Laura Altom - Marrying the Marshal

If only she could explain. To Caleb. To herself.

“Okay,” she said, hands on her hips, taking a deep breath. Time for a more direct approach. “Might it be possible for you to ask Caleb to come inside right now?”

“I’m eating my ice cream.”

Apparently, yes, Adam was that dense.

“MY BROTHER SAID you wanted to see me.” Caleb found Allie curled in an overstuffed lounge chair, reading court documents by the light of an artsy-fartsy lamp. In a swanky marble, brass and glass fireplace, a gas flame scorched politically correct concrete logs. Call him environmentally challenged, but he’d always been partial to wood. But then wood was a good, honest material. The woman seated before him could be called lots of things. Honest wasn’t one of them.

“Oh,” she said, her voice as flat as her eyes. “Hi.”

Not in the mood for forced pleasantries, he asked, “Our son in bed?”

She swallowed hard, then nodded. “Please, have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“You off duty?” she politely asked.

“Cut the chitchat, Al. You not only lied about losing my son, you didn’t even have the decency to lie to my face. You took the coward’s way out by doing it in a Dear John.”

“Caleb, if you’d just let me explain.”

“Explain?” He laughed. “Oh, I’ve spent the past nine years of my life mourning the loss of your—our—child and you’re going to explain?” He thumped the red fireplace wall in anger.

“I’m sorry,” Allie said. Tears were pouring down her face. “You were so focused. All you ever talked about was getting your silver star. It was an obsession. As if, along with your fascination for those awful spaghetti westerns, you were going to become part of some modern-day posse. I knew if I told you I wanted to keep the baby, you’d do the honorable thing and marry me. You’d probably even have given up your dreams. Taken some boring desk job. You’d have been miserable.”

“Don’t give me that. Seriously, Allie, you’re a highly intelligent woman. Surely you can come up with a better excuse for a keeping a father from his son. A son from his father. You think every marshal spends every day shootin’ up the hills? You think my own father ordered me and my two brothers and sister from the back of the Sears catalogue?”

“I—I said I was sorry.” Allie rose, went to him, tried to give him a hug, but he backed away. Just out of reach.

“Yeah,” he said, jaw hard, eyes harder. “I’ll just bet.”

Allie winced from the obvious disgust behind his words, winced harder at the slam of the door as he left the room.

Sure, he’d had a right to know about his son, but she had rights, too. Intrinsic rights to security and well-being and happiness and love. How convenient Caleb had managed to block out how many of her hopes and dreams he’d squashed. Did he even remember what’d really happened nine years ago on the night she’d told him she was pregnant?

She did. Remembered it like it was yesterday….

THE NIGHT HAD BEEN rainy, yet hot, making the air heavy.

“Damn, this is quite a spread,” he’d said.

“Thanks.” She’d been warmed by Caleb having noticed she’d gone to extra trouble. Wildflowers picked in the empty lot behind her rented house graced an antique Ball canning jar he’d bought for her at a flea market. He was always doing that. Finding her little odds and ends to fill her home—their home. They’d met their junior year in college. And now, their third year of law school, she’d supposed it was time for what she was about to tell him.

True, there could have been a better time for this to happen—say, after graduation when they’d both found great jobs. But you couldn’t always plan a pregnancy, and there wasn’t much they could do about it, other than fast forward the marriage plans they’d each hinted at.

“What’s the occasion?” he’d asked, stepping up behind her at the stove, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing the sensitive spot on the nape of her neck.

“Patience, counselor.”

He’d laughed. “Right. Trial lawyer I will never be. You know why I’m going after the fancy degree.”

Her heart had plummeted. So much for her wish for a lovely surprise from him. Something like a spontaneous proposal, then a heartfelt vow to not go into the marshals’ service.

“You just watch.” With his chest puffed out the way it always was when he talked about his career plans, he’d said, “Once I get this law degree behind me, then combine it with a stellar field service record, no mere Deputy Marshal status for me, darlin’. I’ll be the youngest presidentially appointed U.S. Marshal ever in the state. You can be the youngest U.S. District Court Judge.”

“Great.”

“Doesn’t sound good to you?” He’d swept aside her long hair, kissing a partial ring around her throat.

“Caleb, hon, I was going to wait until after dinner to tell you, but—”

Hands still around her waist, he’d turned her to face him. “Wait a minute. I know this pouty look. You bomb Valerio’s midterm?”

“No,” she’d said, suddenly overcome with emotion. Tears had started and wouldn’t stop.

“Damn, sweetie. What’s wrong?” He’d held her close, protecting her from the world. Trouble was, the thing hurting her worst was him.

“I—I’m pregnant,” she’d blurted. Hoping, praying, he’d propose on the spot.

Instead, he’d gripped her tighter, like she’d fallen overboard and he was dragging her back to an already sinking ship. “This shouldn’t be scary,” he’d said. “But it is. I mean, I want to be a dad. A lot. But right now?” He’d shaken his head. “We’ve both got full plates.”

“Sure.” Nodding against his chest, she’d felt his frantic heartbeat.

“We’ll make it right though, okay?” He’d tucked his fingers under her chin, raising it so that her gaze met his. “We’ll make it right.”

HE’D SAID Make it right all those years ago.

What had his words meant? That hadn’t been the way the night was supposed to have gone. Caleb was supposed to have proposed. Tell her he loved her and their baby more than life. And he could have told her, that minute, because he loved her, he’d give up his dangerous career in favor of something nice and safe. Maybe tax law. He, better than anyone, from their many late night talks, knew what had happened to her father. And how fearful she was of tragedy striking another man she loved. Because Caleb knew, he should understand her actions, but didn’t. In the end, the only thing he’d given up was her—them.

So she’d formed a plan.

One that had allowed her to keep her precious child, and Caleb to keep his apparently equally precious unfettered bachelor life and crazy-dangerous career.

“Hey, it’s cool that we have kinda the same name. Can I see your badge?” Caleb’s son asked bright and early Monday morning.

“Sure.” Caleb slipped it off his utility belt for the little boy to inspect. He was a good-looking kid. Seemed smart. Inquisitive. Interesting that he was an early riser. So was his dad.

Outside, behind the closed kitchen shades, rain drummed on the patio and deck.

“Thanks,” the boy said, returning Caleb’s silver star. “Want cereal? We got Cheerios and Life.”

“That’s okay, buddy. I’m on the job. But I appreciate the offer.” After a few seconds of watching his son noisily get a bowl and spoon, he asked, “Ever eat oatmeal?”

“Yeah. I like it, but Mom doesn’t make it that often.”

“When I was your age,” Caleb said, “my mom made it for me nearly every day—especially when it was cold. It was my favorite. Ask your mom to make it for you. She knows my recipe.”