A Bravo Christmas Wedding. Christine Rimmer
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had hung out a lot. They always had a good time. That night should have been the same.
But Rory was too quiet. And both Clara and Ryan seemed tense and distracted. Clara had Rye pour her a glass of wine—and then never touched it. The food was terrific, as always at Clara’s. But Clara ate no more than she drank. Maybe she really was sick.
But then why not call off the evening and take it easy?
Midway through the meal, she jumped up, just the way she had at the restaurant that afternoon. With a frantic, “Excuse me,” she clapped her hand to her mouth and ran for the central hallway.
Rye and Rory jumped up and went after her.
A minute later, Rye returned by himself. He dropped back into his chair, those brown eyes of his full of worry, his charming smile no longer in evidence.
Walker had had enough. It was just too ridiculous to keep on pretending he hadn’t guessed what was going on. “Clara’s pregnant, right?”
Rye picked up his beer, knocked back half of it and set it down. “What makes you say that?”
“Damn it, Rye. Don’t give me the limp leg on this. She threw up at lunchtime, too. In the restaurant toilet. Rory went in to help out. And whatever she and Rory said while they were in there, Monique Hightower heard, because she was in there with them—hiding in a stall, is my guess. If you were planning on keeping the news a secret, you need a new plan.”
Rye swore under his breath—and busted to the truth at last. “We were trying to get through the wedding before we said anything. Clara’s got enough to do, dealing with her crazy family and all.”
“So she is pregnant?”
Ryan fiddled with the label on his beer bottle.
“Answer the question, Rye.”
“Yeah.” He lifted the beer and drank the rest down. “She’s pregnant.”
“And that’s it...that’s why you’re getting married?”
“Hell, Walker. What kind of crap question is that?”
“Let me rephrase. Is that the only reason you’re getting married?”
“Of course not.”
Walker waited for Rye to say the rest. When Rye just sat there staring at his empty beer bottle, he prompted, “Because you’re also in love with her?”
Rye scowled. “That’s right and I always have been.”
“So you’re always saying.”
“Because it’s the truth—and why are you on my ass all of a sudden?”
It was a good question. Getting all up in Rye’s face wasn’t the answer to anything. “You’re right. Sorry, man. Just trying to figure out what’s going on. I mean, you’re stepping up, and that’s a damn fine thing.”
“What?” Rye bristled. “That surprises you—that I would step up?”
Walker looked him square in the eye. “Not in the least.”
“Well, good.” Rye settled back in his chair—and then stiffened at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. “They’re coming back...”
The two women came in the way they’d gone out—through the great room. Rye got up, went to Clara and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You okay?”
She put on a smile and gave him a nod. They all three sat down again and Clara shot a glance at Walker. “Sorry. I’ve been queasy all day. Must be some minor stomach bug.”
Walker just looked at her, steady on.
And Rye said, “It’s not flying, Clara. He’s figured out about the baby.”
Clara drooped in her chair. “Oh, well.” She reached back and rubbed her nape. “I have to admit, I’m starting to wonder why I even care who knows.”
Walker reassured her. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t say a word.”
And Clara actually laughed. “Yeah, there’s Monique for that.”
“Are you all right, really?” Walker asked her.
And Rory piped up with, “Do you want to lie down?”
Clara shook her head and picked up her fork. “All of a sudden, I’m starving.” She started eating.
And she wasn’t kidding about being hungry. They all watched her pack it away.
Rory said, “At least your appetite’s back.”
And Walker remembered his manners. “Congratulations, both of you.”
Clara gave him a weary smile and then held out her hand to Rye. He clasped it, firmly.
After that, Walker started thinking that everything was good between his brother and Clara, that the two of them and the baby would have a great life. Rye got them each another beer and a little more wine for Rory and the conversation flowed. No more weird silences. They all laughed together, just like old times.
Yeah, Walker decided. Everything would be fine.
* * *
Rory was too quiet on the way back to the ranch. But it had been a long day with way too much drama. She was probably just beat.
Inside, they hung up their coats. He said good-night and turned for the stairs.
She reached out and pulled him back. “I need to talk to you.”
He looked down at her slim fingers wrapped around his arm. She let go instantly, but somehow it seemed to him that he could still feel her woman’s touch through the flannel of his sleeve.
Woman’s touch? What the...?
He shook it off.
It was just strange, that was all. To be there in his house alone with her at night—and to know that she wouldn’t be leaving in an hour or two for her suite at the Haltersham Hotel. That they would both go upstairs to bed. And in the morning, at breakfast, she would be there, at his table.
And wait a minute. Why should that suddenly strike him as strange—not to mention, vaguely dangerous?
But it doesn’t, he argued with himself. They were friends and he was looking after her. Nothing strange or dangerous about that.
She asked, “Are things seeming weirder and weirder with Clara and Ryan, or is it just me?”
He didn’t really want to talk about Clara and Ryan—not now that he had it all comfortable and straight in his mind. Talking about it would only raise doubts.
No need for those.
But then she tipped her head to the side, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulder. “No response, huh?” Her sweet brown eyes were so sad. “Okay, then.” She tried to sound cheerful, with only minimal success. “Never mind. See you in the morning.”
He couldn’t just leave her standing there. “Hold on.” Lonesome was whining at the front door. He went over and opened it. The dog wiggled in, thrilled to see him. He scratched him behind the ears as Lucky came in behind him.
The cat went straight to Rory, and Rory picked her up and buried her face in the silky black fur. She asked, “Well?”
“Come on.” He turned for the great room at the back of the house, the dog at his heels. “You want something? Coffee?”
Still holding Lucky, she followed. “No, just to talk.”
He stopped by the couch. She put the cat down and dropped to the cushions. He went and turned on the fire, which he’d converted to gas two years before. The cat and the dog both sat by the hearth, side by side. When he went back to her, she’d lifted her right foot to tug off her tall black boot.