A Match Made in Heaven?

by Sun Chara

  “A hired hand wouldn’t much matter.” He pushed away from the window ledge. “Would be manageable.”

  She tucked a golden wisp behind her ear and remained silent.

  “Live in. Room and board. Work out something.”

  Her look of utter consternation cut him to the raw.

  Faith.

  He wanted her to believe in him. No matter the odds, they’d make it. He hoisted the bag of dog food back onto his shoulder, welcoming the heavy hit; kinda shook him from his melancholy mood.

  “That’s always your answer.”

  “No, it’s not.” He paused, debated, then, what the heck. “Maybe you don’t listen, Sam.”

  “If I had listened—”

  “To mamma?”

  “I wouldn’t have—”

  “Married me?” His eyes darkened, his words ice.

  “If you had to do over, would you have married me, Johnny?” She held her breath, her gaze clashing with his, her pulse stuttering.

  “I …” He stomped to the backdoor. “Gotta get those dogs fed.”

  Her heart squeezed blood, and perspiration oozed from her every pore. The ‘illegally married’ summons allowed him an easy exit. A wet drop slid between her breasts. Had he married her to cash in? She giggled, an empty sound.

  “What’s funny?” he tossed over his shoulder, pausing in stride.

  Sam shook her head. That would explain his lack of motivation in holding down a job. Perhaps he imagined she’d tap into her bank account and bail them out. Her giggle turned into a strained sound. If he but knew the true state of her financial affairs, he’d think again.

  “Samantha, there’s something I’ve got to tell—”

  “Sure, Johnny.” She clenched her fists by her sides, bracing herself, thinking he was about to say he wanted out of the marriage.

  “Soon ’s I feed the dogs, we’ll clear—” The sudden ringing of the doorbell eclipsed the rest of his words.

  “That must be Mirabella,” Sam murmured, thankful for the interruption.

  Shaking his head, Johnny heavy stepped it to the front door and yanked it open. “Is Mirabella six feet two, about a hundred and seventy pounds and driving a banged pick-up?”

  “No.” Sam waddled after him.

  “Special delivery for the lady of the house.” The gangly teenager, his blond hair plastered to his forehead, leaped over puddles to the first step. In one bound, he took the remaining three steps and landed at her feet with a thud. “Pete at your service.” He offered her a gift box.

  Sam fluttered her lashes at Johnny. “Who?”

  Johnny shrugged and set his mouth in a firm line.

  “Secret admirer?” the boy suggested. At Johnny’s scowl, he grabbed the tip he shoved at him and vaulted off the stairs.

  “What a surprise.” She untied the gold ribbon and opened the box. A dozen long-stemmed red roses nestled in the tissue paper. She peeked at her husband from beneath her lashes. “Johnny, you shouldn’t … we can’t afford—”

  “I didn’t.” He must be a dolt. He should’ve gotten her not only flowers but candy. Chocolate. Jewelry. Isn’t that what women liked as peace offerings? A muscle pulsed near his jaw. Once, Sam had told him talking—communication between the sexes—was something women appreciated much more than presents.

  Disappointment flitted across her features. “If you didn’t, then who?”

  He unclenched his teeth and a rush of air exploded from his lungs. Another black mark against him. He just couldn’t win with her.

  She held the blooms to her bosom and opened the card. “Michael Scott.” She laughed.

  Johnny’s feet seemed set in cement, his neck muscles cording. “Couldn’t wait to tell him your whereabouts, could you?”

  “That’s nonsense, and you know it.” However, she didn’t enlighten him. Annoyed with him, she let him steam a little. He’d soon figure out their present living quarters allowed for no communication with anyone.

  She smelled the flowers. “Mmm, nice.” Ignoring his dour look, she walked into the house, searching for a vase. “Wonder how he found me?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Johnny slammed the door shut, nearly pulling it from its hinges, and marched through the onslaught of rain to the kennels. He’d like nothing better than to get his hands around that buffoon’s neck. For that reason, he welcomed the icy pellets smacking his face. They cooled him down.

  Of course, Sam couldn’t have notified Michael. Had no phone and no time to do it. But someone had, and he’d like to get his hands on that person.

