Hunter's Bride and A Mother's Wish

by Marta Perry

  Her pulse gave an erratic jump as she pictured Matt, leaning toward her with tension in every inch of his body. He was tall, like the Caldwell men she knew on the island, but there the similarity ended. He was dark where they were fair, closed where they were open, driven and intense where they were casual and welcoming. How did he fit into the sprawling Caldwell clan?

  She remembered something Miranda Caldwell had said once, the words dropping into her mind. Matt’s a crusader, out to set the world right. Always has been, always will be. He never gives up.

  He never gives up. The words repeated themselves uncomfortably in her mind. If she were going to best a man like Matthew Caldwell, she’d need some ammunition. And she only had until seven o’clock to find it.

  Chapter Two

  She couldn’t win this battle. Three hours later Sarah sat at the kitchen table, staring at the contract Peter had signed with Matt Caldwell. There was no way out. Matt owned fifty percent of the paper, and he had just as much right to run it as she did.

  Peter, why did I let you talk me into this?

  She leaned her head in her hands, trying to think of something, anything. She hadn’t wanted to take Matt’s money to begin with, but Peter had been so optimistic, so sure this would solve their problems.

  It was futile to hope Matt Caldwell would disappear back to Egypt, or Indonesia, or wherever his recent travels had taken him. He was here. It didn’t take much insight to see that a man like him—driven, intense, competitive—wouldn’t just give up and go away. She had to find a way of dealing with him.

  The doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock, and her heart seemed to stop. She had to find a way of dealing with him now.

  Sarah stole a quick glance through the small window at the top of the door just to be sure, then took a deep breath. It was Matt Caldwell, all right. He carried a manila folder and wore an expression of suppressed impatience. He looked ready to take over as editor in the next ten minutes.

  She rubbed her palms down her skirt, then grasped the knob. She could handle this.

  Please. She sent up a fervent, wordless prayer and opened the door.

  Matt gestured with the folder by way of greeting. “I have my copy of the contract.”

  “Please, come in.”

  His quick stride brought him into her living room, and Sarah had to fight an instinctive desire to push him right back out again. He was too big, too overpowering—he filled up the room with his masculine presence, and everything about him seemed alien and disturbing.

  Well, alien or not, she’d have to find a way to deal with him. He swung toward her, sending her stress level soaring. The children, she reminded herself. She would fight anyone to protect her children’s security.

  “You’ve done a nice job with this place.”

  His opening words, when they came, were so mundane that she blinked.

  “Thank you. We had to do a lot to make it livable.”

  She glanced around, wondering how her home looked through his eyes. Shabby, probably. He wouldn’t see the love she’d put into this place.

  She’d been so delighted to have a home of her own, after years of following her army-officer father from one post to another. No amount of work to make the apartment livable had seemed too much. She had scrubbed the wide pine planks of the floors, added inexpensive rag rugs and bright pillows to the bedrooms. This had become the kind of home she’d always longed for—permanent, filled with love and laughter and prayer.

  Matt would only see how cheap it all looked in comparison to the Caldwell mansion.

  He glanced around again, as if assessing the value of the furniture or noting the titles of the books on her shelves. “I suspect Harvey Gaylord didn’t think much about interior decoration.” Matt’s face softened when he spoke of the paper’s former owner. “As long as he had his books and his pipe, he was satisfied.”

  “Did you know him well?” This sounded like a casual conversation with a neighbor. It wasn’t. It was a fencing match with the man who had the power to change her life.

  “As well as anyone did. I worked for him all through high school.”

  “I suppose that’s how you got into journalism. He was your mentor.”

  He smiled at the term. “The bug bit me then, not that Harvey ever let me actually write anything. I was a gofer, nothing more.”

  “Still, he must have been proud of your success when he turned on the television and saw you reporting from China or Taiwan or Indonesia.”

  Some emotion crossed his face at her casual words, so quickly, she almost couldn’t identify it. Then she recognized it. Pain—pain so intense it wrenched her heart. What did rich, successful Matt Caldwell have to agonize over?

  “I suppose so.” His voice turned colorless, the betraying expression wiped from his face as if it had never been.

  But she’d seen it, and that emotion changed the pattern between them in a way she didn’t understand.

  He took a breath, as if mentally changing gears. “I wanted to say again how sorry I am about your husband’s death.”

  “Thank you.” He’d sent flowers, she remembered, after Peter’s accident. He’d undoubtedly heard about it from his family.

  The Caldwells knew what everyone else on the island knew, that Peter Reed had skidded into a culvert on a flooded road coming back from Charleston. They didn’t know what she’d found out later—that he’d never taken out the insurance he’d said he would, that his death had left his wife and children with nothing to support them but the newspaper.

  “I realize you hadn’t anticipated my wanting to help run the paper.” Matt seemed to be picking his way carefully through the words. “Maybe I should have written to you about it.”

  “Maybe you should have.” At least then she’d have been prepared.

  Matt’s face tightened, the sun lines deepening around his eyes. “That wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  No, it wouldn’t. She couldn’t change the past. She’d have to find a way to cope.

