The Marrying Man

by Barbara Bretton

  "I can't do this." She moved away.

  Moving away from him was the hardest thing she'd ever done.

  His expression darkened and she stood still, scarcely breathing, while she waited for him to say something--anything--to ease the tension.

  "You're right," he said at last. "You can't do this."

  You weren't supposed to just give up, cowboy. He should have swept her into his arms, kissed away her fears, promised her a future together that neither believed could ever be. "It's not that I don't want to--" Her eyes stung with sudden tears.

  "You don't have to explain anything to me, Cat."

  "I'm not a casual woman when it comes to things like this," she said, struggling to find the words to define something she didn't understand herself. "I have a family now...the kids and--"

  "And I'm not a marrying man."

  "That's right," she whispered. "And you're not a marrying man." Whatever connection there was between them, it was too intense, too fiery, to be satisfied by a kiss. Or even by an affair. She wanted the whole package, the forever package, and anything less would only break her heart.

  ***

  He should have seen it coming. She had a great career, a family she obviously loved more than anything, and she wasn't about to throw any of it aside for a quick roll in the hay with a man who'd be long gone by the time the sun came up the morning after.

  He knew he could overcome her resistance, turn up the charm, call on the old weapons of seduction and take her to bed.

  And he also knew it would be the biggest mistake of his life.

  Somewhere deep inside, in a place he didn't want to admit even existed, he sensed that she was the one, the woman fate intended for him.

  And the hell of it was he could only break her heart.

  She needed a man who could be there for the long haul. A man who would love her children the way she loved them, the way ties of blood alone made it possible to love. Family life was a mystery to him, something he could only view from the outside the warm circle of love that seemed to surround Cat O'Leary Zaslow and her children.

  "The bet is cancelled," he said, his voice husky. She swallowed. "I think that's for the best."

  "Give me five minutes and I'll be out of your way."

  ***

  "So soon?" Let him go, Cat. You know this is best for both of you. "I mean, you might as well stay for supper." She forced a smile. "Leftover turkey. How can you refuse?"

  "If I leave now, I can be in Boston in time for dinner."

  He turned to leave the room as a wave of dizziness swept over her with surprising force. She hadn't eaten much today. Maybe she should grab a sandwich and--

  On second thought, food wasn't such a great idea. Her stomach did a backflip and she grasped the edge of the dresser.

  "Zaslow?" She heard McKendrick's voice in the doorway as if through a fog of sound. "You okay?"

  "F-fine," she managed, keeping her face averted. "Go get your dinner in Boston."

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and forced her to turn around. "You look like hell."

  There were three of him, all staring down at her with puzzled expressions on their faces. "B-bet you say that to all the girls."

  "You're sick."

  "...not." The room was spinning madly around the McKendrick triplets, big wide loops like an amusement park ride designed to turn adult stomachs into blenders.

  "It's the flu."

  "...never get sick...I'm the mother around here..."

  And then she did what she'd been wanting to do from the first moment she saw him in Max's office the day before Thanksgiving.

  She swooned at his feet.

  Chapter Seven

  "Where's Mommy?" Sarah asked for the tenth time in as many minutes.

  "She's sick, stupid," Kevin said, tossing a comic book at his little sister.

  "Jack did it," said Ben.

  "Did not," said Jack, who was well enough to come downstairs for dinner.

  "You're all a bunch of babies," said Michael. "I didn't have to go to bed when I got sick."

  "Am not a baby," Jack cried. "You're a baby."

  "You are."

  "No! You are!"

  Michael opened his mouth to speak but Riley's roar stopped him cold. "One more word and the lot of you are going to bed without dinner."

  "You can't do that," said Kevin. "You're not our boss."

  "Yeah?" asked Riley. "Your mother put me in charge while she's sick and I'm not taking any guff from any one of you." He put a plate of leftovers down in front of the kid. "Now eat."