  That unleashed a blue streak of blarney from his mouth, but the dogs barking and the rain pinging on the tin roof of their shelter made them inaudible. Amazing how these animals sensed his conflicting emotions and looked up at him with doleful faces.

  “What d’you think I should do?” He sank down on his haunches and ruffled their ears.

  The six dogs leaped at him, nearly knocking him into the mud.

  “Whoa!” He laughed, a deep hearty sound that diffused tension from his body. A gust of wind snatched the sound from him, leaving him to suck in a mouthful of air.

  Woof! Woof!

  “You telling me I should play along?” He swayed, trying to maintain his balance while they slurped at him and brushed against his legs. “I’m not good at that, especially when it comes to that caffler.” A deep frown folded his forehead, and he set his mouth in a tight line.

  A chihuahua snarled. It was so comical, it made him chuckle.

  “Go along with the gag until I’m ready to make my move. Think that might work?” His troupe yelped enthusiastic agreement. “Could backfire though.” He patted a cocker spaniel on the head. “Just about everything I’ve tried has turned out a disaster.” The canine mentors panted, tongues lolling and tails wagging. “That means you’re on my side, fellas.” He jumped up, grabbed the feedbag and filled another container. “Yeah. Us outcasts gotta stick together.”

  Rain fell through the gouges in the roof and filled the water bowls, the spray misting his face. “Mmm, fresh.” He glanced at the dogs wolfing down their lunch. Outcasts, right on target. These friendly brutes had been abandoned by Willie’s hired hand, and the coward fled to avoid a confrontation with Johnny. And what consequences followed.

  In town earlier that morning, Johnny ’d learned someone from the local tavern had fed them until he arrived. Then, it hit his noggin. He felt like the dogs. His skin bristled. An outsider in his own home, his own marriage, with his own wife. “Hang in there, pups. Things are so far down, they can only go up.” The big question … when?

  Did Michael Scott have another slick trick up his sleeve to woo his wife? Johnny ’d be a puppet on a string if he rolled over and played dead. A resounding bark made him smile. He patted their backs and they returned to crunching canine chow. “You wouldn’t either, I take it.”

  He pushed a wet lock off his brow and rubbed his nape. “How much could a man take seeing another guy make a play for his wife, virtually under his nose?” He inhaled, filling his lungs with the rain fresh air. On the exhale, the air pressure exploded from him like a grenade.

  Until the baby came, he’d have to walk a fine line. He’d do nothing to jeopardize either of them. And that included having his nose rubbed in Michael’s preening antics. On the other hand, he could cut him a right hook on the jaw and be done with it. But Samantha was a cream puff when it came to the underdog, and that ’d only pave the way for her sympathies to veer toward Scott.

  If pushed to his limit, Johnny could seek refuge in isolation. Walk out, and Sam could make her choice. He tightened his belly, his muscles steel. Could he accept her decision?

  The answer eluded him as he trudged through the muck to the house. He stomped his feet on the porch mat, shoved the door open, and let it slam behind him. Pulling off his boots, he set them in the corner by the door. Thick woolen socks covered his feet. He shrugged from his raingear and hung it on the hook on the wall beside the walnut framed m
irror.

  He walked down the hall, shaking excess water off his hair like a shaggy dog and chuckled. When he glanced up, he slammed into Samantha standing in the kitchen doorway with a dented paint can in her hands, red roses spilling over the rim.

  So much for his good intentions.

  Scarlet petals brushed her chin, and she breathed in their scent. Amusement twitched her bottom lip.

  Johnny grinned. A fragile thread of sweet memories passed between them. His heart maneuvered a triple leap in his chest, but bitterness sheathed his tongue. “Need help with those?”

  She lowered her lashes, camouflaging the fleeting memories mirrored in her eyes. “No, thank you.”

  “Where you going with them?”

  “Bedroom.”

  Astounded, he plunged a hand through his wet hair, lifting it off his forehead—a preventive measure so as not to smash his fist into the wall. She was actually going to put those—he swallowed the X-rated adjectives stinging his tongue—flowers in their bedroom.