  She tried to block out her awareness of Matt. He stood too close to her, and his intensity seemed to reach across the inches between them. She knew what he was waiting for. He wanted her to admit that he had the right to do this.

  He moved impatiently. “I assume you’ve looked over your copy of the contract.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “And?”

  She didn’t have a choice. “And I agree. If you want to help run the paper…” The words seemed to stick in her throat. What would it be like, working with Matt every day? Being forced to get his approval every step of the way?

  She forced herself to go on. “I guess we’re partners.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever understand females.”

  Matt watched his niece run across the lawn at Gran’s house toward the picnic table. A moment ago she’d been grumbling at the thought of the Sunday picnic at her great-grandmother’s. Now she couldn’t wait to find her cousin.

  Adam, Matt’s brother, smiled. “As far as I can tell, Jennifer is nine going on twenty. Nobody can understand that, especially a father.” For an instant a shadow crossed Adam’s face, and Matt knew he was thinking about his late wife.

  The shadow disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Or did you mean your new partner?”

  Matt shrugged. “Her, too, I guess. I was ready to get busy at the paper on Friday, but Sarah insisted we wait until Monday.”

  He’d wanted to get started. Maybe then he’d be able to erase the sense that this enforced time away from his career branded him a failure.

  “Sarah’s a good friend of Miranda,” Adam said. “Go easy. You don’t want to start another family feud.”

  Adam didn’t say the obvious—that the Caldwell family already had to deal with a feud between their father and their uncle. Even now, their father was at one end of the crowd gathered on Gran’s lawn, and Uncle Clayton was at the other.

  Jefferson Caldwell, with his mane of white hair a
nd expensively tailored clothes, looked like what he was: a successful businessman. And Uncle Clayton—well, Uncle Clayton was an island fisherman at heart.

  Matt shifted restlessly, not liking the reminder of the difference between his father and the rest of the clan. “You think I could skip the picnic? I’m not feeling very sociable.”

  Adam grinned. “Only if you want to take on Gran.”

  Naomi Caldwell marched toward them, still as erect at eighty as most people half her age.

  “’Bout time you got here, Matthew.”

  Matt bent to kiss her cheek, inhaling the scent of lily of the valley that surrounded her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Adam kissed her other cheek. “What about me?”

  Gran swatted him affectionately. “You go help your cousins put up another table, heah?”

  “We’ll need more than one.” Adam headed off.

  “Adam’s right.” Matt glanced at the throng gathered under the trees. “Looks like you invited half the town.”

  “Folks want to welcome you home.” Gran fixed him with a challenging stare. “You tell me, Matthew James Caldwell. Why weren’t you in church this morning?”

  “Still a little jet-lagged, Gran.” He had a feeling that excuse wouldn’t work with her.

  “Nonsense. You should have been to worship.”

  His muscles tightened. You should have been to worship. That’s how Gran would see it, of course. If he told her that the endless parade of tragedies he’d witnessed had soured his soul, had made him rail at God for allowing them, she’d probably have the same answer. You should have been to worship. Naomi Caldwell hadn’t found anything in her life that wasn’t made better by turning to God.

  She hasn’t seen what you have, a voice whispered in his ear. She doesn’t understand.

  He couldn’t hurt her by arguing with her about it. He gave her a quick hug. “Next week. I promise.”

  She patted his cheek. “Whatever brought you home, God can help.”

  Before he could react, she’d turned away. “I’d best see about that crab boil. You go visit with folks.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The crowd shifted, and he saw the one person he hadn’t expected to find at his grandmother’s house. “You invited Sarah Reed.”

  “’Course I did. She’s your new partner.” Gran gave him a searching look. “Something wrong with that?”

  “No, Gran, nothing wrong with that.”

  In fact, everything was right with that. Getting better acquainted with Sarah was just what he needed. He watched her, realizing he liked looking at the smooth grace of her movements. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, tumbling in curls touched gold by the sun.

  Sarah turned from saying something to Andi, and he could sense the exact moment she spotted him. Her expressive face went still, and her hand froze in mid-gesture.

  He might want to get to know her, but he suspected Sarah had entirely different feelings about that.

  Sarah’s breath caught at the sight of Matt’s tall, lean figure. She’d known she’d see him at the picnic, of course. She just hadn’t known that it would jangle her nerves so badly. He looked very tall, smiling down at his tiny grandmother. Then he looked across the lawn, and their eyes met. For an instant it was as if no one else was there.

  She bent to set Amy on the grass, letting the movement hide her face for a moment. She couldn’t panic at the sight of the man, for pity’s sake. And she couldn’t run away, any more than she could have skipped the picnic.

  Amy toddled a few steps, then plopped down and started pulling grass by the handful. Sarah caught the baby’s hand. “No eating grass, sweetheart.”

  Miranda ran to give her a hug. “You made it.” Miranda, the single mother of a son about Andi’s age, had become a good friend.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  They joined a group of women arranging food on the long picnic table. And what food—mounds of creamy potato salad, bowls heaped with chilled shrimp, crocks of steaming chowder. The Caldwells certainly knew how to throw a picnic.

