“You’re supposed to be the smart one, Pat. The charming one. Could you spare an ounce of fucking charm for that woman?”
“She bit me.”
Zeke laughed. “Serves you damned right. What business did you have kissing an unwilling girl?”
“She wasn’t unwilling. She was just being obstinate.”
“And you are sulking, brother. While Bobby and Eldon Dupré plot mischief.”
“Bobby Dupré is an ass. Did you know that idiot filed a lawsuit because he didn’t like the terms of my deed of gift? Judge told him that if he was offered a gift, he could take it or leave it, but he had no right to alter the terms. I could have told him that for free.”
Zeke shook his head. “He’s known for his low cunning. Heather shouldn’t have to cope with him. Jenna says she’s far from well.”
“She looks like hell,” Patrick confirmed. “She claims it is just morning sickness.”
“Is that why you are backing off, Pat? Because she’s lost her looks?”
“I’m not backing off. I’m going to let Heather spend a few more weeks fetching and carrying for the Enrights and their litter. You can’t tell me Enright can’t keep Bobby Dupré away from her. When she has had enough of being a nursemaid, she’ll see reason.”
“That is the worst plan I ever heard.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning, Patrick opened the front door to a group of hard-faced bears. His twin Zeke stood between Uncle Gilbert and Gil’s stepson Lenny Benoit. It was like gazing into triple mirrors. The Bascom family resemblance was strong. Three big broad faces with blue shadows exactly like his own glared back at him.
“You guys want to come in?” he suggested, even though they were standing on Gilbert’s front porch and Gil should be doing any inviting that needed doing.
Lenny Benoit shook his head. “We haven’t got time, Bascom. There’s going to be murder if you don’t get over to the rectory pronto.”
Patrick raised his eyebrows at Zeke who said, “Lenny’s right. We have an armed standoff. I warned you how it would be. Come on, you’re getting married today, boy.”
“You’ve got no choice, Patrick,” Gil grasped him by the right arm.
Pat’s ribs gave a twinge. “What’s the urgency?”
“Those Duprés have got Heather cornered at the rectory – and they’ve picked her out a bridegroom.”
What the fuck? “Who?” he growled. He was tired of these hillbillies trying to marry off his woman to other men.
“Bobby Dupré wants Eldon and Heather married today. He’s rounded up every halfwit in his family to help. They have guns.” Gil hustled him along.
“You ain’t dressed right for a wedding,” said Lenny, who was wearing the plaid shirt and jeans and work boots that seemed to be the Yakima Ridge uniform. “But today’s your wedding day just the same.”
Patrick thought he himself looked sharper than any of these yokels in his pressed khakis and a blue button-front shirt. But he was certainly not dressed for a wedding. He let himself be stuffed into Zeke’s SUV. Lenny got into the back with Gilbert.
“I’ll try to explain on the way into town,” Zeke said.
Uncle Gil spoke from the backseat. “Not much to explain. Bobby Dupré figures if his brother marries Heather he will have a siphon into your wallet.”
“Over my dead body,” Patrick said.
“You think they brought their shotguns for the look of the thing?” Gil asked from the backseat.
Patrick half turned around in time to see that Lenny was scowling Gil. “There’s nothing funny about this, Gilbert Bascom. Those danged idiots have loaded weapons and no more brains between them than any other mob. If they don’t shoot Father Armstrong, they’re going injure Heather.”
“Just what’s going on?” Pat demanded.
“The Duprés have put their brainless heads together and come up with one of their cunning schemes. They’ve told Heather she can marry Eldon Dupré or she can marry you. So far she’s holding out for you,” Gilbert said.
“I thought Enright told Bobby Dupré to stay away from her,” objected Patrick.
“He did. But Bobby seems willing to take his chances.” Zeke sighed. “Heather went into French Town to visit with her sister. The Duprés snatched her and forced her to go over to Father Armstrong’s house. Being a man of the cloth and having a long acquaintance with the Duprés, Father Armstrong tried to talk some sense into them. That’s when they shoved Eldon forward and said Heather could pick between you two.”