  Breath sizzled between his teeth. He counted to three. Another approach, a smarter way; a little psychology might do the trick. That had been his best subject in college. He twisted his lips in a humorless line. How’d he ended up a bank teller, and now running dog kennels? It’s not like he had to do this. Like he had to pretend to be a poor man. He was a wealthy man. Beyond everyday dreams. All he had to do was mention that to Sam. He brushed a hand across his eyes. And what?

  She’d fall into his arms because he could provide her the life she’d been accustomed to or because he was the love of her life? A rough sound grazed his tight lips.

  She gave him an odd look.

  He was playing a long shot. His marriage, his life, his future. “You’re actually going to put them in our bedroom?”

  “Sure. Why not?” She flicked the blooms with her fingers. “It isn’t really a bedroom. More a storage area to stash our sleeping bags and your camp gear.”

  His gaze skipped to the bed, then at her. Although revamped with a granny quilt and matching pillows … at least it wasn’t pink, he thought in a black mood … it was doubtful they’d be sharing it any time soon.

  “Well then, I know the perfect spot for it.”

  Showtime.

  Johnny was about to put on the performance of his life.

  “You do?” she asked, a note of surprise in her voice.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Sure thing, indeed.” She buried her face in the petals and peeked at him from between them. “Is the phone working, yet?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  She seemed to slide past him, even with her roly-poly frame, her head held high. “I’d like to thank Michael for being so thoughtful.”

  A myriad of emotions rough-housed through him. Anger, disbelief, disappointment, pain and back to anger. When pigs fly … when hell freezes over … when— Abruptly, he banished the combative words from his mind. Psychology, remember, Belen. A grin split his lips. “Good idea.”

  “What?” Her head shot up.

  “Good idea,” he repeated in a nonchalant manner. “I’ll even dial the number for you if you want.” Stomping two steps closer, he took the can from her hands. “I’ll put these in that special spot for you.” A heavy beat. “In our bedroom.”

  Johnny strode past her into the bedroom and made a beeline for the window. Raising it, he tossed the bouquet with can, out. The force of the wind swallowed them up.

  “No.” Samantha stood in the doorway.

  “Yes.” He swiped his palms together. End of that story. Just blew his psychology theory to smithereens. He shrugged, satisfied. There was something to be said for quick action and instant gratification. “So long, bimbo man.” He began to push the window closed, but a fierce undercurrent hurled one scarlet bloom back into the room. He felt a little sheepish, but enough was enough. Psychology just didn’t go well with emotion. His temper had been on the climb since that morning, although it had abated some now. The knot in his gut loosened, and he breathed easier.

  “That was a mean thing to do, Johnny.”

  “Wasn’t it,” he said, voice unflinching.

  Sam shoved past him and squinted through rivulets of rain rolling down the windowpane at the flowers massacred by the storm. When she turned, she spied the abandoned rose at her feet. Her eyes blazed a warning, but Johnny swept it up with one motion, ready to squash it in his fist. She snatched it from his hand and trailed the smooth petals along her cheek.

  He felt like she’d slugged him in the solar plexus. “Means that much to you?”

  “Yes.” But her gaze didn’t quite meet the fury in his.

  “Sleep with it under your pillow for all I care.” He stalked past her to the living room, doubts plaguing his mind and turning his heart to mincemeat.

  “I intend to,” she bit back, but her voice wobbled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Johnny crouched before the hearth and stirred the embers with a stick. Unlike his marriage to Sam, they came to life, bursting into flame. A sobering thought smacked him. Maybe he’d made a mistake marrying Sam. Maybe she’d married him to get back at her mother for pushing her at Scott. Maybe she now realized she’d married the wrong man. The thoughts bombarded his brain, lacerating his innards.

  Maybe.

  Maybe isn’t bang on, Belen. Get facts. Face facts.

  Sam still saw him as an ordinary guy from the wrong side of town. When Michael Scott, with mamma’s blessing, rode up in his white charger … er … Lotus, would she fly the coop?

  His heart sank.

  Definitely. In three months he intended to get the facts. All of them.