  By the time the crowd had worked its way through eight kinds of pie and several gallons of coffee, Sarah had begun to relax. She’d be able to go home soon, and she’d managed to avoid saying more than hello to Matt. She rose from her lawn chair to look for the children, turned around and nearly walked into him.

  She stumbled, and he clasped her hand to steady her. The warmth from his grip seemed to flow up her arm.

  Nerves, she chided herself.

  “Sarah. I’ve been hoping to talk with you.” The polished voice she’d heard on television had slipped into something slower and warmer, as if he’d put his professional voice away and donned instead his comfortable, sea island tone.

  “I should check on the children,” she said quickly, drawing her hand away from his.

  “They’re fine. And we need to talk.” He smiled as he said it. Anyone watching them would see only a friendly conversation. But she felt the strength that emanated from him, demanding she agree.

  “The children…” she began.

  “Gran’s just starting to tell stories. You don’t want to deny your youngsters the chance to hear a real island storyteller.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Her three older ones had joined the cluster of children around Naomi Caldwell, and Amy slept peacefully on a blanket with several other babies.

  Matt nudged her arm. “Have a look at Gran’s flowers with me.”

  She didn’t want to go anywhere with him. She was too aware of him next to her, too conscious of his aura of coiled strength. All of Caldwell Island didn’t seem big enough to get away from him.

  “Fine.” She summoned up a smile. “Show me your grandmother’s flowers.”

  They strolled across the grass, toward the flower border against the white fence that separated Matt’s grandmother’s yard from the churchyard beyond.

  Matt nodded toward the white frame cottage. “Did you know Gran’s house is one of the oldest on the island? She’s lived here next to the church since she married my grandfather.”

  Sarah couldn’t help contrasting that with her own family; no one had stayed in one place for more than a year or two. But Matt didn’t need to know that. “Your family has deep roots here.”

  “The deepest.” He nodded toward the circle of children around his grandmother. “She’s telling the family legend now, about the first Caldwell—a shipwrecked sailor who was saved by an island girl.” His face softened as he watched the storytelling. “She’s been telling it as long as I can remember, and it never changes. ‘He took one look at her and knew he’d love her forever.’ That’s what she always says.”

  His words struck a chord, vibrating into her heart. Was that how love was supposed to be? If so, maybe some people were born incapable of it.

  She shook the thought off, watching the group clustered around Matt’s grandmother. Everyone, not just the children, was intent on the story—their story. It was part of them, and they were part of it. She hadn’t felt like such an outsider since she’d come to the island.

  “Is the story true?” She glanced at Matt, and he shrugged.

  “Their names are in the chapel registry, and they’re buried in the graveyard. The wooden dolphin he carved for her stood in the sanctuary for years. And Caldwells have been here ever since.”

  They’d been here ever since. The words echoed in Sarah’s mind. Matt Caldwell belonged here—

  But he’d chosen to go away.

  The thought stuck in her head, and she was almost afraid to look at it too closely. He’d gone away. He’d built a name for himself out in the wide world. Maybe Matt Caldwell was as much a wanderer as that shipwrecked-sailor ancestor of his must have been.

  She glanced up at him, wondering. Was that really the face of a man who’d settle down in a backwater town to run a weekly paper, where the most exciting story in the last month had been the theft of a shrimp net?

  No. She knew a wanderer when she saw one. After all, most of
her life had been spent with a father who moved from one army base to the next with as little concern as most people would spend on changing a shirt.

  Maybe she didn’t have to battle Matt over who would control the paper. She could just wait him out. Sooner or later, probably in weeks, not months, he’d tire of this quiet life, and he’d be on his way. If she saw him again, it would be on her television screen.

  That should make her happy. It did make her happy. She assured herself of that fact. Matt would go away, and she could go back to life as it had been before he’d walked through her door.

  Chapter Three

  Sarah glanced again at the children. Miranda’s father had brought out a fiddle, and her brother David was leading the children in a song. Apparently the Caldwells were good at devising their own entertainment.

  She and Matt stood near the flower beds that overflowed the border along the fence.

  “Your grandmother must have a green thumb.” Anyone watching them would think they had nothing more on their minds than the flowers.

  “Gran’s good at a lot of things. Flowers, needlework, quilting…and like I said, she’s a born storyteller.”

  “Maybe that’s where your journalistic talents originated.”

  Her comment seemed to take him by surprise, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “I’m not sure that would please Gran. She doesn’t like the places my career has taken me.”

  “You’re here now. That must make her happy.” She held her breath, waiting for him to admit he probably wouldn’t be here long.

  The amusement wiped from his face. “Yes.” His mouth clamped shut on the word, chilling her. Obviously he didn’t intend to confide in her.

  She sought for something else to keep the conversation going. “You mentioned the dolphin in the chapel. I’ve never seen it.”

  “It disappeared one summer night, years ago.” The lines deepened in his face, as if he mourned the loss of that symbol.