Jeremiah's Bogus Bride

by Liz Isaacson

  Wyatt didn’t ask anything else. Marcy’s hurt and pain radiated through the room, and the only sound in the room was her sniffing and reaching for a tissue. She kept her head down while she wiped her eyes and nose, and Wyatt had no idea what to do. He didn’t want to crowd her behind the desk, and besides, he struggled to control his own emotions.

  “I’m real sorry, sweetheart,” he finally said, his voice tight and maybe a touch too high.

  Her eyes lifted, and she smiled through the tears. He got up then, moving around the desk, and crouching in front of her. He took both of her hands in his. “I don’t think it’s a secret how I feel about you,” he said, almost a whisper. “You call me, say what you need, and I’ll do it.”

  “I know.” She leaned into him and cried into his shoulder. Wyatt wrapped his arms around her and held her until she quieted, thanking the Good Lord above that he’d followed his gut and made that turn.

  Of course, now his back was screaming at him that this position was not acceptable. He employed every muscle in his core, but he started trembling after half a minute.

  Marcy pulled away, and Wyatt stood up quickly, stifling the groan threatening to come out of his mouth. Holding that back caused almost as much pain as the compromising position, and he took a stilted step back.

  Thankfully, he had his own truck, stocked heavily with painkillers, and he’d swallow four as soon as he settled behind the steering wheel.

  Marcy took her time wiping her eyes, and she stood up too. Their eyes met, and she gave him another small smile. “I can tell something’s wrong with you, Wyatt.”

  He sure did like the way she said his name in her Texas twang, and he smiled through his own pain. He didn’t want his brothers to know about his injuries and constant pain. With his job at Bowman’s Breeds, he could stop by the physical therapist and his doctor without anyone knowing.

  But maybe it was time to tell someone.

  “I suffered several injuries during my time in the rodeo,” he said. “I have chronic back pain now, and I go to physical therapy twice a week for strength analysis.” He watched her reaction, the sympathy rolling across her face. “I work with a trainer five days a week for core strengthening and all of that. It’s manageable, most of the time.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” Marcy said.

  “I’m glad you don’t have to,” he said. “I haven’t told anyone about it. Not my brothers or anything. So I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m glad you told me, because you’re kind of, you know, perfect.”

  Wyatt chuckled, ducking his head. “I’m not anywhere close to perfect, sweetheart.”

  “That might be true,” she said. “You like the barbecue at Duck’s instead of the stand out east.”

  “Duck’s is right in town,” he said, glad her face had brightened, and the fun, flirty woman he liked so much had returned. Of course, he liked Marcy no matter what, and he was actually thrilled she’d broken down in front of him. It meant she trusted him. And he’d shared something important with her too.

  So maybe they could have a real relationship in the future.

  “Okay,” he said. “What am I picking up? And you better text me your address, because I’ve never been to your place.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Marcy Payne couldn’t help the irregular way her heart beat in her chest. She had no control over what her pulse did, right?

  But Wyatt Walker made everything inside her sing, from her hair follicles all the way down to her pinky toenails. Just the rumble of that big truck he drove had her breath hitching. She’d gone out to greet him when he hadn’t come in right away, and only mild embarrassment remained after she’d practically soaked his shirt with her tears.

  But people got to cry over cancer, didn’t they? The Lord knew Marcy had shed plenty of tears. She was the oldest Payne sibling and cousin in the Three Rivers area, and she was expected to hold everything together. She only wet her pillow in the middle of the night, when there was no one else around to see the carnage. Well, no one except Robot, at least. And her hamster didn’t care if she cried or not.

  She pulled onto the highway first, Wyatt’s beast of a truck behind her. She’d get on ahead to Daddy’s and make sure there wasn’t a pile of dishes in the sink or any disgusting smells wafting from the bathroom. Wyatt would be several minutes behind her with the Italian food she’d ordered on her phone.

  Marcy had come to rely on so many things she’d never even heard of since her father’s diagnosis. Grocery delivery, online shopping, and meal delivery. Of everything she’d done, tapping a few times and having dinner show up twenty minutes later was the most magical.

