Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedtication
Books by Christine Rimmer
About the Author
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 Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Copyright
“It’s more than…friendship between us, Erik. Isn’t it?”
He breathed the word, “Yes.”
Suddenly Evie didn’t feel so bold. She whispered, “I’m afraid.”
“So am I.”
And then she sighed. “But I don’t think…I can stop it. I don’t think I want to stop it.”
His eyes were still closed. “You should stop it.”
“No. Don’t say that.”
“I have to say it.”
“No—”
“I have nothing, Evie. Nothing to give you.”
She covered his lips with her fingertips. “Shh. You have everything. Everything that matters…”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Silhouette Special Edition…welcome to romance. This month we have six wonderful books to celebrate Valentine’s Day just right!
Premiering this month is our newest promotion. THAT’S MY BABY! will alternate with THAT SPECIAL WOMAN! and will feature stories from some of your favorite authors. Marking this very special debut is The Cowboy and His Baby by Sherryl Woods. It’s the third book of her heartwarming series AND BABY MAKES THREE.
Reader favorite Christine Rimmer returns to North Magdalene for another tale of THE JONES GANG in her book, The Man, The Moon and The Marriage Vow. The wonderful Joan Elliott Pickart continues her newest series, THE BABY BET, in Special Edition this month. Friends, Lovers…and Babies! is book two of the MacAllister family series. Also in February, Pamela Toth introduces the Buchanan Brothers in Buchanan’s Bride—it’s the first book in her series, BUCKLES & BRONCOS. Sharon De Vita’s Child of Midnight is her first for Special Edition, a passionate story about a runaway boy, a caring woman and the renegade cop who loves them both. And finally, Kelly Jamison’s The Wedding Contract is a marriage-of-convenience story not to be missed!
So join us for an unforgettable February! I hope you enjoy all these stories!
Sincerely,
Tara Gavin
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to: Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The Man, The Moon
and the Marriage Vow
Christine Rimmer
For my sister, Beverly Jordan,
who always loved a good fairy tale
Books by Christine Rimmer
Silhouette Special Edition
Double Dare #646 Slow Lorkin’s Revenge #698
Earth Angel #719
*Wagered Woman #794
Born Innocent #833
*Man of the Mountain #886
*Sweetbriar Summit #896
*A Home for the Hunter #908
For the Baby’s Sake #925
*Sunshine and the Shadowmaster #979
*The Man, The Moon and The Marriage Vow #1010
Silhouette Desire
No Turning Back #418
Call It Fate #458
Temporary Temptress #602
Hard Luck Lady #640
Midsummer Madness #729
Counterfeit Bride #812
Cat’s Cradle #940
*The Jones Gang
CHRISTINE RIMMER
is a third-generation Californian who came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been an actress, a sales clerk, a janitor, a model, a phone-sales representative, a teacher, a waitress, a playwright and an office manager. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—-she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Those who know her best withhold comment when she makes such claims; they are grateful that she’s at last found steady work. Christine is grateful, too—not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day.’
Chapter One
At first, the sound was like the crackle of static from a radio turned down very low. Vaguely irritating, but nothing to be concerned about.
Evie ignored it. She sat straighter in the old wooden pew. She listened more attentively to Reverend Johnson’s sonorous, singsong voice as he ran down his list of announcements.
The minutes ticked by. Evie began to feel more confident that the indistinct noise was gone. She relaxed a little. She allowed herself to enjoy the crystalline quality of the latemorning light that poured in through the windows on either side of the double rows of pews. She admired the flower arrangements, mostly glads and iris, that adorned the altar. And she registered the slight shifting of the big man, Erik Riggins, who sat on her left; he was leaning toward the boy on his other side and murmuring, “Sit still, Pete. Or else,” in a tone of strained fatherly patience.
Evie smiled. Everything was fine. Normal. Good.
But then she frowned. Everything wasn’t fine. Not really. She could actually hear the sound now, as if a mischievous hand had reached out and turned up the volume just a little.
Just enough that she was forced to acknowledge consciously that there was a sound.
Evie stared hard at the reverend. She listened intently to what he was saying.
“And please,” the reverend solemnly chided his flock, “we need more volunteers to run the booths at September fest, which is going to be held on Main Street as always and looks as if it will be bigger than ever this year. Every merchant and businessman in town will be involved, not to mention all of the local volunteer associations. We want our church’s part of the proceedings to be a rousing success. So do join in. Time is flying. The big day is Saturday, the ninth, which is only three weeks away now. Anyone who can give us an hour or two, be sure to let Nellie Anderson know as soon as—”
Crackle. Hiss. Snap. Pop. The sound would not be ignored. It had slithered right over the threshold of Evie’s conscious mind and wouldn’t go away. Now it grated, demanded, insisted that she give it credence.
