just an hour ago, that he’d never embarrass her.
He wondered how long he could keep that promise. Perhaps no longer than it took a seventy-year-old man to travel the few yards of oyster-shell driveway between them and the house.
He watched the old man striding toward them, his shock of leonine white hair glowing, even in this gathering gloaming. His face was unreadable in the dim light, but he’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. Something in his movements suggested that his news would not be good.
When Marchant reached them, he didn’t waste time with a preamble. He had always given his diagnoses the same way he gave his medicines—nothing more than you needed, and nothing less. And he expected you to take it like a man, even if you were only four and frightened.
He didn’t believe in sugarcoating.
“She’s going to be fine,” he said.
“Oh, thank heaven,” Sue breathed. She squeezed Chase’s forearm.
Chase knew Marchant’s expressions better than Sue. He knew there were more pills here to swallow. “But?”
“The girl is a Type I diabetic,” the doctor said, looking grim. “She hasn’t eaten since this morning, and apparently she vomited that up hours ago. She was very nearly in insulin shock. It’s amazing she could still drive at all.”
“Good grief,” Chase said. “I knew it was something, but I wouldn’t ever have thought of that.” He watched the older man carefully. “Is that all?”
“No.” Marchant glanced toward Susannah. “Maybe we should talk privately?”
Sue’s hand was very still on Chase’s arm. He could feel the slight tremor that ran through her index finger. “Of course,” she said in an even voice. “Whatever you prefer.”
“No,” Chase said. “I don’t have any secrets from Sue, Matt. Whatever it is, tell us both.”
Marchant shrugged. “Okay. Ms. Whitford is generally in very poor condition. Recent weight loss, maybe a little anemic. I’d say she’s overworked, underfed and possibly depressed.”
He hesitated, an uncharacteristic move. It chilled Chase to the bone. Whatever came next, Marchant really didn’t want to say it.
“The bottom line is, the girl is pregnant.”
Sue’s hand dropped. “Oh, my God,” she breathed. She looked at Chase. “Pregnant?”
Chase looked at her, and he shook his head. “No.” He turned to Marchant and shook his head again. “No.”
“I’m afraid so,” the doctor said, looking first at Chase, then at Susannah, and then back at Chase. For the first time, his dark intelligent eyes showed his age. “I confirmed it, of course, before I agreed to speak to you at all. She is indeed with child. I’d say about three months gone.”
“And…” Chase couldn’t finish the sentence. He shifted his feet to find firmer ground, and then he tried again. “And—”
“And I’m sorry, son. She says that you’re the father.”
JOSIE WRAPPED HER PALMS around the cool glass of orange juice brought to her by a uniformed maid moments ago. She used both hands, because she still felt a little shaky, even though the doctor had assured her that the injection he’d given her should stabilize her blood sugar just fine.
She leaned her head back against the cool sheets and shut her eyes. She must have been pretty far gone this time. She’d had insulin reactions before, of course. They had been a part of her life for two decades, since she was diagnosed at only five years old.
But this one had been the worst ever. The doctor had told her about the crash, though she remembered nothing after she took that last left turn, steering her car under the arching iron sign that said Clayton Creek Ranch.
He said she was lucky, given how fast she was going, to escape with only some cuts and abrasions. But she didn’t feel lucky. She hurt everywhere. And she knew the car was totaled. It probably didn’t look like much to a rich doctor, but it had meant the world to her.
It had meant she could get to work, at least. And to the clinic.
Now what would she do?
Especially if, as she feared, Chase refused—
She heard footsteps coming down the hall, and her hands flew to her hair, trying to smooth the tangles. She caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror, and forced them down again.
What was the use? Her hair had lost the shine he used to admire. It wouldn’t spill like honey through his fingers anymore. She’d lost ten pounds, in all the wrong places. She’d cried off her mascara and worried away any hint of lipstick long before she got to the ranch. And now she had a bandage on her forehead and a black eye that made her resemble an off-kilter raccoon.
Chase had turned his back on her two months ago, when she’d been pink-cheeked and bright-eyed with first love. His lust wasn’t likely to be reawakened by her “beauty” today.
She’d have to appeal to his honor, or nothing at all.
Which was why her hands started to tremble again as the footsteps drew closer. This was a man who hadn’t even bothered to leave a goodbye note. Honor probably wasn’t his strong point.
She forced herself to watch the door steadily. She squared her shoulders, trying to look as dignified as possible. She didn’t need to cower before him. She hadn’t created this baby alone. They had done it together, with laughter and tenderness and passion, however short-lived it had been.
She might be a poor waitress, and he might be a rich rancher. But this was the twenty-first century, and she had no intention of slinking away to starve nobly on the streets for her sins. She wasn’t a martyr or a fool.
They’d made the baby together, and they would face the consequences together. She lifted her chin and waited for him to show up in the doorway.
But the man who appeared there wasn’t Chase. He was older, for one thing. Short and neat, brunette and sober-faced.
“Hello, Ms. Whitford,” he said. “I’m Chase Clayton’s lawyer. May I come in?”
“His lawyer?” She felt some of the bravado whoosh out of her, as if a hole had been torn in her sail. So far she’d seen Chase’s doctor, his maid, and now his lawyer. Apparently he had an army of people he could send ahead, like the military’s front lines, to wear the enemy down.
“Yes. Jim Stilling. May I come in?”
She nodded. “Of course, Mr. Stilling. It isn’t my room. I’m not in a position to deny anyone access to it.”
He smiled, waving that idea away and entered the room. He sat on one of the soft chairs, which were covered in butter-colored silk. He looked at home there, even though the decor was so feminine, with powder-blue and butter-yellow-flowered wallpaper, a white lace canopy on the bed and a huge window overlooking rolling green hills.
She’d never slept in a room this beautiful,
