Connal. Diana Palmer

the change,” he told the man.

      Pepi congratulated herself silently on her strategy as he weaved out onto the street. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead hesitantly.

      “Hot,” he murmured. He shook his head, his breath coming hard and heavy. He turned to look at Pepi, frowning slightly. “I thought we were going for a walk.”

      “Sure,” she said.

      “Come here, then, sweet girl,” he coaxed, holding out his arm. “I can’t let you get lost, can I?”

      It was the liquor talking, and she knew it. But it was so sweet to have his arm around her shoulder, his head bent to hers, his breath against her forehead. Even the scent of the tequila wasn’t that unpleasant.

      “So sweet,” he said heavily, walking her away from the car, not toward it. “I don’t want to go home. Let’s just walk the night away.”

      “C.C., it’s dangerous in this part of the city,” she began softly.

      “My name…is Connal,” he said abruptly.

      That was faintly shocking, to know that he had a real name. She smiled. “It’s nice. I like it.”

      “Yours is Penelope Marie,” he laughed roughly. “Penelope Marie Mathews.”

      “Yes.” She hadn’t known that he knew her full name. It was flattering.

      “Suppose we change it to Tremayne?” he asked, hesitating. “Sure, why not? You’re always looking after me, Penelope Marie Mathews, so why don’t you marry me and do the thing right?” While she was absorbing the shock, he looked around weavingly. “Aha, sure, there’s one of those all-night chapels. Come on.”

      “C.C., we can’t…!”

      He blinked at her horrified expression. “Sure we can. Come on, honey, we don’t have to have any papers or anything. And it’s all legal.”

      She bit her lower lip. She couldn’t let him do this, she thought, panicking. When he sobered up and found out, he’d kill her. Not only that, she wasn’t sure if a Mexican marriage was binding; she didn’t know what the law was.

      “Listen, now,” she began.

      “If you won’t marry me,” he threatened with drunken cunning, “I’ll shoot up a bar and get us landed in jail. Right now, Pepi. This minute. I mean it.”

      Obviously he did. She gave in. Surely nobody in his right mind would marry them with him in that visibly drunken condition. So she went along with him, worried to death about how she was going to get him home. But she knew that he owned a Beretta and had a permit for it, and she couldn’t be sure that he didn’t have it on him. God forbid that he should shoot somebody!

      He dragged her into the wedding chapel. Unfortunately the Mexican who married them spoke little English, and Pepi’s halting Spanish was inadequate to explain what was going on. C.C., she recalled, spoke the language fluently. He broke in on her stumbling explanation and rattled off something that made the little man grin. The Mexican went away and came back with a Bible and two women. He launched into rapid-fire Spanish, cueing first Pepi and then C.C. to say si and then he said something else, grinned, and then a terrified Pepi was being hugged and kissed by the women. C.C. scrawled his signature on a paper and rattled off some more Spanish while the little man wrote a few other things on the paper.

      “That’s all there is to it.” C.C. grinned at Pepi. “Here. All nice and legal. Give me a kiss, wife.”

      He held out the paper, took a deep breath, and slid to the floor of the chapel.

      The next few minutes were hectic. Pepi finally managed to convey to the Mexican family that she had to get him to the car. They brought in a couple of really mean-looking young men who lifted C.C. like a sack of feed and carried him out to the parking lot. Pepi had him put in the pickup truck. She handed the boys two dollar bills, which was all she had, and tried to thank them. They waved away the money, grinning, when they noticed the beat-up, dented condition of the old ranch pickup. Kindred spirits, she thought warmly. Poor people always helped each other. She thanked them again, stuck the paper in her pocket, and started the truck.

      She made it to the ranch in good time. Her father’s Jeep was still gone, thank God. She backed the pickup next to the bunkhouse, where it wasn’t visible from the house, and knocked on the door.

      Bud, the new hand she’d spoken to earlier, answered the knock. Apparently the men had been asleep.

      “I need a favor,” she whispered. “I’ve got C.C. in the truck. Will you toss him on his bunk for me, before my dad sees him?”

      Bud’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve got the boss in there? What’s wrong with him?”

      She swallowed. “Tequila.”

      “Whew,” Bud whistled. “Never thought of him as a drinking man.”

      “He isn’t, usually,” she said, reluctant to go into anything more. “This was an unfortunate thing. Can you do it? He’s heavy.”

      “Sure I can, Miss Mathews.” He followed her out in his stocking feet, leaving the bunkhouse door open. “I’ll try not to wake the other men. They’re all dead tired, anyway. I doubt they’d hear it thunder.”

      “Heavens, I hope not,” she said miserably. “If my dad sees him like this, his life’s over.”

      “Your dad don’t like alcohol, I guess,” Bud remarked.

      “You said it.”

      She opened the pickup door. C.C. was leaning against it, sound asleep and snoring. Bud caught him halfway to the ground and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. C.C. didn’t even break stride; he kept right on snoring.

      “Thanks a lot, Bud,” Pepi grinned.

      “My pleasure, Miss. Good night.”

      She climbed into the pickup, parked it at the back of the house, and rushed upstairs to bed. Her father would be none the wiser, thank God.

      She undressed to get into her gown, and a piece of paper fell to the floor. She unfolded it, and found her name and that of Connal Cade Tremayne on it along with some Spanish words and an official-looking signature. It didn’t take much guesswork to realize that it was a marriage license. She sat down, gazing at it. Well, it wasn’t worth the paper it was written on, thank God. But she wasn’t about to throw it away. In days to come, she could dream about what it could have meant if it had been the real thing. If C.C. had married her, wanted her, loved her. She sighed.

      She put the license in her drawer and she lay down on the bed. Poor man, perhaps his ghosts would let him rest for a while now. She wondered how much of tonight he was going to remember, and hoped he wouldn’t be too furious at her for going to get him or for leaving his dilapidated old Ford in Juárez. But with any luck, the old car would be fine, and he could get somebody to go with him to get it when he sobered up. Anyway, he ought to be grateful that she went after him, she assured herself. With winter coming on, it might be hard to get a new job. She didn’t want to lose him. Even worshiping him from afar was better than never seeing him again. Or was it?

      * * *

      The next morning, she woke up with a start as a hard knock sounded on her door.

      “What is it?” she asked on a yawn.

      “You know damned good and well what it is!”

      That was C.C. She sat up just as he threw open the door and walked in. Her gown was transparent and low-cut, and he got a quick but thorough look at her almost bare breasts before she could jerk the sheet up to her throat.

      “C.C.!” she burst out. “What in heaven’s name are you doing!”

      “Where is it?” he demanded, his eyes coldly furious.

      She blinked. “You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t read minds.”