himself in the chest, asking stupidly, “For me?”
“Of course, dear,” Hypatia said. “We hung your clothing in the cloakroom until you decide which suite you want.”
Chandler turned around and walked out into the foyer again. He stalked past the staircase and partway down what was referred to as the “east” hall to the first door on the left. Chandler opened the door and stepped inside the cluttered space. There, along one wall, hung a dozen pairs of neatly pressed jeans and almost twice that many shirts, all his.
Shock morphed into a confused, unwieldy amalgamation of emotions, the only one he could identify being anger. Whirling, he stepped back into the hall. And nearly bowled over Mags. She shoved her thick, iron-gray braid off her shoulder and folded her arms, making the short sleeves of her dark plaid, shirtwaist dress cut into her surprisingly pronounced biceps. She looked up at him, a frown on her wrinkled, work-hewn face, her cleft chin thrust forward mulishly.
“What’s going on, Chandler?” she demanded.
“I don’t…I…”
Her expression softened, and she clamped a spotted, surprisingly strong hand onto his forearm. “You can tell us, dear,” she said. “Obviously, since you had Kreger bring your things here, you know we’ll help in any way we can, though hopefully it won’t mean choosing sides between you and your father.”
His father. Chandler pushed away any consideration of that situation and focused on the part that had to do with his supposed partner.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Mags, but I have to find Kreger.” He looked past her toward the foyer, determination hardening his jaw. “Right now.”
He sidestepped around her and strode to the front door, which he went through without a word of farewell. Whatever Kreger was up to, Chandler told himself, the explanation had better be a good one. He saw nothing of Bethany and the gardener, but at the moment his thoughts were centered on his own problems. Bethany Willows and Garrett could take care of themselves.
The rumble of the engine preceded the sound of tires on gravel by less than two seconds. Bethany rose from her seat on the brick steps at the side of the house beneath the carport, or porte cochere, as Garrett called it, and hurried toward the front drive. She arrived just in time to see Chandler’s rig completing the loop as it headed for the street. She glanced to the side and saw that her luggage waited for her on the front walk. The truck turned right onto the street and accelerated. Unaccountably deflated, Bethany sighed.
“Guess he got tired of waiting.” She turned back and retraced her steps, dragging her toes in the gravel.
“Is that a problem?” Garrett asked. “You said he’s not your husband.”
“I said I don’t have a husband,” Bethany corrected softly.
“Actually,” Garrett pointed out, his gaze skimming over her distended belly, “I think you said that you’ve never had a husband.”
Bethany stepped up next to him, turned and sat on the rough edge of the brick. “That’s right.” She repositioned her handbag on the step, keeping her gaze averted.
“So when you wrote me to say you’d eloped to Las Vegas…” Garrett prodded.
“Wasn’t true,” she admitted tersely, propping her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in the cradle of her upturned palms. She’d only thought it true at the time, but Garrett didn’t need to know that. No one did.
“And this Jay Carter?”
“Never existed.” True again, as far as it went.
“Then why,” Garrett demanded, spreading his hands, “did you let me believe all this time that he did?”
Bethany bowed her head, debating with herself. If she told Garrett the truth, he’d want to go after Jay, just the way he’d gone after their stepfather for hurting their mom; yet, she couldn’t quite bring herself to outright lie to him. Closing her eyes, she whispered another part of the truth, “I didn’t want you to worry about me.”
When she turned her head, she found his piercing blue gaze trained on her from beneath his dark brows. He shoved both hands through his dark, spiky hair. Like her, he had a bit of a pointed chin, but his strong, square jaw was perpetually shadowed with the soot of a heavy beard that he’d struggled to keep cleanly shaved since the age of fourteen. At six-one, he wasn’t as tall as the cowboy, she mused, but Garrett was a bit more bulky. He’d muscled up in prison, but he’d always been stronger than average and of a protective nature.
“If I hadn’t been in prison, you wouldn’t have had to lie to me,” he muttered.
Bethany groaned, feeling lower than dirt. “You’ve got to be kidding! My situation is not your fault. How could you even think it?”
Garrett came up off the steps. Whirling to face her, he thumped himself in the chest. “I was the one in prison! I should have been here for you—and Mom.”
Bethany stood and went to him, placing her hands on the hard bulges of his biceps. “You went to prison because you tried to help Mom.”
Their father had died in a ditch collapse when Garrett was seven years old and Bethany four. Ten years later their mom, Shirley, had remarried. Doyle turned out to be a controlling, abusive brute who regularly beat their mother. Three years into the marriage, he had beat Shirley so severely that she’d been hospitalized for nearly a week. The day that Doyle had gotten out of jail on bail, Garrett had gone after him, giving the brute a taste of his own medicine. The result had been Garrett’s own arrest. Unable to make his bail for himself, Garrett had languished in jail for several months. During that time, Doyle convinced Shirley to forgive him and drop all charges. In frustration, Garrett had pleaded guilty to a reduced charge and gone to prison, telling Bethany that they were all better off that way, for Doyle would surely beat Shirley again and it would be safer if Garrett couldn’t get his hands on the man. He was too right. Not two years later, Doyle had beat their mother to death.
“That doesn’t change the fact that I wasn’t here for you,” Garrett insisted.
“You couldn’t help Mom or me,” Bethany insisted, “and I’m glad you were out of it.” She had escaped herself as soon as she could. Pushing away thoughts of the past, she looked to her brother. “I’m so glad to be with you again.”
He hugged her. “Ditto.” After a moment, he went on nonchalantly, “So, is the cowboy the baby’s father?”
Stunned, Bethany pulled back. Denial leaped to the tip of her tongue, but for some reason she clamped her lips against it. Maybe because she wished the cowboy was the father. At least he was kind to her and true to his word. Better him than a scheming liar and cheat. Besides, it was best to say nothing at all about the baby’s father.
“Tell and I’ll take that kid you want so much. Don’t think I can’t.”
Shivering, she said, “It doesn’t matter who the father is. This is my baby, mine alone.”
“Why’d you break up with him?”
She looked down at her toes. “He doesn’t want to be a father.”
Garrett shifted his weight, his feet scuffing in the gravel. “That why you