  You're lucky, Zaslow, he thought, taking his seat at the head of the table. The flu was a walk in the park compared with the hell he'd been through since Cat took to her bed a few hours ago. He didn't have the energy to tuck into his turkey sandwich. How did women manage this day after day? He glanced around the table at her offspring. He only counted five of them but he was pretty damn sure they had clones hiding in the closets, waiting to leap out and wreak havoc on the household.

  Rock music screeched from the CD changer in the living room. The tv blared in the family room. Something round and white flew across the table.

  "What was that?" he asked the guiltiest-looking kid.

  "What was what?" asked Kevin, squirming in his seat.

  Sarah's little lips pursed. "Mashed potatoes," she said, pointing at Ben. "He did it!"

  "You little squealer." Ben lobbed another round of mashed potatoes at his sister who broke into a wail loud enough to wake the dead.

  Before Riley could act, Sarah scooped up a glob of cranberry sauce and flung it in Ben's general direction.

  Too bad her aim wasn't very good.

  The cranberry sauce landed on his denim work shirt with a splat.

  The silence in the kitchen was deafening. The five little hellraisers stared at him as if they expected him to breathe fire. Breathing fire would be one way to get these kids in line but the truth was he felt like yelling, "Food fight!" and grabbing for the cranberry sauce himself.

  Instead he turned to the oldest kid. "Do you know how to work the washing machine?" Kevin nodded. Riley ripped off his shirt and tossed it to him. "See what you can do with this."

  The kid dashed off to the laundry room.

  "Are you gonna yell at us?" Michael asked.

  Riley met his eyes. "Should I?"

  The four of them looked at each other and then Ben swallowed hard. "We're not supposed to throw food at the table."

  "I figured as much."

  "You gonna tell our mom?"

  "What do you think I should do?"

  "I don't think you should tell her," Jack piped up. "Mommy's sick."

  Which was all Sarah needed to hear. She burst into big noisy sobs that made Riley wish he could vanquish flu bugs with his bare hands.

  "She's crying because our father's dead," said Michael in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "She's afraid something's gonna happen to our mom."

  Riley held out his hand to the little girl and she raced over to be cuddled in his arms. A crushing pain gripped his chest and squeezed hard as she buried her head against his shoulder and held on for dear life. She was so small, so much like Cat yet different and he realized the difference was a glimpse of the man Cat had loved enough to marry.

  "She's a real crybaby," Kevin observed as he came back into the room. "We didn't cry that much when our first mom died."

  "Your first mom?" Was it possible to hallucinate on turkey and stuffing?

  "Our mom died when we were really little," said Jack, who still looked damned little to Riley's thirty-five year old eyes, "but then our dad married Cat and we were a family again."

  Sarah snuffled and he handed her a paper napkin to blow her nose. "I never had a daddy."

  Michael sighed loudly. "Everybody has a daddy, Sarah."

  She shook her head. "Unh-uh."

  "He died before she was born," Jack whispered in Riley's ear.

  Riley wanted to run. He wanted to put t
he little girl down, grab up his car keys and duffel bag, then climb into his rented car and head for parts unknown. This was cutting too close to the bone, too close to the young boy who'd lost his parents and forgotten how to dream.

  But he had a crying child in his arms and four boys who needed someone to keep them from killing each other while their mother fought the flu and so his fate was sealed.

  ***

  The picture albums weren't hard to find. After the kids went to bed Riley let himself into Cat's office, scanned the bookshelves, and soon hit paydirt. A woman like Cat Zaslow was bound to have enough photo albums to fill a library and she didn't disappoint.

  Neither did the photos. There was the wedding album with Cat, in love and happy, and David Zaslow, beaming with pride and a sense of wonder. And of course there was a group portrait of the bride and groom with four little boys, wide-eyed and hanging on Cat's skirts as if they were afraid she'd disappear if they let go for even a second.

