ought to let Chance Hammond check you over. He and his wife Kelly are the doctors here in town. They’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Forget it. After this mortifying experience, there’s no telling what I’ll say or do.”

  “There has to be a reason for feeling faint. I’m no doctor—”

  She raised her brows, and his answering smile gave her a swift, tingling punch in the solar plexus.

  “I’d still feel better if you’d wait.”

  But she wouldn’t. Her nerves were jumping like a frog in a frying pan and her brain was screaming for action. They were instincts she’d relied on all her life to keep her on track. She was no southern belle damsel-in-distress. Control, drive and determination would keep her self-reliant.

  Unlike her mother.

  Though she loved her mother dearly, she refused to fall into the same trap Chandra Marshall had. Without skills, dependent upon others.

  That was probably the biggest rub in this whole ridiculous mission. Amy, herself, had no control. Her mother’s future lay squarely in the hands of the preacher facing her.

  He was still watching her in that quiet way of his, steadily, intensely, a look that made her heart pump and her palms go damp. It was a ridiculous reaction. He was simply concerned.

  When in the world had she begun seeing sensuality in compassion? she asked herself.

  Ten minutes ago, was the answer. The instant she’d laid eyes on this man. The man who could alter her entire future with a simple word. Yes or no.

  Had there been a divine hand in all this? Oh, for heaven’s sake. The good Lord above didn’t go around smiting women with dizzy spells so they’d bump into preachers they were supposed to propose to.

  “I feel fine now, Dan. More than likely I just need to eat something. I’ve been on the road for almost a week, and I haven’t stopped regularly for meals.”

  “I can help you there.” He went to his jacket, pulled a candy bar out of the pocket and handed it to her. “I keep it for the kids.”

  She pounced on the chocolate like a greedy child at a backyard picnic.

  He chuckled. “Maybe you’ll let me buy you something more substantial over at Brewer’s?”

  “Mmm.” She licked her fingers. Now that her taste buds were fully awake, she realized that she was actually starving. “I’d kill for a greasy hamburger right about now. I didn’t notice any local fast-food joints.”

  “You’re in luck. Brewer’s serves the best burgers this side of heaven.”

  She couldn’t help but give him a cocky smile. “Coming from an authority like you, they must be good. Just point me in the right direction.”

  “I’m going that way. Why don’t I buy?”

  “I don’t need you to buy me a meal.”

  “Oh, you just need me to marry you.”

  The words dropped neatly into a pocket of silence. She choked on the last swallow of candy.

  His laughter rang out again. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I confess, I’m highly intrigued when a beautiful woman comes to town claiming a need to propose to me. My curiosity’s going to keep me up. Maybe we should talk?”

  He wasn’t taking her seriously, and she fully understood why. Who could blame him? She wished to heaven this was all a big joke.

  But it wasn’t. And she couldn’t give in to the cowardly instincts begging her to stall. Sooner or later they’d have to talk. Might as well be now.

  “Fine. My Jeep’s out front. Want me to drive?”

  “Sure you’re up to it? I don’t want you passing out and running us in a ditch.”

  “How far are we going?”

  “Half a block.”

  “I think I can manage to keep us on the road for half a block.”

  BREWER’S SALOON WAS a cozy diner, with a bar off to one side, vinyl booths and tables topped with red-checked cloths, and a jukebox playing a lively country-and-western tune.

  Dan leaned down close to her ear. “The doc and his wife are sitting right over there. Sure you don’t want to go have a talk with them?”

  She turned her head, dismayed to find her lips practically touching his. “Food is all I need, thank you.”

  And a husband for ninety days.

  “Right. A greasy burger. I’m thinking you’re the kind of woman who goes for the fully loaded variety, onions and all.”

  “And what do you base that on?”

  “Your self-proclaimed tendencies to go at mach speed. Type-A personality, curious, adventurous. Am I close?”

  Entirely too close. Both in his assessment and in his proximity. “I had no
idea preachers were smug.”

  He laughed and the sound drew heads around, along with answering smiles and waves. Besides the doctor and his wife, there were only two other customers in the diner, as well as an older woman behind the bar and another serving food.

  Amy could feel their curiosity as though she was freeze-framed in the focus of a high-powered zoom lens. It wasn’t an uncomfortable awareness. It was just…there.

