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, that we put aside our differences and work together to ensure—”
“Tate…” Molly said his name hoarsely and then swallowed. With obvious difficulty.
He felt a tad irked with her for interrupting. “Can’t you let a man say what he’s trying to say?” In a minute would come the part where he got down on his knees in front of her. He was a little nervous about that. After all, he wasn’t the kind of man who spent a lot of time on his knees.
“But, Tate…” She swallowed again. “I…I have to know. Are you, well, I mean, is it possible you are sneaking up on suggesting we get married?”
He smiled. How could he help it? She looked so damned adorable in her bewilderment. Also, it was occurring to him that he could skip the part where he got down on his knees. She’d pretty much blown right on by that, anyway.
Yeah. This was fine. It would work out just great. And with everything settled, she would be spending the night—and all the nights to come. “Yeah, Molly.” Pride made him stand away from the mantel and draw himself up straight and tall. “I am. I’m asking you to be my wife. I figure, at this point, there’s nothing else we can do.” He reached into his pocket to get the ring.
Before he could slide it out, she said, “No.”
Tate was certain he hadn’t heard right. “Molly, did I just hear you say—?”
“No. I said no.”
He pulled his hand from his pocket—without the ring—and took a careful step back. She’d got him on this one. Got him good. This was as unexpected as a rattler in his bedroll.
And damned if he wasn’t as hurt as if he’d really been snake bit. Why, she hadn’t even let him get to the part where he could flash that diamond at her. To cover his hurt, he gave her a curled lip and a cold eye.
She backed away a step herself and did some more gulping. “Look, Tate, it would never work. You have to see that. And why would you want to even try? Think of your granddaddy. Of what he’d say.”
“My