  His eyes blurred as he opened a second album and saw Cat beaming up at him from the page, hands placed on her barely-there stomach as she posed next to a pink-and-white cradle. And there was a photo of a very pregnant Cat standing next to a thin and tired-looking David at a first communion for one of the boys. Riley didn't want to see that picture. It made the whole thing too real, too sad, but he couldn't look away. Her smile was wide and happy but he sensed her sadness, could see it in the way her hand rested protectively on her husband's shoulder, in the shadowed expression in her eyes.

  He turned the page and found a death certificate in the name of David Zaslow.

  And a hospital photo of a newborn baby.

  You didn't have to do it, he thought. People took the easy way out every day of the week, shedding responsibilities the way trees shed autumn leaves. There were foster homes out there waiting to take abandoned children and if the kids had to be split up--well, they were young. They'd get over it.

  But Riley knew better. And apparently so had Cat. Kids didn't get over it. It was there deep inside your gut, every day of your life, reminding you that you weren't like other kids. That no matter what else you did with your life, you'd never be good enough to belong to something as simple--and mysterious--as a family.

  ***

  By the middle of the next afternoon, Cat was back on her feet, a little wobbly but basically none the worse for the wear. She had a dim memory of Riley McKendrick carrying her upstairs...of large and gentle hands fumbling with the buttons of her shirt...and then nothing.

  She took a shower, tried to make some sense of her hair, then went downstairs. She supposed it didn't much matter what she looked like or how much of her he'd seen. No doubt he'd be out the door the moment he saw she'd recovered.

  She found him in the kitchen, staring out the window as he nursed a cup of coffee. Damn you, Riley McKendrick, she thought. Why couldn't he be a marrying man? She felt as if she'd been looking at him standing there in her kitchen, for as long as she could remember. As if he belonged there.

  She knew it didn't make sense, that you couldn't possibly feel this way about someone you barely knew, but there it was anyway. This wild, irrational feeling that the best thing that ever happened to you was about to slip through your fingers and there wasn't one single thing she could do about it.

  Not that she wanted to, she reminded herself. The last thing she needed was an alpha male in residence, poking his head where it didn't belong, trying to make her see the error of her ways.

  He turned as she walked into the room. "An eighteen hour virus?" His voice sounded oddly husky and his eyes glittered with a glassy sheen. Somehow she knew tears of joy weren't responsible. "Didn't think I'd see you down here so soon."

  "A special deal for mothers," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "Who has time for the entire twenty-four?" His skin looked a touch green. Temporary parenthood, she wondered, or the Danville flu. "Did the kids behave?"

  "Once we established the groundrules, everything went great."

  A suspicious blob on the kitchen floor caught her eye. "Mashed potatoes?"

  "We had an accident."

  She took a closer look. "And cranberries. Are you sure there wasn't a food fight?"

  He ignored the question and posed one of his own. "When is Jenny coming home?"

  "Tonight."

  "And you're feeling okay?"

  "If you're trying to find out if you can leave, McKendrick, the answer is yes. You can--" She peered at him closely. "Did you just wheeze?"

  "Get real, Zaslow. I don't wheeze."

  "You did it again."

  "You're hearing things."

  This time he didn't wheeze. He sneezed.

  "I knew it," she said. "You're sick."

  "The hell I am."

  "The hell you're not." She reached up and pressed her palm to his forehead. "You're burning up."

  "I'll grab some aspirin in Boston."

  "You won't make it to Boston with a fever like that."

  "I'll take my chances."

  "What about the other people on the road? Think they feel like taking chances too?"

  He swayed on his feet but was too stubborn to fall down. "Don't try and stop me, Zaslow. I'm out of here."

  She leaped in front of him. "Believe me, cowboy, I want you out of here as much as you do but you're sick and I'm the reason why and if you think I'm going to be responsible for the highway patrol finding you in a ditch somewhere, you've got another think coming."

  He sneezed again and she thought she heard him groan. "I outweigh you by a good sixty pounds--"

  "Seventy."

  "Whatever. You don't really think you can stop me, do you?"