  Dan waved back, called a few hellos, then led her into the back room through a set of swinging doors where a group of older men were playing billiards and watching each other’s shots like hustlers who’d managed to slip past the tournament rules.

  “It’s actually more private back here,” he said, obviously feeling the need to explain why they’d bypassed the open booths out front. “And I can indulge in a cigar now and again without Iris Brewer pitching a fit.”

  Amy’s jaw dropped at that piece of news, but her attention was snagged when the white-haired man with the cue stick scratched his shot, causing the three other old fellows to whoop and jest.

  As though a signal had passed silently between the four men, they all looked up and over at Dan and Amy.

  “Afternoon, Pastor Dan,” the apparent leader of the bunch said, his vivid blue eyes homing in on Amy.

  Dan laughed, a sound that was still jolting, yet becoming familiar.

  “Ozzie,” Dan acknowledged. With a hand at Amy’s back, he urged her over toward the pool table. “You boys betting again?”

  “Durn straight,” Ozzie said, clearly unrepentant in the presence of the preacher. “And I’m paddin’ my retirement fund right nicely, even if I do say so myself. You bet. Who’ve we got here?”

  “Amy Marshall,” Dan introduced. “Meet Ozzie Peyton, our esteemed mayor and general all-around meddler. His sidekicks here are Lloyd Brewer—he owns this place—Vern Tillis from the general store and Henry Jenkins, who keeps our livestock and crops fed and healthy.”

  Ozzie laid aside his cue stick and took one of Amy’s hands in both of his, his striking blues eyes filled with compassion and something more.

  “I knew your grandfather. We served together in the war. He was a good man, always had the best of intentions, you bet. I’m mighty sorry over his passing.”

  Automatically she nodded her thanks. Always had the best of intentions, he’d said.

  Amy was a trained watcher. She had to be to wait out skittish or difficult photography subjects, wait until the right moment, the right atmosphere to get a perfect shot. She didn’t miss the slight shift in the older man’s gaze as he took in both her and Dan at the same time.

  Did he know about the will?

  Then his name clicked in her mind. The attorney had mentioned Ozzie Peyton when he’d been giving her instructions along with directions to Shotgun Ridge.

  She remembered shutting down about that time, too overwhelmed at the chaos of her life to pay much attention, too stunned that she’d actually been maneuvered into taking this step in the first place, agreeing to the crazy terms of the well-meaning, obviously nutty man she’d loved dearly.

  She felt Dan’s hand slide around her waist, a clear gesture of support, and sensed him watching her. She gave him a smile to let him know she wasn’t in danger of fainting, even if her insides were trembling like a quiet brook rippled by a gusty breeze.

  “If you boys’ll excuse us, Amy’s had a long drive and is in need of sustenance.”

  “Of course. You bet. Lloyd’ll go run down Maedean and get her in here to take your orders.”

  “Just tell her to bring out two burger specials with the works,” Dan said, leading Amy to a booth.

  A woman came through the swinging doors with a pitcher of water and two glasses. “I’ll take care of it, dear,” she said to Lloyd.

  As Amy slid into the booth, the woman set the glasses and pitcher on the table, then wiped her hand on her apron and held it out. “I’m Iris Brewer. Part owner of this joint, wife to that old coot over there and all-around grandma to the little ones in town.”

  Amy smiled. She liked this woman in an instant. Friendly, motherly, capable. Iris’s hand was small but surprisingly strong in Amy’s grip.

  “Amy Marshall,” she said.

  “You’re new…” She laughed. “Well, of course you are. Silly of me to point out the obvious. Will you be staying long?”

  Heat crept up Amy’s face. She didn’t blush often. In her secondary line of work, she’d gotten over that trait in the first week.

  Before she could think of a good answer, Iris backtracked. “Oh, that was rude of me. You’re probably starving half to death and here I go with twenty questions. You kids just get settled in, and I’ll go rustle up those hamburgers. That’ll put you right and at ease in no time at all.”

  She bustled away, and Amy felt acutely embarrassed. Dan was watching her and her nerves were screaming. All this over a silly, telltale blush.

  She took a sip of water, then looked across the table at Dan. The older men had gone back to their pool game, and Amy felt comfortable that their conversation would indeed remain private.

  “I have no idea where to start.”

  “Anywhere’s fine. I’m pretty adept at jumping in at most any point and keeping up.”

  “I suppose you get a lot of people telling you their troubles?”