“Father Armstrong agreed to marry her to whichever one she picked, and suggested she come inside his house and rest while someone fetched you. So now we have Bobby Dupré inside the rectory with Heather and Father Armstrong, and Bobby’s shotgun. The other Duprés are outside talking big and waving firearms around.” Zeke slowed down as he entered Main Street.
“We’ve sent for Uncle Pierre to talk some sense into him. But who knows how long it will take to find him,” Lenny said. Pierre Benoit was the respected elder of the bear shifters of French Town.
“A marriage performed under duress is not legally binding,” Patrick pointed out.
“You know that. I know that. Father Armstrong knows that. Probably even Heather knows that. It’s the Duprés that haven’t quite grasped the concept. And they are the ones with the shotguns.” Zeke explained as if his patience were running out.
“Gil and Lenny and some of the other fellas came to get me. Good thing I was in town. If Heather is going to be forced into a marriage she doesn’t want, it’s better if it’s to you than Eldon.”
“Bobby Dupré is more or less Amber and Heather’s stepdaddy, “Lenny growled from the back seat. “Eldon’s his little brother. Widower. Six kids – three of whom are older than Heather. You’re going to marry that girl, Bascom, and like it.”
“Huh.”
* * *
Father Armstrong had insisted on making tea. He was trying to pretend that this was just another counseling session with distraught parishioners. But Uncle Bobby had kind of spoiled that by waving his shotgun in their faces every chance he got.
He had complained that he didn’t drink tea, so Father Armstrong had made him coffee. Should’ve put sleeping pills in it. But she supposed a priest couldn’t go around poisoning people, even if he was being held hostage.
Ever since they had grabbed her as she was going upstairs to the apartment, she’d been feeling unwell. She couldn’t get comfortable. She needed to go pee again. She didn’t like to ask to use Father Armstrong’s facilities again.
Last time Uncle Bobby had marched her down the hall badgering her the whole way and had stood outside the door with his shotgun at the ready. She didn’t know just what he thought he was achieving, but it didn’t matter, her contractions were getting worse and she needed a toilet fast.
“You just went,” Uncle Bobby complained.
“You have to make allowances, Bobby.” Father Armstrong tried to smooth down her uncle’s feathers. “Heather’s in the family way. She naturally has to go often.”
Bobby stood up, almost snarling. “You always was trouble, even from a baby.” He grabbed her upper arm and yanked her to her feet. “For God’s sake, hurry up this time.” He pretty much shoved her down the hallway to the powder room.
It was difficult to pee with an irate man shouting threats at you. If the door had had one of those sturdy old-fashioned iron bolts on it, she would have just refused to come out. But it had one of those puny modern locks intended to defend your privacy rather than offer a barrier.
She tried to tune out what Uncle Bobby was saying. It was pure ugliness. Most of it was not even true. But her nerves were jumping around and those blessed contractions wouldn’t stop. She took her time adjusting her clothes and washing her hands. Bobby was still complaining when she opened the door.
“I don’t know what all you were doing in there.” He grabbed her by the arm again and marched her back down the hallway to Father Armstrong�
�s sitting room.
Father Armstrong was sitting in his armchair sipping his tea. He slipped his right hand into the pocket of his pants and looked up as they came in the room. Even Uncle Bobby should have been able to figure out that Father had been using his absence to text.
She sagged at the knees. Bobby was forced to take her full weight and keep his eyes on her. Father jumped up and came to give a hand. He hushed Bobby and helped her across to the couch.
“Lie down,” he said. “Put your feet up. Go on. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.”
“Don’t know what the girl’s making such a damned fuss over. She’s just got a bun in the oven.”
“She’s in a delicate condition,” Father corrected gently. “If you aren’t careful, Dupré, you’re going to induce a miscarriage. You leave this girl be and let’s just sit quietly and wait for the fellas to get back from Gilbert’s house. If that’s where Patrick Bascom is.”
“How do you mean? That brother of his said he was there.”
