The Marriage Pact. Linda Lael Miller
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the lady’s face and the tremor in her voice.
But Mrs. Culpepper shook her head. “No, no,” she protested distractedly. “I’m fine, dear.” Another indrawn breath, this one raspy and shallow. “When I finally managed to make out what Earl was trying to tell me, this old heart of mine just cracked right down the middle. Sick as he is, that man was fretting over the dog. Wanted to know who’d take care of it.”
Hadleigh’s eyes welled with tears—she’d been right; Earl did love Muggles. But before she could formulate a reply, she saw the paramedics emerging from the kitchen, the gurney between them, Earl lying shrunken and gray under a hospital blanket, eyes closed.
Hadleigh stepped into the tiny foyer then, easing Mrs. Culpepper to one side, so the EMTs could pass, then hurrying to catch up. Stepping alongside the gurney, she managed to grasp one of Earl’s hands.
His flesh felt cold and dry against her palm and fingers.
“Don’t worry,” she said, raising her voice, the rain pelting down on all of them. “Do you hear me, Earl? Don’t worry about Muggles. She’s at my house right now, and I promise I’ll look after her for as long as necessary!”
Remarkably, Earl opened his eyes, blinking in the rain. He smiled, ever so tentatively, and his lips formed the words, “Thank you.”
“Step aside, please, ma’am,” one of the paramedics ordered, his tone and manner brisk but still polite.
Hadleigh moved out of the way and stood in the wet grass of Earl’s front lawn, watching as the EMTs deftly folded the gurney’s legs, then slid the patient inside. One of the men climbed in beside Earl, while the other secured the ambulance doors and then jogged around to get behind the wheel.
Seconds later, the vehicle sped away.
Dazed, Hadleigh nonetheless had the presence of mind to cross the street again, back her dilapidated, wood-paneled station wagon out of the garage and drive Mrs. Culpepper home. She lived close by, just around the block, as she pointed out, but the rain wasn’t letting up and one neighbor headed for the hospital was, Hadleigh felt, quite enough.
Once she’d delivered Mrs. Culpepper to her door, Hadleigh dashed back to the car and headed for her own place.
As she drove, she thought about Will, and how proud he’d been of that ancient station wagon. He’d insisted it was a classic and planned to restore it to its original glory as soon as he’d finished his hitch in the air force and came home to Mustang Creek.
In the end, he’d come home, all right—in a flag-draped coffin, with a bleak-eyed Tripp Galloway and two other uniformed soldiers serving as escorts.
Tripp Galloway.
Just thinking about the man still raised her hackles, but on this dreary, gray-skied afternoon, even the rush of acidic irritation came as a welcome distraction.
* * *
TRIPP CERTAINLY HADN’T planned on dropping by to see Hadleigh, not consciously, at least, but here he was, parked in front of that house where he’d spent so much time as a kid, hanging out with Will. He found himself smiling as he recalled those halcyon days, shooting hoops in the driveway, playing beat-up guitars in the garage, blithely convinced that their ragtag crew of potential rednecks was destined to be the next chart-busting grunge band.
He’d always been welcome here, back then. Always.
Alice had simply smiled and set another place at the supper table when he came home with Will after basketball, baseball or football practice, depending on the time of year. She’d make up the extra bed in Will’s room if Tripp lingered long enough after the meal, which he often did, helping with the follow-up chores. He’d clear the table, carry out the trash, help either Will or Hadleigh, whoever’s turn it was, wash and dry the dishes. Then, after his mom had died, when he was sixteen, Alice had taken it upon herself to oversee his homework and sometimes even wash his clothes.
That was Alice, God rest her generous soul.
Now, Hadleigh was in charge, and from her perspective, he’d be about as welcome under her roof as a flea infestation.
Ridley gave a low growl, not hostile, but a mite on the desperate side.
Great, Tripp thought, recognizing the dog communique for what it was, a plea to be let out before he disgraced himself. He’d lift a leg against the pole supporting Hadleigh’s mailbox or crap on her lawn for sure. Or both.
With a sigh, Tripp got out of the truck, shoulders hunched against the continuous rain, walked around to the other side and opened the door so Ridley could jump down. He snapped the leash onto the Lab’s collar, tore a poop bag from the roll he kept under the passenger seat and started purposefully down the sidewalk, his trajectory away from Hadleigh’s mailbox and the trellis arching at the entrance to her front yard.
Ridley, usually a cooperative sort, balked, hunkering down and refusing to budge.
“Shit,” Tripp muttered.
Ridley immediately complied.
And that, thanks to Murphy’s Law, was the precise moment Hadleigh pulled into her driveway, at the wheel of the station wagon that had once been Will’s proudest possession. Even with the windshield awash with rain and the wipers going back and forth at warp speed, Tripp had a clear view of her face.
She looked surprised, then confused, then affronted.
Tripp bent to deploy the poop bag. Fortunately, garbage day must have been imminent, because there were trash containers in front of every house.
He tossed the bag into one of them and braced himself when he heard the heavy door of the station wagon slam, doing his best to work up a grin as he turned around to face Hadleigh, who was already headed in his direction.
The grin was flimsy, and it didn’t hold.
Hadleigh favored the dog with a heartwarming smile and a pat on the head, but when she looked up at Tripp, the smile immediately morphed into a frown.
It was a safe bet she wasn’t fixing to pat him on the head.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded tersely. Her fists were bunched in the pockets of her jacket, and she’d pulled the strings of her hood so tight around her face that she reminded him of a little kid all trussed up in a snowsuit for a cold winter day.
Tripp considered the question. In light of the fact that he’d gotten almost to the ranch and then doubled back, it was worth answering.
What was he doing there?
Damned if he knew.
Ridley wagged his tail, glanced quizzically up at Tripp, then turned a fond gaze on Hadleigh.
Tripp scrambled for a reply. “Getting wet?” he suggested.
Chapter Two
WAS TRIPP GALLOWAY real—or was he a figment of her frazzled imagination?
Hadleigh bit her lower lip, shifted her weight slightly, wondering why she didn’t just turn her back on him and walk away. Instead, she seemed stuck there, as surely as if the soles of her shoes were glued to the very ordinary sidewalk in front of her equally ordinary house. There was a strange sense of dissociation, too, as though she’d left her body at some point, sprung back suddenly and landed a smidgen to one side of herself, like her own ghost.
The relentless rain continued, drenching her, drenching the man and the dog.
Both Tripp and the animal seemed oblivious to the weather, and both of them were staring at her. The dog acted cheerfully expectant, while its master looked almost as disconcerted as Hadleigh felt.
In the next instant, another dizzying change occurred, bringing her back to herself with a jolt not unlike the slamming of a steel door.
Patches of warmth pulsed in Hadleigh’s cheeks—it would be bad enough if it turned out she was teetering