  Tonight, she’d tapped the carry-out button, as Wyatt would stop by for the food. Sudden nerves hit her, and she glanced in her rear-view mirror. The man had never met her father. “This could be a bad idea,” she muttered to herself. She had plenty of cousins to help with Daddy, and a couple of them might actually be at the house.

  She picked up her phone, though she normally had a firm commitment to driving hands-free. Desperate times and all that. She swiped and tapped without swerving off the highway, tucking the phone against her ear a moment later and listening to the line ring.

  “Heya, Marce,” her cousin said.

  “Alyssa, hey,” she drawled. “Listen, where are you right now?”

  “Sitting with LJ,” she said. “We’re waiting for Remmy to be done with swimming lessons.”

  “So you’re not at my dad’s?”

  “No, I left Savannah there, but she had to get to work by six.”

  Relief cascaded through Marcy with more force than she thought possible.

  “Is he okay?” Alyssa asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Marcy said. “Yes, sorry, I should’ve led with that.”

  “My heart might be thumpin’ a little right now,” Alyssa said, the line on her end scratching just a bit. “Just a minute, baby. Momma’s on the phone.”

  “I’ll let you go,” Marcy said, not wanting to be drawn into a long conversation with her cousin. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Helen and Gerty from down the street brought y’all a pie,” Alyssa said. “I hope your daddy saved you some.” She laughed, and Marcy put in the obligatory chuckle.

  “Okay, thanks, Alyssa.”

  “And that other widower down the street, he stopped by earlier too. Somethin’ about turning on the irrigation water.”

  “Daddy knows how,” Marcy said, working hard to keep the impatience out of her voice.

  “Do you think he’s strong enough?”

  “If he’s not, I’ll have someone come do it.” Marcy thought of the impressive muscles in the man currently following her back into town. Wyatt Walker could easily get the irrigation water running again for them, and Marcy would like to see those muscles in action.

  Heat filled her face, and she cleared her throat. “I’m pulling up now, Liss. I have to go.” A tiny fib. Surely the Lord understood and excused little lies in trying times, didn’t He?

  She should’ve known better than to call her cousin anyway. In the past, she’d have known when the swimming lessons were. Who was playing soccer at what time and in what park. She’d have known Alyssa had taken the morning shift and Savannah would be over in the afternoon.

  But Marcy now operated on whatever fire was burning the brightest and the most out of control. She worked on putting that one out before it turned everything to ash, and then she focused on the next issue.

  At least she could still work, which honestly, had been her saving grace these past four months. That, and Wyatt Walker, if she was going to be completely honest. And after that little lie about pulling up to Daddy’s when she’d just passed the city limit sign, Marcy figured she might as well be totally truthful.

  Wyatt had seemed to know exactly when to text her. Exactly when to show up outside the hangar, usually with a box of doughnuts or her favorite coconut diet cola, ice col
d, and that cowboy swagger. That sexy smile. His friendship and support.

  Marcy had learned a lot about swallowing her pride in the last several weeks as well. She’d made some mistakes in her work, and it was much easier and quicker to say, “I’m sorry, Mister Reinhold. I’ll get that fixed right away, sir,” than it was to argue, get angry, or try to figure out why she’d dusted the wrong field when she’d been doing it right for five years.

  She wasn’t terribly aged yet, but she felt like her thirty-eight-year-old brain had doubled its years, and if she didn’t write something down, it didn’t get remembered.

  She now lived in the Before the Diagnosis, and the After the Diagnosis. Before, she was fun, carefree, flying planes all over the panhandle, making sure every farm and ranch that had hired her got exactly what they’d paid for.

  Fertilizers in the spring. Pest control all summer and fall.

  She got to work on airplanes when she wasn’t flying them, and fry potatoes while her father tried to get her to dance in the kitchen, and laugh when her younger brothers brought their wives and girlfriends to watch the Thursday night comedy they all loved.