“That’s where he’s been staying.” Father picked up his cup again. “Nothing to say that on a nice day like this he hasn’t gone for a walk in the woods, or driven into Hanover. Could take them a while to find him. Just relax.”
Heather lay still and tried to breathe deeply. Her lungs felt constricted and she kept having sharp contractions. It was way too early for contractions. Dr. Newcombe had said she might have something called Braxton Hicks – but not till her third trimester.
She rubbed her belly with both hands. If it came right down to it, she was better off marrying Patrick Bascom than Eldon Dupré. Patrick wouldn’t want to stay married to her for long, but she couldn’t marry Eldon. Just the thought of that smelly old man made her shudder.
Outside there was a sort of subdued roar. Men’s voices began to holler and hoot. She knew that sound. Someone had brought out some hard liquor. The Duprés were adding drunkenness to dumbness. As soon as they were liquored up, they would start firing those guns they were toting.
If there was one thing you could count on with the Duprés, it was to make bad worse. She suspected that Bobby had tipped something into his coffee mug, because he was wearing the foolish grin he got when he’d been drinking.
As far as she could make out, Uncle Bobby had decided that Patrick Bascom was his own personal pigeon. Word was that a judge in Yakima city had thrown out his lawsuit against Patrick as frivolous.
From his wild talk, she had gathered that she was Uncle Bobby’s new scheme. He figured her pregnancy was a good way to get permanent access to Patrick’s money. She didn’t think it would be that easy.
Patrick Bascom was a low-down weasel. But he wasn’t dumb. He was a big city lawyer and, whatever Bobby thought, he wasn’t going to be easy to manipulate. And neither was she. Besides, she didn’t need to get married to get child support.
An especially sharp spasm forced a basketball onto her bladder. Her gasp of pain brought another growl from Bobby and had Father leaning over her.
“May I?” he asked. He laid his hands on her stomach and began to pray.
There was a single gunshot outside and the rowdy mob subsided. Heather’s heart stopped and speed up again. “What’s going on?”
“Courage.” Father continued to pray.
The doorbell rang. Uncle Bobby went to answer it. He came back in with a large gang. Heather struggled to sit up.
“Lie still, my child,” Father entreated. He rose to his feet. “Do we really need all of you?”
Heather was glad to see Uncle Pierre leading Lenny, Patrick and Zeke. She could’ve done without Uncle Eldon. They all began to talk at once.
Uncle Pierre was having none of it. “I don’t know what you’ve come in here for, Eldon Dupré. You’ve never had as much sense as a goat. We’ll put it up to Heather.”
The old man crossed the room to stand beside the couch. His bright blue eyes twinkled at her. He bent over and covered her hands with his. She immediately felt better. “It looks like you’ve got two suitors for your hand, my dear. Which will it be, Patrick Bascom or Eldon?”
“Patrick.”
She had to say, whatever else he was, Patrick Bascom was not a coward. Despite the shotgun that Uncle Bobby was waving around, he hustled Eldon out of the room and down the hall and out the door.
Uncle Pierre took the gun off Uncle Bobby, broke it open, and removed the ammunition. “We don’t need this,” he said sternly. Bobby pouted but he didn’t argue with the patriarch of their clan.
After that, things were sort of a blur. It seemed no time at all before Father Armstrong was closing his book and telling her and Patrick that they were married.
CHAPTER NINE
The best room in the French Town Inn was large and bright and made Heather feel even shabbier. She and her twin had often discussed what it would be like to stay in the best hotel on the Ridge. They had speculated and talked to their friends who worked there. Wait till she told Amber she had slept here.
She had never imagined a carpet so deep you sank right into it, or gilded furniture. Not to say it wasn’t pretty, but it sure was fussy. She sneaked a peek at her groom to see how he was taking it. Patrick was looking around as if he smelled something bad. So it wasn’t just her he was disappointed in.
“It’ll do,” he told the bellman. He peeled something off a big roll of cash and stopped Reggie Miller from telling him how to turn on the television. Reggie looked disappointed, but he took his twenty and left. Probably to spread gossip about the newly married couple.