  “A few. Are you going to tell me your troubles?”

  “It’d be the kind thing to do since you’re a big part of them. Oh, that didn’t come out right. But the mess I’m in could affect you, too.”

  He leaned back in the booth, gave her his attention. “I’m all yours.”

  Oh, buddy, you have no idea how those words are about to bite you in the butt.

  “Though we’ve obviously never met,” she said, “I guess the two of us have somewhat of a past.”

  He raised a brow, and she lost her train of thought. The man poured more sex appeal into a simple gesture than most men could manage in an entire, well thought out seduction. The blood hummed in her veins and her hands trembled.

  This was going to be much more difficult than she’d imagined. And she’d already imagined a great deal of difficulty.

  “A past?” he prompted.

  “Our fathers went to college together at Georgia Tech and for some crazy reason, they made a betrothal pact to marry off their firstborn kids.”

  Dan chuckled. “Amy, my dad’s a minister. I can’t imagine him doing something like that. And besides, a boyhood pact isn’t a legally binding document.”

  She glared at him. She’d had the same flippant, dismissing attitude herself; disbelieving, brushing the idea off as ludicrous, not worthy of a second thought.

  All that had changed when Gramps’s attorney had forcibly sat her down, made her listen, heaped a responsibility on her shoulders she wanted nothing to do with.

  “I’m only telling you what I know. I didn’t say it was sane. Do you want to hear this or not?”

  With obvious skepticism, he nodded. “I’m listening.”

  Chapter Two

  Amy took a breath and gathered her thoughts. She’d gotten off to a bad start.

  “I don’t remember my father ever mentioning yours, so I’m assuming they might have lost contact over the years. My dad, Mark Marshall, died twelve years ago, so I can’t ask him.”

  Dan reached across the table and laid his hand briefly atop her. “How old were you then?”

  “Seventeen. I’m twenty-nine, now.” Clever way to ferret out her age, she thought. “And you?”

  “Thirty-two. I’ll ask my father if he can fill in any history blanks.”

  “Is he local, then?”

  “By phone. They’re down in Sheridan, Wyoming.”

  She nodded. She’d like to meet the man who’d made such a pact, ask him why. “It’s hard to say if Dad kept in touch with friends. He was a photographer, away from home a lot.” She traced a finger through stray granules of spilled sugar on the table. “Gramps didn’t approve.”

&n
bsp; “That’s a shame—that your father didn’t have his parents’ approval.”

  “He did what he loved best, though. He followed his dream.”

  “He died young?”

  “Yes. An injury that kept nagging at him. He went in for routine—or what they said was routine—back surgery and didn’t make it off the operating table.” She liked the comfort Dan’s touch brought as he squeezed her fingers in compassion, but it was also distracting. She pulled her hand back.

  “Dad never got around to things like life insurance, so his death left my mom in a mess. Thankfully Gramps stepped in and paid off the mortgage on the house. My mom had always been a wife and mother. She didn’t have any outside skills to bring in an income…and didn’t have the drive or desire to acquire them.”

  “You were lucky, then, to have your grandfather.”

  “He was a big influence in my life.”

  “Something tells me you didn’t let him run it, though.”

  “No, which is probably why he’s trying to do it from the grave. I adored Gramps, but I was determined to pull my own weight. I didn’t want to be one of those rich kids who lived on an allowance and bided her time till the day she could get her hands on a trust fund.”

  Iris returned and set baskets of burgers and fries in front of them, patted Dan affectionately on the shoulder, then left them to their privacy.

  “I loved photography,” Amy said, smothering the fries and burger with half a bottle of ketchup. “From the minute I looked through the viewfinder of my dad’s first Hasselblad, I was hooked. Gramps didn’t approve of that as a career choice for me any more than he had for Dad, but he thought I’d outgrow it.”

  She paused for a moment to savor the burger, closed her eyes and nearly moaned, then scooped up her napkin to wipe her mouth. “Oh, my gosh, these are great.”

  “Brewer’s make the best.”

  “So you said. I’ll remember to pay attention to your restaurant recommendations in the future. Anyway, I went to college, got a degree in journalism and worked at the local paper for a while, but I wanted to travel, record life on frames of film—unique images that most people missed or never got a chance to see. To pit myself against the elements and get the perfect shot.” To search for that one Pulitzer Prize winning photo that would validate the career choice her father had made.