  Samantha held the limp rose in her hand and trudged from the bedroom to the hallway. A pause, and she took several more steps to the living room, the warmth from the blaze in the hearth inviting.

  Johnny sat on his haunches, adding more fuel to the fire, his shirt stretching taut across his back. Emotion flared inside her. She imagined feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath her fingers, his heat, sweat … caressing him. She used to do that. A lifetime ago.

  She blinked against the sting of tears in her eyes. What happened Johnny? What happened to us?

  Maybe he’d only married her to get one over on Michael Scott. And if that were true, maybe she’d made a big blunder in marrying Johnny. Maybe it had to do with her money. Maybe Johnny was a counterfeit masquerading as a sweet-talking bank teller turned kennel keeper. She couldn’t stomach that. Maybe there was no chance for them. Why else did he look like he was ready to split in three months? He’d admitted as much.

  She placed a fist to her mouth, swallowing a whimper. Maybe there was someone else not so pregnant, not so fat and not so grumpy that he had his eye on. He’s here with you, isn’t he? The thought flashed through her brain. Yeah, but was it for her or for his baby? She placed a protective hand over her belly.

  Doubts tormented her mind. She needed assurance. Reassurance. No maybes. In three months, the uncertainties would be gone. She’d be sure then. If forced to, she’d fight like a tigress for her child. A moan skimmed her lips, and she swiped a tear slipping from the corner of her eye.

  “Anything wrong?” Johnny hauled himself up and studied her beneath his furrowed brow. He’d felt her presence in the room even before he turned to look at her. Smelled her delicate rose scent. And he’d also sensed her turmoil. Because it matched his own.

  She shook her head.

  The flames in the grate cast a gleam of light on the curve of her cheek and highlights in her hair.

  She looked so forlorn, he wanted to take her in his arms and bury his face in the nape of her neck. Feel her, touch her, taste … He slammed the brakes on the direction of his thoughts. She was probably missing rich boy Scott. He snapped the stick in his hand in half and tossed it in the fire.

  “The baby kicked.” A tremulous smile touched her lips, and she spanned her fingers across her abdomen.

  “No kiddin’.” He stepped beside her and cove
red her hand with his.

  “Feel her?”

  “Yeah.” A lump lodged in his throat, and he squeezed her fingers. “Sure it’s a her?”

  “A feeling. A hunch.”

  “Boy, girl. Doesn’t matter.”

  “Sure?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” There was that lump again, constricting his breathing. He feigned a cough to cover the awkward moment. “Yeah.”

  Samantha focused on his hand warming hers, and shyness swept over her. “Me, too.”

  Seconds ticked by.

  Finally, Samantha glanced up and caught his shadowed gaze. High voltage charged between them. She lowered her lashes, concealing her own rising heat. He brushed her hand with his thumb. The gentle motion soothed; she wanted to curve into him. Have him hold her closer, caress … the erotic images sensitized her nerves.

  He tightened his fingers over hers, raised his other hand and cupped her cheek. “Look at me, Sam.”

  Slowly, she lifted her lashes. The hunger in his gaze took her breath away, and her heart leaped.

  “Sam …” He drew her closer and lowered his head.

  The sudden ringing of the telephone shattered the intimate moment between them.

  Johnny paused a feather breadth from her mouth.

  Samantha licked her lips, and a tremor rippled through her. And it had nothing to do with the desire that’d flamed between them a sec ago.

  “Bad timing.” He attempted a joke, brushing her lips with his thumb.

  She nodded and remained spot on while he grabbed the cellular from the mantel above the fireplace. He placed it to his ear and his face clouded. A nerve assaulted his jaw.

  Taciturn, he plopped the phone in her hand and stepped away, staring out the window.

  “Johnny?” Cold air slammed them apart, and she shivered, rubbing her arms to calm the chills. “Who is it?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Your mother.”

  Sam held the phone slightly away from her ear; her mother’s excited voice crackled over the airwaves and irritated her eardrum.

  “What?!” She glanced at Johnny’s rigid back. “Mother, you didn’t—” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “How?” A silent beat. “Impossible.”