  After, on Thursdays, they all settled down to watch television together, but only those who hadn’t had a sniffle or a scratchy throat in over a week. They laughed, sure, but it didn’t have the same joy in it.

  After, Daddy wasn’t dancing anywhere. Sometimes he was so sick right after a chemotherapy treatment that he couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time.

  After, Marcy had gained ten pounds with her lack of dancing and cooking, coupled with the stress of running the crop-dusting business completely on her own and providing for Daddy’s health needs. The plan had always been for her to take over Payne’s Pest-free, but she’d only just begun learning what she needed to know when Daddy had been diagnosed.

  But that was in the Before, and she lived in the After now. Marcy knew it did no good to wish for the life she’d had Before. Wishing never really worked anyway, not for her, and not in this situation.

  She pulled into her father’s driveway, noting the black cat with white paws had been left outside. Or maybe she’d escaped. No matter what, Tails had come back, and Marcy reached down to pick up the cat as she walked by.

  “Daddy,” she said upon entering the house. “I’m home.” She wasn’t sure why she felt like she needed to announce her arrival, as he sat only a few feet away and had known she was home the moment the door opened. Maybe earlier, as her ancient truck had quite the growly motor.

  “Baby doll,” he said, his voice weak and hoarse. He still wore a smile though, and the fiercest wave of love sang through her. “How are the planes?”

  “Still flyin’,” she said, their little way of saying everything was fine at work. Everything was fine with Marcy. “My friend stopped by tonight, and I sent him to get dinner. He should be here with it in a few minutes.”

  Daddy said nothing, just kept rocking himself back and forth, back and forth. Marcy ducked into the kitchen at the back of the house and washed her hands, running her still-wet hands over her face and through her hair. There were dishes here, but nothing to be embarrassed about. She picked up the mail and leafed through it. Nothing interesting.

  She dashed down the hall to check on the toilet paper situation in the bathroom. Check. Everything here was fine, good, fit for company.

  “Gerty brought a pie,” her dad said as she re-entered the living room.

  “I saw it,” Marcy said, though she’d actually missed the pie in the kitchen.

  “Savannah told me I couldn’t eat any. Too much sugar.”

  “Well, she’s right,” Marcy said, bending to drop a kiss on her father’s forehead. “And you should tell your girlfriend to stop bringing you sugary, fatty foods. Doesn’t she know you have cancer?” She giggled, because laughter—while it didn’t cure everything—definitely helped keep both of their spirits high.

  Daddy laughed too, shaking his head. “If she wants to bring us pecan pie, I’m not going to tell her no.” He also didn’t deny that widowed Gertrude Morris was his girlfriend. In fact, he had taken her out a time or two, in the Before.

  “I’m not givin’ you any,” Marcy said. “No matter how many times you ask.” She kicked off her flip flops and sank onto the couch, a sigh leaking from her mouth before she could pull it back in. She enjoyed ten seconds of relaxation before the doorbell rang, causing her to shoot right back to her feet.

  “That’ll be Wyatt. You be nice now, you hear?” She didn’t wait for Daddy to answer before she opened the door.

  The scent of marinara sauce and garlic bread hit her nose, and her mouth watered. Or maybe that was from the sight of the delectable man carrying the two bags of food. “C’mon in,” she managed to say, glad she could interact with Wyatt without making a fool of herself.

  He stepped inside, where Marcy took one of the bags of food. The one with the bread, she thought, as the warm, yeasty scent of it tantalized her. “Daddy, this is my friend, Wyatt Walker. Wyatt, my father, Martin Payne.”

  Wyatt said, “Nice to meet you, sir.” He reached out his free hand for Daddy to shake. He couldn’t quite lift his arm that high, and Wyatt had to bend lower. Awkwardness descended on the room, and Marcy dealt with it by walking into the kitchen. Male voices met her ears, but she busied herself with getting out plates and silverware. A few moments later, Wyatt joined her.

  They worked together to get the food out and on plates, and Marcy took her dad’s to him in the living room, getting the TV tray situated and everything nice and steady in its place. “Water, Daddy?” she asked. “Sweet tea?”

