The thought of her sister sent alarm racing through her. What day was it? When was Margreta due to call? For that matter, where was her cell phone?
On the afternoon of the fourth day, the door opened and Chance walked in.
She turned her head to look out the window. In truth, she was surprised he had given her this long to recover. She had held him off as long as she could, but she supposed there had to be a closing act before the curtain could fall.
She had held her inner pain at bay by focusing on her physical pain, but now it rushed to the forefront. She fought it down, reaching for control. There was nothing to be gained by causing a scene, only her self-respect to lose.
“I’ve kept your cell phone with me,” he said, walking around to place himself between her and the windows, so she had to either look at him or turn her head away again. His conversational opening had guaranteed she wouldn’t turn away. “Margreta called yesterday.”
Sunny clenched her fists, then quickly relaxed her right hand as the motion flexed the IV needle taped to the back of it. Margreta would have panicked when she heard a man’s voice answer instead of Sunny’s.
“I talked fast,” Chance said. “I told her you’d been shot but would be okay, and that Hauer was dead. I told her I’d bring the phone to you today, and she could call again tonight to verify everything I said. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t hang up on me, either.”
“Thank you,” Sunny said. He had handled the situation in the best possible way.
He was subtly different, she realized. It wasn’t just his clothing, though he was now dressed in black slacks and a white silk shirt, while he had worn only jeans, boots, and casual shirts and T-shirts before. His whole demeanor was different. Of course, he wasn’t playing a raffish, charming charter pilot any longer. He was himself now, and the reality was what she had always sensed beneath the surface of his charm. He was the man who led some sort of commando team, who exerted enormous influence in getting things done his way. The dangerous edge she had only glimpsed before was in full view now, in his eyes and the authority with which he spoke.
He moved closer to the side of the bed, so close he was leaning against the rail. Very gently, the touch as light as gossamer, he placed his fingertips on her belly. “Our baby is all right,” he said.
He knew. Shocked, she stared at him, though she realized she should have known the doctor would tell him.
“Were you going to tell me?” he asked, his golden-brown eyes intent on her face, as if he wanted to catch every nuance of expression.
“I hadn’t thought about it one way or the other,” she said honestly. She had just been coming to terms with the knowledge herself; she hadn’t gotten around to forming any plans.
“This changes things.”
“Does it really,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. “Was anything you told me the truth?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“There was nothing wrong with the fuel pump.”
“No.”
“You could have flown us out of the canyon at any time.”
“Yes.”
“Your name isn’t Chance McCall.”
“Mackenzie,” he said. “Chance Mackenzie.”
“Well, that’s one thing,” she said bitterly. “At least your first name was really your own.”
“Sunny…don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t try to find out how big a fool I am? Were you really an army ranger?”
He sighed, his expression grim. “Navy. Naval Intelligence.”
“You arranged for all of my flights to be fouled up that day.”
He shrugged an admittance.
“The cretin was really one of your men.”
“A good one. The airport security people were mine, too.”
She creased the sheet with her left hand. “You knew my father would be there. You had it set up.”
“We knew two of his men were trailing us, had been since the television newscast about you aired.”
“You arranged that, too.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Why did we fly all over the country? Why didn’t we just stay in Seattle? That would have been less wear and tear on the plane.”
“I had to make it look good.”
She swallowed. “That day…the picnic. Would you have made love—I mean, had sex—with me with your men watching? Just to make it look good?”
“No. Having an affair with you was necessary, but…private.”
“I suppose I should thank you for that, at least. Thank you. Now get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He sat down in the bedside chair. “If you’ve finished with the dissection, we need to make some decisions.”
“I’ve already made one. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Sorry about that, but you aren’t getting your wish. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart, because that baby inside you is mine.”
Chapter 15
Sunny was released from the hospital eight days after the shooting. She could walk, gingerly, but her strength was almost negligible, and she had to wear the nightgown and robe Chance had bought her, because she couldn’t stand any clothing around her middle. She had no idea what she was going to do. She wasn’t in any condition to catch a flight to Atlanta, not to mention that she would have to travel in her nightgown, but she had to find somewhere to stay. Once she knew she was being released, she got the phone book and called a hotel, made certain the hotel had room service, and booked herself a room there. The hotel had room service; until she was able to take care of herself again, a hotel was the best she could do.
In the hospital she had, at first, entertained a fragile hope that Margreta would come to stay with her and help her until she was recovered. With their father dead, they didn’t have to hide any longer. But though Margreta had sounded happy and relieved, she had resisted Sunny’s suggestion that she come to Des Moines. They had exchanged telephone numbers, but that was all—and Margreta hadn’t called back.
Sunny understood. Margreta would always have problems relating to people, forming relationships with them. She was probably very comfortable with the long-distance contact she had with Sunny, and wanted nothing more. Sunny tried to fight her sadness as she realized she would never have the sister she had wanted, but melancholy too easily overwhelmed her these days.
