Marrying Molly. Christine Rimmer

the edge of the bed and slipped off her sandals.

      “Great.” She forced a wan smile and flopped back onto the pillows, stretching her legs out and settling in, letting her eyes drift shut. “Thanks…”

      “Maybe a cool cloth for your poor, tired eyes?” suggested Granny.

      Molly’s smile widened and she let out a soft chuckle. “What are you, a mind reader?”

      “Be back in a flash.”

      Molly heard the water running and a minute later her grandmother’s capable hands smoothed a lovely cool washcloth over her eyes. “Um. Perfect…”

      “Oh,” Granny said. “Almost forgot. That Tate Bravo called. Told him you weren’t in. Said I’d give you the message, but he shouldn’t hold his breath waitin’ for you to call back.”

      Molly lay very still with the cloth hiding her eyes as Granny cackled in satisfaction at having put the rich and powerful Tate Bravo in his place. Granny reveled in the council-meeting wrangling that went on between Molly and Tate. She loved to go on about all the ways Molly had bested “that Tate.” She thought her granddaughter’s dealings with Tate were strictly about politics and the betterment of the town. As of yet Molly had failed to bring her granny up to speed on the rolling-around-in-bed, ending-up-pregnant part of her and Tate’s relationship.

      “Thanks, Granny,” Molly whispered, turning her head toward the wall. At least, she thought, he’d left her alone at the shop.

      “Rest now,” said Granny softly. A moment later, Molly heard the door click shut behind her.

      Tate had called.

      Unbidden, Molly felt the all-too-familiar tug of longing. It was awful. She wanted him so much—despite knowing that he was the absolute worst person in the world for her.

      She let out a long sigh. She would have to call him back.

      Eventually.

      But not right now. Now, she was taking slow, even breaths. She was commanding her headache to pass and her stomach to stop churning. For the time being, she was resting right here in the peace of her own bedroom and she wasn’t going to think about Tate Bravo or the baby or any of that.

      For a half hour or so, Molly lay there on her bed, repeating soothing words in her head, breathing in and out slowly and deeply. She hovered on the verge of dropping off to sleep at last when she heard the front door open.

      “Hey. Get along. Now. Go on,” Granny called from out on the porch. There was a moment of silence and then, “Get the hell away from here, now. I have warned you and I will not be warning you again.”

      A man’s voice answered from down the walk—Tate’s? Molly wasn’t sure. Whoever he was, she couldn’t make out his words. She removed the wet cloth from over her eyes and set it on the nightstand.

      “You remember, I warned you,” said Granny. Molly sat up.

      “Listen here, now,” the man argued. “Put that thing down.”

      Molly groaned. It was Tate, all right. He was closer to the house, coming up the driveway. She swung her feet to the floor.

      Granny said, “Not another damn step.”

      Tate said, “I’m not leaving till I talk to—” A thunderous blast cut him off.

      Granny must have fired her shotgun at him.

       Chapter Three

       M olly flew off the bed, flung back the bedroom door, took the hall in a step and a half and shot across the small living room in four big strides. The front door stood open. Through the storm door, she could see her granny, who was muttering to herself and chambering another round. Molly shoved open the storm door. “Granny. Don’t you put another round in that thing.”

      “Tell this crazy woman to put that gun down,” Tate shouted from behind the big oak by the front walk.

      Granny, who had the gun broken open and the barrel pointed at the porch boards for the moment, grumbled loudly, “Now look what you did. You went and woke her up.”

      “What is going on out here?” Molly cried.

      “Gettin’ rid of a little oversized vermin, sweetie pie, that’s all.”

      Molly’s headache was back, with a vengeance. She shut the storm door and rubbed her forehead. “Give me that shotgun.”

      Granny flattened her lips. “No need to get your drawers in a twist. It was only a warning shot, and I aimed good and high. Cleared his big, fat head by a mile. Not a scratch on him, I guarantee it.”

      Molly quit rubbing her forehead and stuck out her hand, wiggling the fingers in a commanding way. “Give it here.” Granny mumbled something rude, but she did lock the barrel without shoving in a shell. “Now,” Molly commanded. Grudgingly Granny handed over the gun. “Now go on inside this instant.” Molly allowed no weakness in her voice. Sometimes, with Granny, you had to be really tough. “Get in there and let me have a minute to talk to Tate.”

      “What could you possibly have to say to the likes of him, honey bun?”

      “I mean it, Granny.”

      “But there’s no reason you should have to—”

      “Inside.” Molly looked at her grandmother dead on, no blinking. After maybe ten seconds of that, Granny gave in. Grumbling under her breath in obvious disapproval, she banged through the storm door. Molly waited till she disappeared from view before calling to Tate, “You can come out now.”

      Dark eyes narrowed and broad shoulders straight, Tate emerged from behind the tree and mounted the porch steps. “What is wrong with that woman?”

      Molly ignored the way watching him come toward her made her palms go sweaty and her heart beat faster. She gave him her coolest look. “Nothing the total elimination of the male sex from the world wouldn’t cure.”

      For that, she got a slow once-over, starting at the top of her head and ending at her bare toes. “Having a little nap?”

      She resisted the pitiful urge to fluff her pillow-flattened hair. “What’s it to you?”

      “It’s good that you get your rest, that’s all. You need it, for the baby’s sake.” It wasn’t a bad thing to say, not really.

      Still, another sour remark rose to her lips. She held it back.

      He studied her for a long moment while she told herself that the hot shiver sliding through her meant nothing at all. Finally he said in a low, calm tone, “We need to talk, don’t you think?”

      She just felt so…defensive. It made her stiffen her spine and mutter provokingly, “As if you ever did care what I think.”

      He took a step closer. “Molly.” The way he whispered her name made her yearn to throw her arms around him and beg him to take her right there on the front porch, to take her and never, ever let her go.

      Hah. Never let her go. As if that would happen—as if she wanted it to happen.

      She didn’t. Uh-uh. No way. She did not…

      “All right,” she said, resigned to the fact that they were getting to the part with the shouting and the accusations. “We’ll talk.” She still had the shotgun in one hand. With the other, she gestured at the porch rocker. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” She whirled around and went inside before he could say another word.

      “Granny?” she called softly. There was no answer. The only sound was the whir of the big window air conditioner in the kitchen.

      Molly stepped over to the hallway. The door to the back bedroom was shut. Good. She went into her own room and straight to the closet, where she lifted a hidden trapdoor to a two-by-four-foot space under the floor. She put the shotgun in there and closed it up. She was