To a Macallister Born
Page 1
She’d conceived Jack’s child.
Jennifer sank back in the chair and splayed her hands on her flat stomach.
Jack’s baby, her mind whispered. No, it was her baby. Her secret. She was not going to tell Jack about this child unless he came to her and asked her to marry him.
She wouldn’t trap him into proposing to her, thus sentencing herself to a lifetime of wondering if he truly wished to be by her side.
If Jack went to California per his original plan, he would never, ever know that this child existed.
And the serious discussion she’d scheduled for that evening? Oh, yes, they’d have that talk, but she’d keep a tight rein on her emotions. She’d wait to hear what Jack had to say.
Wait…while she hoped and prayed that he’d ask her to be his wife.…
Dear Reader,
Welcome to a spectacular month of great romances as we continue to celebrate Silhouette’s 20th Anniversary all year long!
Beloved bestselling author Nora Roberts returns with Irish Rebel, a passionate sequel to her very first book, Irish Thoroughbred. Revisit the spirited Grant family as tempers flare, sparks fly and love ignites between the newest generation of Irish rebels!
Also featured this month is Christine Flynn’s poignant THAT’S MY BABY! story, The Baby Quilt, in which a disillusioned, high-powered attorney finds love and meaning in the arms of an innocent young mother.
Silhouette reader favorite Joan Elliott Pickart delights us with her secret baby story, To a MacAllister Born, adding to her heartwarming cross-line miniseries, THE BABY BET. And acclaimed author Ginna Gray delivers the first compelling story in her series, A FAMILY BOND, with A Man Apart, in which a wounded loner lawman is healed heart, body and soul by the nurturing touch of a beautiful, compassionate woman.
Rounding off the month are two more exciting ongoing miniseries. From longtime author Susan Mallery, we have a sizzling marriage-of-convenience story, The Sheik’s Secret Bride, the third book in her DESERT ROGUES series. And Janis Reams Hudson once again shows her flair for Western themes and Native American heroes with The Price of Honor, a part of her miniseries, WILDERS OF WYATT COUNTY.
It’s a terrific month of page-turning reading from Special Edition. Enjoy!
All the best,
Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor
JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART
TO A MACALLISTER BORN
For my daughter, Paige, my very own Tempe, Arizona, fire fighter
I’m a proud mommy, Peep
Books by Joan Elliott Pickart
Silhouette Special Edition
*Friends, Lovers…and Babies! #1011
*The Father of Her Child #1025
†Texas Dawn #1100
†Texas Baby #1141
‡Wife Most Wanted #1160
The Rancher and the Amnesiac Bride #1204
ΔThe Irresistible Mr. Sinclair #1256
ΔThe Most Eligible M.D. #1262
Man…Mercenary…Monarch #1303
*To a MacAllister Born #1329
Silhouette Desire
* Angels and Elves #961
Apache Dream Bride #999
†Texas Moon #1051
†Texas Glory #1088
Just My Joe #1202
ΔTaming Tall, Dark Brandon #1223
Previously published under the pseudonym Robin Elliott
Silhouette Special Edition
Rancher’s Heaven #909
Mother at Heart #968
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Gauntlet Run #206
Silhouette Desire
Call It Love #213
To Have It All #237
Picture of Love #261
Pennies in the Fountain #275
Dawn’s Gift #303
Brooke’s Chance #323
Betting Man #344
Silver Sands #362
Lost and Found #384
Out of the Cold #440
Sophie’s Attic #725
Not Just Another Perfect Wife #818
Haven’s Call #859
JOAN ELLIOTT PICKART
is the author of over seventy novels. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys watching football, knitting, reading, gardening and attending craft shows on the town square. Joan has three all-grown-up daughters and a fantastic little grandson. In September of 1995, Joan traveled to China to adopt her fourth daughter, Autumn. Joan and Autumn have settled into their cozy cottage in a charming, small town in the high pine country of Arizona.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
Jennifer Mackane stretched leisurely, then snuggled deeper beneath the blankets on the bed with a sigh of contentment.
She wasn’t scheduled to work today, or tonight, at Hamilton House, she mused, and would be able to spend the free hours with her precious Joey. They’d straighten up around the house and run errands, then indulge in dinner at Joey’s favorite fast-food restaurant.
She’d have the luxury of tucking a fresh-from-his-bath Joey into bed that night and reading him a story as he drifted off to sleep. Bliss. Sweet bliss.
A faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee reached Jennifer, and she knew the automatic timer on the machine had produced the hot, beckoning brew.
No, she thought. She’d stay in bed a while longer, be sinfully lazy. Then again, the coffee smelled so deliciously tempting.
“Oh, who am I kidding?” she said, laughing. “That coffee is calling my name.”
She threw back the blankets and left the bed, poking her feet into enormous yellow slippers that boasted the head of a smiling Big Bird.
Joey was so proud of those slippers he’d given her for Christmas last year, she mused. He’d gone shopping with his Uncle Brandon and Uncle Ben, the outing producing the bizarre slippers as Joey’s gift to his mom.