Evie was forced to block it. She drew in a long, slow breath. She brought up the wall inside her mind.
The sound stopped.
That’s that, Evie thought with a tiny sigh.
The reverend had finished the announcements. “And now, let us take a moment or two to reflect in song. Please turn in your hymnals to hymn number 213. ‘Softly and Tenderly.’” There was the rustle of turning pages. The reverend instructed, “All rise.”
Evie stood, as did everyone else in the small church. At the piano, Regina Jones, who was the wife of Evie’s cousin Patrick, began to play the sweet melody. Along with everyone else, Evie started to sing.
She made it halfway through the first chorus before she realized that the sound was back. The wall, which had always worked before, had not worked this time.
> Evie sang louder, though sweat broke out on her upper lip and her heart pounded hurtfully under her ribs. Yes, the sound was back. And growing.
Around her, fifty voices were raised in the final chorus, “Come home, come home…Ye who are weary, come home…”
By then, much louder than the music, was the sound. The sound of someone suffering. Someone crying out. Wordless. Alone. In silence. A sound that only Evie could hear.
“Please be seated.”
Around Evie, everyone settled back into the pews.
Her arm brushed Erik Riggins’s briefly as they sat. And that was when Evie knew that the awful, screaming, needful sound was coming from him.
None of my business, she instructed herself silently. I will not interfere…
Evie tried to keep her eyes to the front; she put everything she had into listening to the reverend as he launched into his sermon on the meaning of the Twenty-third Psalm.
But the soundless noise was so painful. So relentless. It seemed to shoot off the man beside her like tiny slivers of exploding glass.
Before she could stop herself, Evie turned and looked at him.
She saw a big man with wide, thick shoulders and muscular arms. His large, rough hands rested stiffly on his knees. She studied his profile: a tender mouth and a hawklike nose, bronze-colored hair that could use a good trim.
What she knew of him scrolled through her mind.
He was newly returned to town. A brother of Amy Jones, another of Evie’s cousins by marriage. Evie had heard from someone in the family that his wife had died. And there were children: the blond boy on his other side. And a girl—no, two girls.
Erik Riggins felt her watching him. Slowly, like a hawk on a high crag annoyed by some slight movement way below, he turned his head and met her gaze. He did not smile. His eyes were gray—storm-cloud gray. He looked…far away. And sad. But perfectly calm.
However, the way he looked didn’t mean anything. The sound didn’t really exist anyway. Not on any level that any ordinary person could hear.
But Evie heard it. She knew that his outer calm meant nothing. Less than nothing. Inside, he was screaming, crying out…
She couldn’t take it. She did the forbidden thing. The thing she’d sworn never to do again.
She lifted her hand and laid it over his.
The sound ceased.
Sweet, so sweet. That moment of peace. Though the reverend droned on and a fat fly buzzed against the windows, trying to get out to the summer world beyond the glass, to Evie, right then, there was silence.
Pure, complete silence. Silence as sweet as water from a mountain spring.
Water. Yes…
Evie closed her eyes and imagined the purest of soothing water, flowing through the palm of her hand and into the man beside her.
The hand beneath her own went lax. She felt his big body slump a little, in what she sensed was profound relief.
Evie sighed as she let it flow, let the imaginary water go into him, easing the loneliness that can eat a person alive, soothing the agonies that no one knew he felt.
But then he shook his head. The hand she covered with her own went as cold as stone. And the imaginary water fled back, like a river at high tide, into her own body, where it churned and roiled, without direction—hurting her with the very wrongness of its flow.
Right then, he snatched his hand away.
“Oh!” The word escaped Evie before she could stop it. She closed her mouth immediately, so no other sound could get out and betray her further.
Her stomach ached. She clutched it surreptitiously, trying not to let anyone else know her distress.
But the man beside her knew. He was still looking at her, glaring at her, really, through eyes that were now the color of a frozen mist over a storm-tossed sea. It seemed to her that his expression was one of disbelief—and distaste.
Shame and embarrassment made her face flame. Oh, would she never learn?
Erik Riggins was still glaring at her, no doubt telling himself that Evie Jones was a brazen woman who made passes at men she hardly knew—and in church, no less!
Her cheeks burning hotter by the moment, Evie managed to whisper, “I…uh…Sorry.”
That seemed to be enough for him. After the briefest of nods, he pointedly faced front once more.