  "Yeah," she said, feeling her jaw tighten with resolve. "Actually I do."

  ***

  Riley was reasonably sure he was dying. His head hurt, his eyes watered, his throat felt like a golfball was lodged inside it. He wanted to crawl into a dark cave and stay there until he either died or recovered and at the moment the former seemed a hell of a lot more likely than the latter. Somewhere in the recesses of his fevered brain was the memory of Cat's slender body as he'd stripped her of her clothes and bundled her into a nightgown but he was too damn sick to savor it.

  The last time he'd found himself in bed at three o'clock in the afternoon he'd been in Sweden with a long-legged blond who didn't believe in forever-after any more than he did.

  Told you so, McKendrick. You should've made a break for it while you still had the chance.

  Soon as he'd heard Cat puttering around upstairs, he should've grabbed his duffel and car keys and left temptation in the dust.

  Because this was the ultimate temptation.

  Real life. A real family.

  A woman who could make him believe in happy endings.

  It's the fever talking, McKendrick. You're dreaming...you came into this world alone and that's how it was meant to be.

  But he'd had a glimpse of something else, of possibilities, and those possibilities scared him more than skydiving without a parachute.

  He sensed someone standing by the bed and he opened one eye.

  Sarah stood near his head, carrying a half-filled glass of orange juice. "Mommy says you should drink this."

  He leaned up on one elbow and squinted at the little girl. "You carried that all the way up here by yourself?"

  She nodded, obviously proud of her accomplishment. "I poured the juice but it was too full so I had to drink some of it."

  "That's real nice of you, Sarah." She handed him the glass and he drained it in one gulp. "Thank you."

  He leaned back against the pillow, wondering if you could be sick as a dog and macho at the same time, then decided he felt too lousy to care. The little girl wouldn't care if he looked pathetic. Sarah didn't move a muscle. He closed his eyes, counted to twenty, then cautiously lifted one lid a fraction of an inch.

  "I see you," said Sarah. "I knew you weren't sleeping."

  "No," he said, "I wasn't sleeping but I'm real tir
ed."

  "When I'm tired Mommy reads me a story and I fall asleep. I could read you a story."

  Bedtime stories, he thought with a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the flu. Who did Cat Zaslow think she was, Ma Walton or something? Nobody read bedtime stories to their kids any more. They sat them down in front of the television or shoved a Nintendo control in their hot little hands. This whole thing was getting more dangerous by the second.

  Before he had a chance to say thanks but no thanks, the little girl sat herself down on the foot of the bed. "I can't read yet," she said primly, "but I 'member what I hear. Do you have a best story?"

  He shook his head. He didn't trust his voice.

  "Okay," she said with a smile just like her mother's, "then I'll tell you my best story. Once upon a time there was a man that lived all by himself in the woods. The man didn't have anybody to love him, not even a dog." Her big blue eyes widened. "That's a sad story, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," he managed. "Very sad."

  "Anyway, the man was all by himself until one day he heard a lady singing in the woods and he--"

  ***

  The onslaught went on all day. First it was Sarah and her happily-ever-after stories. Then it was Ben with updates on local football games. Jack found his way upstairs with a bowl of chicken soup and crackers. Kevin brought a dish of vanilla ice cream and the Hartford Courant and Michael set up a radio and cd player on the nightstand so Riley could listen to one of those "...old peoples' stations..." that played ancient music from the 70s and 80s.

  To Riley's surprise he found he liked the kids' visits, liked them almost as much as he liked the kids themselves. They were smart and funny but more important than that they seemed to care about each other and the people around them. And Riley had a feeling he knew exactly where they'd learned it.

  From Cat.

  The one person who never so much as popped her head inside the door to see how he was doing.

  Big deal, McKendrick. By this time next week you'll have forgotten she even existed.

  He wasn't about roots or settling down or getting mixed up with a widow with five kids, all of whom had somehow managed to worm their way into his heart.