This was so not how she had dreamed of her wedding day. “Are they gone?”
“Who?” Patrick asked, as if her kinfolks had not just forced them to marry at gunpoint.
“The clan Dupré. They’re probably in the parking lot drinking and planning some new mischief.”
“Whatever for?” He was perfectly serious. “They’ve gotten us married. What more could they possibly want?”
He made her feel tired. Tired, and green around the gills. She had better check out that en suite bathroom Reggie had been gabbing about so passionately. It was a sparkling wonderland of blue and white tile and fancy porcelain fixtures she had never seen the like of.
This didn’t look like the sort of bathroom you threw up in. Not that splendor had stopped her in Madeline’s guest bathroom. She’d spent quite a lot of time bent over that commode. The doctor had promised that the morning sickness would pass. Like a kidney stone. But it hadn’t. It was like that damned Energizer Bunny, it just kept right on going.
The mirrored wall above the double sinks showed her she looked as bad as she felt. The shirt she had borrowed from Cousin Dougie to go visit Amber was the worse for wear. One sleeve was dirty, probably from when her cousins had manhandled her. She had a smudge on one cheek and her hair was a mess. She washed her face and combed her hair with her fingers and felt a little better.
But nothing was going to change the fact that she wasn’t dressed like a bride ought to be. Wasn’t much of a wedding either, anyway you looked at it. She would never have dreamed that she would have to say her vows without her own twin in the room. Not that Amber would have approved. Likely, if she had been present at the rectory, she would have turned that ruckus into full-blown war.
Eventually Heather had to leave the safety of the palatial hotel bathroom. She gave the deep soaking tub one last longing look and opened the door. Patrick was standing right outside, arms folded, face stony with impatience.
“If you had knocked, I’d have hurried.”
“I was getting worried about you. You look worse than you did the other day.” He didn’t look worried. He looked pissed.
“Still the same charmer, I see,” she retorted. She turned her back on him and went to see if there was any way you could get into the bed without removing a half a ton of silver and blue pillows and the satin comforter. There wasn’t. She began to pile the slippery cushions on one of the armchairs.
“I only meant, that I’m worr
ied about you.” He still sounded pissed. As usual. “What are you doing?”
“I’m turning the bed down, so I can lie down before I fall down.”
He swept her into his arms and was holding her tight against his chest before she had quite finished speaking. “I knew it,” he said. “I’m going to get that doctor over here this very minute.”
“I just need some sleep,” Heather muttered. She gave in to temptation and set her aching head against his chest. She could hear the steady thump of his heart. He still smelled the same. Sexy. Strong. Safe. Even his scent was deceitful.
Patrick didn’t make any move set her down on the bed. He pulled her closer. She shut her eyes and pretended he loved her. “You’ve lost weight.” It was an accusation.
Her eyes popped back open. “Not weight. Muscle. You try not being able to keep down your food.”
“That can’t be good for the babies.”
No shit, Sherlock. “I already told you, I’m not taking drugs.”
Instead of taking her over to the bed, he sat down in the oversized armchair that faced the French windows and kept her on his lap. His arms tightened around her. “I don’t want you taking stuff that’ll hurt our babies.” The angry edge had left his voice. “But I don’t want them harmed by you being sick for your whole pregnancy. I think you need a second opinion. My sister-in-law thinks highly of Dr. Robichaud.”
“He brought me and my sister into the world. He’s had plenty of experience. But Jenna is a midwife. She says I just need to keep quiet and have less stress.”
“That’s a plan. Will you see what Dr. Robichaud says?”
“I guess. I just want a nap.”
“Tell you what. I’ll call the clinic and see if he’s still there. And you get some sleep, and I’ll order us room service. What do you think you could keep down? Soup?”
“Tea. Everything else seems to make me sick.”
“You can’t live on tea.” He stood up and carried her across to the bed, juggling her so he could sweep the comforter back and lay her down.
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