A Weaver Wedding. Allison Leigh

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      Unexpected pregnancies weren’t just the domain of the young and foolish. She was a competent adult, and she’d still gotten “caught.” For now, though, nobody but her obstetrician in Braden knew.

      “Darlin’,” he said, his voice dropping another notch, “there isn’t anything easy about this,” he assured her and stepped out onto the sidewalk outside her door.

      She firmly shut it, staring at him through the mottled stained glass as she deliberately set the locks.

      “I’m not going to let this drop,” he warned.

      “Then you’ll be wasting a lot of time,” she answered, and hated the tightness in her throat. She made herself turn away from the door. Ignoring all of the items that needed to be returned to the shelves, she headed straight to the rear door, barely stopping long enough to hit the light switches and grab her coat.

      She got in her car that was parked out back and, half-afraid she’d see his big truck rolling into view, bolted down the alley with a shameless disregard for caution. Less then ten minutes later, she’d pulled into the garage beside her house.

      Axel hadn’t followed her.

      She told herself she wasn’t surprised.

      His “bodyguard” threat was just that. A threat.

      Which didn’t explain at all why, once inside, she kept peering through the plantation shutters at the windows for any sight of his truck.

      When she realized the street lights had come on outside, she wanted to tear out her hair. She’d wasted at least an hour padding from window to window. Watching and waiting for Axel to appear. Or worse.

      Stomping to her closet, she gave a practiced yank on the enameled doorknob, hard enough to spring the stubborn, warped door open. She snatched out the first decent dress her hand encountered. She tossed it on the bed, then went down the hall to the bathroom.

      Her reflection in the ancient mirror showed flushed cheeks and too-dark eyes. She freed her hair from the clip, pulling a brush through it until it swung smooth again, and swabbed some cosmetics into place. Then she went back into the bedroom where she put on the knee-length dress.

      It was black, which suited her mood, with a forgivingly swinging cut that didn’t cling anywhere except where the wide, scooped neckline hugged the points of her shoulders. She pulled on black nylons—managing to put a run in the first pair she tried—shoved her feet into shiny black pumps, added a jet-black choker and drop earrings that she’d made a few years ago, and headed to the door.

      The Valentine’s dance was the last place she wanted to be, but it was still better than hovering around in the shadows of her house, watching for signs of Axel Clay.

      Her coat was where she’d left it by the back door and she slipped into it before leaving the house to cross the cracked sidewalk leading to the garage.

      She resolutely ignored the way her neck prickled before she reached the safety of her car and drove it out onto the street, heading back to the school.

      When she arrived, the gymnasium had once again been transformed. This time into a dinner dance, complete with a live band playing with more enthusiasm than skill on the stage that had been erected at one end. Large round tables were situated along the sides of the room—most of which already looked full. Opposite the stage, several long tables had been set up as a buffet, where there was already a long line.

      And of course there were the hearts. Everywhere.

      She blew out a faint breath as she handed over her ticket to the teenagers manning the entry and slid out of her coat, leaving it in the area set aside for them.

      There was no such thing as a coat check in Weaver, Wyoming.

      The fact that her car keys were in the coat pocket niggled at her, which annoyed her to no end. If it weren’t for Axel Clay’s ridiculous claim, she wouldn’t have thought twice about them.

      “Good evening, Tara.” Joe Gage greeted her within seconds after she’d passed over her ticket. “You look great.” His gaze ran down her with appreciation. Sadly, she felt none of the rippling aftereffects from his attention that she did from Axel. She didn’t look at Joe and then have foolish, romantic thoughts of happily-ever-afters twining around her better sense.

      “Thanks. So do you.” The school principal did look nice, but he certainly didn’t make her mouth water. Now that she was pregnant, this was certainly no time to start encouraging him, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Looks like quite a crowd here tonight.” She was probably the only one in town who’d bought a ticket with no intention of using it.

      “Yeah.” His gaze was diverted by Dee Crowder who sailed past them looking pretty in a lacy red dress. “There’s a seat left at my table, though.”

      “Thanks—” The word caught when she felt a warm, long-fingered hand slide over her shoulder from behind.

      “Thanks, Joe,” Axel said from above her head, “but we should probably find a spot for two.” His chuckle was deep. “Not that I’d mind Tara sitting on my lap through dinner.”

      She stared up at him. “What do—”

      His hand squeezed her shoulder. Not hard. But definitely in warning.

      The rest of her protest died in her throat.

      Her cheeks warmed at the realization crossing Joe’s face when he took in Axel’s proprietary hand, and she felt even worse when Joe smiled despite the disappointment in his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind if the prettiest woman in the room had to sit on my lap for a while, either.” He looked back over the crowded tables. “Most of your family is already here. Back near the buffet tables.” He grinned. “Y’all take up more than a few tables.”

      “Principal Gage.” Dee Crowder reappeared. She had a pink cocktail in her hand and curiosity in her face as she eyed Axel’s hand on Tara, too. “Mind if I take the last seat at your table?”

      “Of course I don’t mind. Axel, Tara, enjoy the evening,” he told them before tucking his hand in Dee’s arm. Tara felt her chance of sitting safely well away from the Clays evaporating as Joe escorted Dee to his table.

      “Come on.” Axel urged her forward, right into the melee of dancers taking up the narrow rectangle in the center of the gymnasium floor. “Let’s dance.”

      It was a double-edged reprieve from being forced to go to his family’s tables. “I don’t dance.” Déjà vu accosted her as he turned her into his arms.

      “Think we’ve been over that,” he murmured, flattening her curled fingers against his shoulder.

      The last thing she needed was a reminder of their time in Braden. Particularly when she now had a constant reminder, courtesy of her thickening waistline. And when Axel’s hand slid around that waist, she couldn’t help but hold her breath, just waiting for him to make some comment.

      But though his fingertips seemed to flex against her, all he said was a muttered “Relax.”

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