Marrying Molly. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
lucky he isn’t talking about suing you.”
“Suing me? That’s what’s the matter with this country nowadays. You fire a shot over a varmint’s head and he takes you straight to court. And besides, what do I have that a rich man would sue for?”
“Granny, just settle down and behave, will you?”
Granny pinched up her mouth. “You call me if he gives you too much grief. I’ll see he regrets the day he ever messed with us O’Dares.”
Back out on the porch, Molly told Tate, “We can’t talk here. Granny’s kind of fired up.” No telling what she would do if Molly and Tate started trading hostile words. “Let’s go out to the Double T. We can talk in private there.”
“Good idea.” He started to reach for her.
She stepped back. “I’ll take my own car.” That way, when the yelling was over, she wouldn’t be dependent on him for a ride home.
“Suit yourself.” He turned without another word and went down the steps ahead of her.
The Double T ranch house stood, graceful and welcoming, at the end of a long curving driveway lined with oaks. The main—or center—wing had been built at the turn of the last century by Tate’s great-great-grandfather, Tucker Tate II. The North Wing had been added by Tucker Tate III and the South Wing by Tate’s grandfather, Tucker Tate IV. Since Tate was the only family member currently in residence, he lived in the main wing and left the other two to the occasional attentions of his housekeeper and the day maids.
He pulled his Cadillac into the central turnaround at the front of the house. Jesse Coutera, who drove him occasionally and acted as a general handyman around the place, was waiting for him. “Thanks, Jesse. Go ahead and put it away.”
Molly’s little red pickup screeched to a stop way too close to Tate’s rear bumper. “And the lady’s pickup?” Jesse asked, looking nervous, the way most men did around Molly. Molly, scowling, got out of the pickup and slammed the door.
“Better just leave it here for now,” Tate said.
Jesse got in behind the wheel of the Caddy and headed down the side driveway. Molly approached. Though he’d already given her a good once-over back at her house, Tate couldn’t help but do it again. She was dressed to match her pickup: red knee-length pants that clung to every generous curve, red sandals and a tight red T-shirt with Prime Cut in white lariat script across those breasts that no red-blooded male could keep from gaping at.
“Let’s get this over with,” she growled.
It was kind of depressing, how hostile she was. But he figured her attitude would change as soon as she got a look at the eight-carat diamond he’d driven to Abilene and bought her that afternoon.
Tate allowed himself a smug little smile. Since she’d climbed in his window the night before and dropped the bomb on him, Tate had been giving their little problem a lot of serious thought. He’d decided he was going to do the right thing and put a ring on Molly’s finger.
“What are you grinning about?” She glowered at him, her big amber eyes narrowed to slits.
Uh-uh. She was not getting his dander up. “Shall we go inside?” He offered his arm.
She pointedly didn’t take it. “Fine.”
Tate led her to the big family room at the back of the center wing. The housekeeper, Miranda—Jesse’s wife—appeared briefly to ask if there was anything she could get for them.
Molly shook her head tightly and tossed her shiny red bag on a chair. Tate thanked Miranda and told her he wouldn’t need her again that night. She smiled and nodded and left them alone.
Molly was pacing, her heels clicking on the Spanish tiles of the floor every time she cleared one of the bright Navajo rugs.
“Sit down, why don’t you?” Tate gestured at a tufted leather love seat as she stalked past it.
“Thanks. I’ll stand.” She stopped, wrapped her arms around herself, and faced him. “So, okay. Talk.”
It wasn’t exactly an inviting opening. But then, a man didn’t get a lot of good openings with a prickly type like Molly.
She made a low, impatient sound and started pacing again. He watched her, admiring the sway of her full hips, aware that she was probably worried he would give her a hard time, maybe even try to tell her he didn’t think the baby was his.
Tate had no doubt it was his. After all, she’d been a virgin the first time he made love to her—a damned eager virgin, but a virgin nonetheless.
He grinned every time he thought about that. Her virginity had shocked the hell out of him, if you want it straight. Molly was as sexy as they come and not the least bit shy. He’d just assumed she’d had her share of men.
But she hadn’t. And she was honest. Crazy as she made him sometimes, Tate knew her word was something he would never have cause to doubt. If she said she was having a baby and that baby was his, well, then he had to accept that he really was going to be a dad—which meant he was obligated to do the right thing and make her his bride.
Tate was feeling just fine about this particular obligation. He had a sense of a certain nobility within himself. He’d made the right decision; he would do the right thing.
Yeah, there would be talk. First, because everyone in town assumed that he and Molly hated each other, no one knew that they’d had an affair. Secondly, folks generally expected that when the time came for him to choose a bride, he would marry a woman from a socially prominent and well-to-do family.
Truth to tell, he’d had the same expectations himself. But he was thirty-four. And he’d yet to meet the paragon of womanhood who was supposed to make him want to settle down. And now there was Molly.
If before, Tate Bravo had shown little interest in finding himself a paragon, since Molly, his interest has dropped to flat zero.
So no problem. He would get by without the perfect wife. He would do his duty and have Molly in his bed from now on.
And there was another benefit beyond the great sex. Once Molly was his wife, he might get a little control over her when it came to running his town.
Molly stopped pacing again and braced her fists on the fine, womanly swell of her hips. “Well.” She tapped her red toes. “Are you just going to stand there all night, gaping at me with that ridiculous, self-satisfied grin on your face?”
He felt his temper rise a little and ordered it down. “Molly, Molly. There is absolutely no reason for you to be so damn mean to me.”
“Look. Can you just say it? Can you just go ahead and say it, please?”
Every word had an icicle hanging from it. But at least she’d said please.
Tate launched into the speech he’d been composing and rehearsing all day. “Ahem. Molly. Since your, er, visit last night, I have been giving long and serious thought to what you said to me. I have looked at the situation from just about every angle, and no matter how I approach it, there seems to me to be only one solution.” Tate paused.
He couldn’t read Molly’s expression. Struck dumb with shock? Moved beyond words? No way to tell. He crossed to the pinero wood mantel that his great-great-grandfather had ordered from Mexico and rested an elbow on it. Above the mantel hung one of his mother’s paintings. Penelope Tate Bravo had studied art—to little effect that Tate could see—for a year at UCLA. It was there, in L.A., that she met Tate’s father, the mysterious Blake Bravo. Tate pretended to admire the painting—of a poorly proportioned chestnut gelding and a stunted looking vaquero in a huge sombrero—as he gathered his thoughts to go on.
“Molly, there are many who will be shocked when they hear of our plans. And to that I say, so be it. I don’t care in the least. They’ll get used to it soon enough. The important thing is that you and I give our baby the right kind of start in life,