“‘My cup runneth over,’” the reverend quoted with sonorous feeling. “What a wondrous image…”
Somewhere outside, a robin was singing. And the boy on the other side of Erik Riggins let out a long sigh, no doubt eager to be out in the summer morning, yearning to be playing ball or swimming in the river not too far away.
Evie sat very still until the clutching nausea in her stomach slackened and finally passed away. Then she drew her shoulders back and made herself breathe deeply.
She spoke silently to herself. It’s all right. It’s over. Just put it from your mind…
Yes, she’d broken her own vow to herself; she’d reached out and touched when she had no right to. She wasn’t pleased with what she’d done. But it had happened. She would put it behind her—and she’d keep a little tighter rein on herself in the future, that was all.
And as far as the way Erik Riggins’s silent cry had scaled the wall, well, it had been a fluke. Nothing more. It would never happen again.
She would look at the bright side. After all, things could be worse. If the man beside her still cried out for help in his heart, at least she could no longer hear him. And a couple of swift glances at the people sitting nearby left her reasonably certain that no one else had noticed her odd behavior.
It had been an insignificant incident, really. And it was over. She’d thank the good Lord for small favors and leave it at that.
After the service, Evie sought out Nellie Anderson to offer her help for Septemberfest. She found the church’s tall, gaunt volunteer secretary out on the patchy slice of lawn between the steps of the church and the sidewalk. Nellie stood with her clipboard high and pencil poised, casting piercing looks at the members of the congregation as they filed out into the sunshine. The technique seemed to be quite effective. As Evie watched, more than one person stepped over and volunteered a little time behind a counter during the September street fair.
With a tight smile on her thin lips, Nellie scribbled on the clipboard. Then she looked up, this time at Evie. Evie smiled at the older woman.
“Ah,” Nellie said. “Evie Jones. Can we count on you to lend a hand, too, dear?”
Evie nodded. “But I won’t be able to help out in a booth. I’ll be working behind my own counter that day.”
“Ah, yes. That interesting store of yours.”
Though Nellie Anderson was one of the few people around who could make the word “interesting” sound like a criticism, Evie didn’t take offense. “Why don’t you drop in some time?” she suggested. “I’ll show you around.”
Nellie’s pinched expression relaxed a little. She seemed pleased to be invited to the shop. “Well, I just might do that. Thank you, dear.”
And then Nellie blinked. Her face went blank as she stared beyond Evie’s shoulder. Evie glanced back to see what it was and found herself looking at Erik Riggins and his son, who both seemed to be staring right back at Nellie. But only for a moment. Then, as one, the boy and the man cut their eyes away. They moved on by.
Evie gazed after them for several seconds, thinking that Erik Riggins had the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen. And that his hair had gold lights in it when it caught the sun.
But then she drew herself up short. What was the matter with her? She simply had to put the Riggins fellow completely out of her mind.
She turned to Nellie again.
Nellie seemed embarrassed. Her bony hand went to her throat and she coughed, a nervous sound. “Oh, my. Excuse me. I…where were we?”
Evie couldn’t help wondering what was going on between Nellie and the big man with the rough hands. But then she reminded herself once more how she intended to forget all abou
t Erik Riggins. Speculating about him and Nellie was no way to do that.
Nellie had collected herself enough to prompt, “You were saying you can’t take a booth?”
“Right. Wishbook will be open that day. But maybe I could call around for donations. Or bake a few things, if there’s going to be a bake sale.”
Nellie scribbled on her clipboard. “Good, good. I’ll get in touch with you about the calls you can make. And how about if I put you down for, say, two cakes and ten dozen cookies?”
It was a lot of baking, but Evie didn’t hesitate. She said yes. She really did want to help out. She’d lived in the small town of North Magdalene for almost a year now, and she was doing everything she could to make it the true home she’d always longed for. That included lending a hand at community events.
“Lovely, dear. Thank you,” Nellie murmured sweetly, and looked beyond Evie’s shoulder again, eager to capture her next booth-manning victim before the poor soul could escape.
Ten minutes later, Evie arrived at her store. She found her uncle, Oggie Jones, waiting there for her.
She spotted him before he saw her. He was sitting on the wrought-iron bench to the right of the door, a cloud of cigar smoke ringing his grizzled head. He’d propped his favorite cane, a stick of gnarled manzanita, at his side.
Oggie appeared to be staring at a pair of buildings across the street—the Hole in the Wall Saloon and the Mercantile Grill. Both buildings had burned down almost two years before. It had taken eighteen months to rebuild them. And now they were open for business once more.
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