Jennifer had shot dagger-filled looks at Brandon Hamilton and Ben Rizzoli when she’d opened her present, and had seen the merriment and mischief dancing in their dark eyes. But she’d become accustomed to the pair’s nonsense while the three of them had grown up together. Here in the pretty little town of Prescott, nestled high in the mountains a hundred miles above Phoenix, they’d enjoyed an idyllic childhood.
Jennifer thudded her way toward the kitchen as she smoothed her red flannel nightshirt down to her knees. Big Bird’s heads bobbed up and down with each step she took.
Joey would be checking to see that she was wearing these silly creations, she knew, despite the fact that it was nearly a year since he’d given them to her.
In the large kitchen of the old, three-story Victorian house, Jennifer poured herself a mug of hot coffee, then opened the refrigerator to find the carton that would provide the splash of milk.
She hesitated and frowned, her gaze falling on the bridal bouquet on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. She added milk to the coffee, retrieved the bouquet, then settled at the kitchen table, staring at the lovely flowers as she took her first sip.
She could clearly recall the shock and dismay she’d registered when the bouquet had come sailing through the air at Megan and Ben’s wedding reception yesterday and somehow landed in her hands. She’d stared at it in wide-eyed horror, as the other women in the assembled group cheered for her, telling her she was now officially destined to be the
next bride.
“No way,” she had said, poking the flowers with one finger. “Not a chance.”
She had planned to quietly slide the bouquet behind the stack of wedding gifts on the table at the reception and forget it. But Joey had been jumping up and down with excitement, declaring his mom to be a great pass catcher, just like whomever he had said caught the football from some quarterback he’d named. Joey had insisted on holding the touchdown bouquet all the way home.
Jennifer got to her feet, went to one of the cupboards and rummaged through it until she found a vase. She filled it halfway with water, then returned to the table and began to carefully dismantle the bouquet, sticking the flowers into the water.
They would now be just flowers in a vase, she decided, with no old wives’ tale connotations connected to them. Not that she actually believed in the whoever-caught-the-bouquet-is-the-next-bride theory, but why take unnecessary chances?
She had no intention of remarrying, and having the bridal bouquet take up residence in her refrigerator even overnight was long enough, thank you very much.
“There,” she said, admiring her work. “They’re flowers in a vase, nothing more. The spell is broken. End of story.”
“Hi, Mom,” a sleepy Joey said, coming into the kitchen. He peered under the table at Jennifer’s feet.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Jennifer said, her heart warming at the sight of her sleep-rumpled, five-year-old son in his Rugrats pajamas. “How’s my big boy this morning? Ready for some breakfast?”
“Guess so.” Joey slid onto a chair opposite her, yawned, then frowned. “Whatcha do to the flowers you caught?”
“They needed water to stay fresh so we could enjoy them,” Jennifer said.
“Oh. Well, you still get to be the next bride like everyone said. Can you have a chocolate wedding cake if you want to when you’re the bride? Aunt Megan and Uncle Ben’s cake tasted kinda yucky. You should pick chocolate for yours.”
“Sweetheart,” Jennifer said, “I’m not going to have a wedding cake because I’m not getting married.”
“Yes, you are,” Joey said, his voice rising. “Everyone at the party said so after you caught the flowers. You’ll be a bride like Aunt Megan was and…well, first you gotta find somebody to be the groom guy, then I’ll have a daddy like Sammy. That’s how it works, Mom. It does.”
Jennifer felt a chill sweep through her and tighten into a cold fist in her stomach.
“Joey,” she said gently, praying her voice was steady, “you’ve never said you wanted a daddy. We’re a team, you and me, the two of us. We’re doing great together, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, sure, Mom, but…” Joey shrugged. “It would be nice to have a daddy like Sammy does. They do men stuff together.”
“Well, you do…men stuff with Uncle Ben and Uncle Brandon, and even Uncle Taylor when he comes up from Phoenix. They take you fishing, camping, hiking—all kinds of things.”
“Yes, but…” Joey sighed.
“But what, sweetheart?” Jennifer said, leaning toward him.
“When I’m done doing men stuff with Uncle Ben, and Uncle Brandon, and Uncle Taylor, I have to give them back. I don’t get to keep them, Mom. I don’t have a daddy all the time like Sammy does.”
“I see,” Jennifer said softly, struggling against threatening tears. “But you know that’s because your daddy is in heaven with the angels, Joey. I can’t change that, sweetheart.”
“You could be a bride like you’re supposed to be ’cause you caught the flowers,” Joey said, nearly yelling. “All you need is a guy to wear a suit and tie and buy you a yellow ring like Uncle Ben got Aunt Megan. How come you won’t do that, Mom?”
“Joey, I realize that you don’t understand and that you’re getting angry at me because you don’t. When you’re older, bigger, this will make sense to you.”
Joey scowled and dropped his chin to his chest. “No, it won’t.”
Jennifer stared at her son, her heart aching.
She had known, somewhere in the back of her mind, that this discussion would take place one day, she thought miserably.
When Joey was three years old, he’d asked why he didn’t have a daddy, but had readily accepted the explanation that his father was in heaven with the angels.
Now, at five years old, Joey was comparing his family to that of his best friend, Sammy, and deciding it came up very short.