  “Both, please,” he rasped, and Marcy took an extra moment to look at him. His eyes looked clear today, and he seemed plenty alert. Maybe she was worried about nothing, though the first few days after a chemo treatment were the worst.

  Back in the kitchen, she filled a few glasses with ice cubes. “Sweet tea, Wyatt? Water?”

  “Tea, please,” he said. “What did your dad want?”

  “Both.” She poured the tea and he took a glass to the water dispenser in the door of the fridge. The ease with which he just stepped right in to help her made her heart soften even more toward him, and she took the full glass from him and returned to the living room.

  Too much heat in the kitchen anyway.

  Wyatt followed with their drinks, which he sat on the end table, and then he went back into the kitchen, returning with their food a moment later.

  Daddy had the TV on, but the volume was almost all the way down. Marcy would go nuts if someone didn’t say something soon, but she couldn’t think of a single thing.

  Thankfully, Wyatt said, “Wow, this is great. Reminds me of a little Italian place I ate at in Calgary once.”

  How he knew that magic word, Marcy wasn’t sure. But Momma had been from Calgary, and her father’s entire soul had just lit up. He started talking, and Marcy didn’t say a single word during dinner—just what she’d wanted.

  Wyatt laughed and chatted like he and her father were old friends. Marcy took their plates back into the kitchen, pure exhaustion moving through her. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck; her eyes closed as they were starting to sting.

  “I’m gonna head out,” Wyatt said softly, his hand sliding down her arm to hold hers.

  Thrills and chills shot to her elbow, her shoulder, down her back. “Okay,” she managed to say. “Thank you so much, Wyatt. You saved me tonight.”

  “You call me with anything you need now, okay?” He looked at her earnestly, and anyone would agree with him when he wore such a fiercely lovable look.

  “I will,” she promised, though should she need help, she had a plethora of blood kin to call on. But she’d want to call Wyatt—and maybe, just maybe, she would.

  He swept his lips across her forehead and said, “All right, then. See you later, Miss Marcy.” He walked back into the living room and said good-bye to her father. Then he was out the front door and gone. Marcy gave herself a
few seconds to sigh in happiness and daydream about what her life would’ve been like with Wyatt in it Before.

  Five seconds, then ten.

  Then she shut down the thoughts, because she needed to focus on what was happening right here, right now, and no amount of daydreaming about a handsome rodeo cowboy was going to erase her situation at hand.

  “Sugar,” Daddy called. “What about that pie…?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Skyler Walker flew from the saddle, barely feeling the hard earth beneath his cowboy boots as he ran toward the calf he’d just roped. In the back of his ears, he could hear Wyatt yelling at him, but the words were nonsense.

  He wrapped his arms around the cow and hefted him right up into the air. Then down. Rope out, wrap, wrap, tie, hands up!

  Skyler stood up, his grin splitting the whole world around him.

  Wyatt whistled through his teeth, and Skyler turned toward his older brother. “Time?”

  “Six-point-three,” the rodeo champion said.

  He bent to release the calf, who ran off immediately. He gathered the reins of his horse and walked toward Wyatt. “I so coulda made it.” Skyler’s heart bobbed against the back of his tongue, his adrenaline clear up in the stratosphere.

  “It’s a good time,” Wyatt said. “I mean, it’s not championship time. But it’s real good for someone who hasn’t ridden in five months.”

  “I ride in Amarillo,” Skyler said, climbing up on the fence and sitting next to his brother. “Whew. It sure is hot, ain’t it?”

  “That it is.” Wyatt gazed out across the corral he and Skyler had been running rodeo trials in, a faraway look on his face. He blinked, his attention coming back to Skyler, who was starting to feel more relaxed after that last run. “Do you like college?”

  “You know what? It’s not bad,” he said. “I mean, I’m not living in a dorm with a bunch of other people, and I eat a lot better than everyone there.” He chuckled, glad he’d missed that phase of life where he counted every penny and ate only boxed pasta and wheat crackers. “Lotsa girls.”