Part of it was the hormonal chaos of early pregnancy, she knew. She found herself tearing up at the most ridiculous things, such as a gardening show she watched on television one day. She lay in her hospital bed and began thinking how she had always wanted a flower garden but had never been able to have one, and presto, all of a sudden she was feeling sorry for herself and sitting there like an idiot with tears rolling down her face.
Depression went hand in glove with physical recovery, too, one of the nurses told her. It would pass as she got stronger and could do more.
But the biggest part of her depression was Chance. He visited every day, and once even brought along the tall, lethal-looking man she had noticed him talking to the night she was injured. To her surprise, Chance introduced the man as his brother, Zane. Zane had shaken her hand with exquisite gentleness, shown her photos of his pretty wife and three adorable children, and spent half an hour telling her yarns about the exploits of his daughter, Nick. If even half of what he said about the child was true, the world had better brace itself for when she was older.
After Zane left, Sunny was even more depressed. Zane had what she had always wanted: a family he loved, and who loved him in return.
When he visited, Chance always avoided the subject that lay between them like a coiled snake. He had done what he had done, and no amount of talking would change reality. She had to respect, reluctantly, his lack of any attempt to make excuses. Instead, he talked about his family in Wyoming, and the mountain they all still called home, even though only his parents lived there now. He had four brothers and one sister, a dozen nephews—and one niece, the no
torious Nick, whom he obviously adored. His sister was a horse trainer who was married to one of his agents; one brother was a rancher who had married the granddaughter of an old family enemy; another brother was an ex-fighter pilot who was married to an orthopedic surgeon; Zane was married to the daughter of an ambassador; and Joe, his oldest brother, was General Joseph Mackenzie, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
That couldn’t all be true, she thought, yet the tales had a ring of truth to them. Then she remembered that Chance was a consummate actor, and bitterness would swamp her again.
She couldn’t seem to pull herself out of the dismals. She had always been able to laugh, but now she found it difficult to even smile. No matter how she tried to distract herself, the knowledge was always there, engraved on her heart like a curse that robbed her life of joy: Chance didn’t love her. It had all been an act.
It was as if part of her had died. She felt cold inside, and empty. She tried to hide it, tried to tell herself the depression would go away if she just ignored it and concentrated on getting better, but every day the grayness inside her seemed to spread and deepen.
The day she was released, the escort finally arrived with a wheelchair and Sunny called a taxi to meet them at the entrance in fifteen minutes. She gingerly lowered herself into the wheelchair, and the escort obligingly placed the small bag containing her few articles of clothing and her backpack on her lap, then balanced the bromeliad on top.
“I’m sure I have to sign some papers before I’m released,” Sunny said.
“No, I don’t think so,” the woman said, checking her orders. “According to this, you’re all ready to go. Your husband probably handled it for you.”
Sunny bit back the urge to snap that she wasn’t married. He hadn’t mentioned it, and in truth she hadn’t given a thought to how she would pay for her hospital care, but now that she thought about it, she realized Chance had indeed handled all of that. Maybe he thought the least he could do was pick up her tab.
She was surprised he wasn’t here, since he’d been so adamant about being a part of the baby’s life, and persistent in visiting. For all she knew, she thought, he had been called away on some mysterious spy stuff.
She underestimated him. When the escort rolled her to the doors of the patient discharge area, she saw a familiar dark green Ford Explorer parked under the covered entrance. Chance unfolded his long length from behind the steering wheel and came to meet her.
“I’ve already called a taxi,” she said, though she knew it was a waste of breath.
“Tough,” he said succinctly. He took her clothes and the bromeliad and put them in the back of the Explorer, then opened the passenger door.
Sunny began to inch herself forward in the wheelchair seat, preparatory to standing; she had mastered the art when seated in a regular chair, but a wheelchair was trickier. Chance gave her an exasperated look, then leaned down and scooped her up in his powerful arms, handling her weight with ease as he deposited her in the Explorer.
“Thank you,” she said politely. She would at least be civil, and his method had been much less painful and time-consuming than hers.
“You’re welcome.” He buckled the seat belt around her, making certain the straps didn’t rub against the surgical incision, then closed the door and walked around to slide under the steering wheel.
“I’ve booked a room in a hotel,” she said. “But I don’t know where it is, so I can’t give you directions.”
“You aren’t going to a hotel,” he growled.
“I have to go somewhere,” she pointed out. “I’m not able to drive, and I can’t handle negotiating an airport, so a hotel with room service is the only logical solution.”
“No it isn’t. I’m taking you home with me.”
“No!” she said violently, everything in her rejecting the idea of spending days in his company.
His jaw set. “You don’t have a choice,” he said grimly. “You’re going—even if you kick and scream the whole way.”
It was tempting. Oh, it was tempting. Only the thought of how badly kicking would pull at the incision made her resist the idea.
The dime didn’t drop until she noticed he was driving to the airport. “Where are we going?”