She’d worked so hard at being both mother and father to her son, and was eternally grateful to Ben, Brandon and Taylor for stepping in as father figures for Joey whenever they could.
But now her little boy wanted his own daddy, just like Sammy had. His uncles just weren’t enough.
Oh, Joey, I’m so sorry, Jennifer thought, blinking back tears. What he wanted, she would never give him. She could not—would not—marry again. All she could do was weather this emotional storm of Joey’s and hope, pray, it would soon pass.
Added to that heartfelt prayer was the ongoing one that Joey would never learn the truth about his father. No one knew the true facts of her past with Joe Mackane, and, heaven help her, no one ever would.
“Well,” she said, forcing a cheerful tone into her voice, “you must be a hungry boy. How would you like pancakes made in the shape of animals?”
Joey’s head popped up. “Yeah. Cool. I want a horse and elephant and hippopotamus.”
Jennifer laughed and got to her feet. “A hippopotamus? Goodness, I don’t know if I’m that talented a pancake artist, my sweet, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
Joey slid off his chair. “I’ll pour my own milk into a glass. I need milk for my bones and teeth.”
“Indeed, you do, sir,” Jennifer said, taking a bowl out of a cupboard. “You’ll grow up big and strong like…like your uncles.”
And be a fine, upstanding man like your uncles, with no hint of the lack of morals and values of your father, she mentally tacked on, as she began to prepare the pancake batter.
Joey looked so much like her—it was as though Joe had had nothing to do with the child’s creation. Joey had her wavy, strawberry-blond hair and fair complexion. His eyes were a sparkling green, and his features resembled hers. Anyone could tell that he was her son.
No, there was no hint of Joe Mackane in Joey, thank God, and there never would be as she continued to teach him the important lessons of integrity and honesty. Ah, yes, honesty. That was definitely something Joe never possessed, nor knew the meaning of.
Joe had been killed in a construction accident a week before Joey was born. In heaven with the angels? Jennifer mused. No, not even close. He wouldn’t have begun to qualify for admission. But that was something her son would never know.
After cleaning the kitchen after breakfast, during which she’d received a passing grade for her pancake hippopotamus, Jennifer showered and dressed in jeans and a green sweater that matched her eyes.
While Joey was putting away scattered toys in his room, Jennifer opened the drapes on the windows in the living room, then frowned.
There was a man standing on the sidewalk in front of the house. He was tall, extremely handsome, with dark, auburn hair, rugged features, wide shoulders, and long, muscular jeans-clad legs. His hands were shoved into his jacket pockets, and he was staring at the top of the house, apparently unaware of her sudden appearance in the window.
What was he doing there? Jennifer wondered. Who was he? If he was a thief casing the place, he wasn’t being very subtle about it.
All right, he had two minutes to be on his way, or she was going to march out there and confront him.
Jennifer narrowed her eyes.
Maybe that was dumb. Friendly, small-town Prescott or not, it was probably foolish to demand an explanation from a perfect stranger.
Perfect? Well, on a score of one to ten, the man was an eleven as far as looks and build went—but that was beside the point. She was a woman alone with a small, vulnerable boy to protect.
No, she’d give it another minute, th
en call Sheriff Montana and tell him about the stranger who was still—darn him—scrutinizing her home, her safe haven. He would handle this in the proper manner.
Okay, buddy, she thought, it’s now one minute and counting.
Jennifer’s breath caught as her gaze connected with the stranger’s. He smiled, sketched a salute, then spun around and walked down the sidewalk.
A frisson of heat coursed through her and settled low in her body. She wrapped her hands around her elbows, then moved to the edge of the window, watching until the man disappeared from view.
Dear heaven, she thought, that smile of his should be registered as a lethal weapon, along with the loose-limbed, oh-so-sexy way he walked.
It had been many years since she’d had a sensual response to a member of the opposite sex. It was unsettling, to say the least, and very unwelcome.
It was also borderline crazy. She’d had a physical reaction to a man she didn’t even know, and who might very well be a thief contemplating breaking into her house to steal her worldly goods, such as they were.
What on earth was the matter with her? she thought, shaking her head. On that horrifying day of Joe’s funeral, when she’d learned the truths that had shattered her world, she’d begun the process of building a wall around herself.
Never again, she had vowed, would a man awaken her sexuality. Never again would a man touch her heart or her body. Never again would she love someone who was capable of destroying her.
“Mom,” Joey yelled, running into the room, “I found my favorite dinosaur. It was under my bed. Cool, huh?”
Jennifer drew a steadying breath, then turned to smile at her son.
“Very cool,” she said. “Oh, it’s very dusty, too. Let’s wash it off in the kitchen sink. There’s nothing worse than a dusty dinosaur.”
That evening, Jennifer settled onto the sofa in the living room in front of the crackling fire in the hearth, and picked up the mystery novel she was in the process of reading. Joey was fast asleep, having nodded off during the tale of Peter Pan.
She tucked her legs up close to her on the puffy cushion, spread an afghan she had knitted across her lap, and opened the book to the page that boasted a brightly colored bookmark Joey had made her for Mother’s Day.