He gave her an impatient glance. “I told you. Hell, Sunny, you know I don’t live in Des Moines.”
“All right, so I know where you don’t live. But I don’t know where you do live.” She couldn’t resist adding, “And even if you had told me, it would probably be a lie.”
This time his glance was sulfuric. “Wyoming,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m taking you home to Wyoming.”
She was silent during the flight, speaking only when necessary and then only in monosyllables. Chance studied her when her attention was on the landscape below, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. They had flown around so much during the time they’d been together that it felt natural to once again be in the plane with her, as if they were where they belonged. She had settled in with a minimum of fussing and no complaints, though he knew she had to be exhausted and uncomfortable.
She looked so frail, as if a good wind would blow her away. There wasn’t any color in her cheeks or lips, and she had dropped a good ten pounds that she didn’t need to lose. The doctor had assured him that she was recovering nicely, right on schedule, and that while her pregnancy was still too new for any test to tell them anything about the baby’s condition, they had taken all precautions and he had every confidence the baby would be fine.
As thrilled as he was about the baby, Chance was more worried that the pregnancy would sap her strength and slow her recovery. She needed all the resources she could muster now, but nature would ensure that the developing child got what it needed first. The only way he could be confident she was getting what she needed was if he arranged for her to be watched every minute, and coddled and spoiled within an inch of her life. The best place for that was Mackenzie’s Mountain.
He had called and told them he was bringing Sunny there, of course. He had told them the entire situation, that she was pregnant and he intended to marry her, but that she was still mad as hell at him and hadn’t forgiven him. He had set quite a task for himself, getting back in Sunny’s good graces. But once he had her on the Mountain, he thought, he could take his time wearing her down.
Mary, typically, was ecstatic. She took it for granted Sunny would forgive him, and since she had been prodding him about getting married and giving her more grandchildren, she probably thought she was getting everything she wanted.
Chance was going to do everything he could to see that she did, because what she wanted was exactly what he wanted. He’d always sworn he would never get married and have children, but fate had stepped in and arranged things otherwise. The prospect of getting married scared him—no, it terrified the hell out of him, so much so that he hadn’t even broached the subject to Sunny. He didn’t know how to tell her what she needed to know about him, and he didn’t know what she would do when she found out, if she would accept his proposal or tell him to drop dead.
The only thing that gave him hope was that she’d said she loved him. She hadn’t said it since she found out how he’d set her up, but Sunny wasn’t a woman who loved lightly. If there was a spark of love left in her, if he hadn’t totally extinguished it, he would find a way to fan it to life.
He landed at the airstrip on Zane’s property, and his heart gave a hard thump when he saw what was waiting for them. Even Sunny’s interest was sparked. She sat up straighter, and for the first time since she’d been shot he saw a hint of that lively interest in her face. “What’s going on?” she asked.
His spirits lifting, he grinned. “Looks like a welcoming party.”
The entire Mackenzie clan was gathered by the airstrip. Everyone. Josh and Loren were there from Seattle with their three sons. Mike and Shea and their two boys. Zane and Barrie, each holding one of the twins. And there was Joe, decked out in his Air Force uniform with more rows of frui
t salad on it than should be allowed. How he had carved time out of his schedule to come here, Chance didn’t know—but then, Joe could do damn near anything he wanted, since he was the highest ranking military officer in the nation. Caroline, standing beside him and looking positively chic in turquoise capri pants and white sandals—and also looking damn good for her age—had probably had a harder time getting free. She was one of the top-ranked physicists in the world. Their five sons were with him, and John, the oldest, wasn’t the only one this time who had a girlfriend with him. Maris and Mac stood together; Mac had his arm draped protectively around Maris’s slight frame. And Mom and Dad were in the middle of the whole gang, with Nick perched happily in Wolf’s arms.
Every last one of them, even the babies, held a balloon.
“Oh, my,” Sunny murmured. The corners of her pale mouth moved upwards in the first smile he had seen in eight days.
He cut the motor and got out, then went to the other door and carefully lifted Sunny out. She was so bemused by the gathering that she put her arm around his neck.
That must have been the signal. Wolf leaned down and set Nick on her feet. She took off toward Chance like a shot, running and skipping and shrieking his name in the usual litany. “UncaDance, UncaDance, Unca-Dance!” The balloon she was holding bobbed like a mad thing. The whole crowd started forward in her wake.
In seconds they were surrounded. He tried to introduce everyone to Sunny, but there was too much of a hubbub for him to complete a sentence. His sisters-in-law, bless them, were laughing and chattering as if they had known her for years; the men were flirting; Mary was beaming; and Nick’s piping voice could be heard above everyone. “Dat’s a weally, weally pwetty dwess.” She fingered the silk robe and beamed up at Sunny.
John leaned down and whispered something in Nick’s ear. “Dress,” she said, emphasizing the r. “Dat’s a weally, weally pwetty dress.”