Kathleen O'Brien - Texas Wedding

Trent shook his head. “But money isn’t what I want.” He angled her even closer, close enough to feel the heat that throbbed through him. “You know what I want.”

“But what you want—you can’t…What about the paper?” She seemed to be struggling to catch a breath. “You won’t…sign it?”

“No, I won’t sign it, Sue, but there are other ways.”

“Other ways to…what?”

Her lips were half-open, peach-pink, wet and glimmering in the sunlight. And he remembered exactly how they had tasted. How they had felt, on him, around him. For eleven long years, even in dreams, he had been haunted by the memory of their warmth, their hidden strength….

She might hate him, but he had to have this. He refused to go on burning and wanting, and being forever denied. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she burned, too.

“Trent. Tell me what you mean.”

He let his body answer her.

Dear Reader,

For those of you who read Texas Baby and saw the sparks between Trent Maxwell and Susannah Everly, it won’t be a surprise to learn that I struggled to find a happy ending for this star-crossed couple.

They have such an emotional history…years of love, followed by years of bitterness. They’ve spent a decade denying their deepest feelings. How on earth could I move them toward truce, forgiveness and, finally, back to love?

Sometimes it seemed impossible. One thing kept me searching: the letters and e-mails I got from readers, asking for Trent and Susannah’s story. Those eager notes reminded me that we all want to see love triumph over anger and pain.

We don’t just want it. We need it.

All our relationships face challenges. Somehow we must have faith that we can rise above our failures. We must hang on to the hope that we can forgive, and be forgiven.

So to all my wonderful readers, thanks for the inspiration—and for waiting. I hope you enjoy watching these two find love again. And please stay in touch. Visit me at KOBrienonline.com, or write me at KOBrien@aol.com. Your messages mean more than you’ll ever know!

Warmly,

Kathleen O’Brien

Kathleen O’Brien was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned to writing novels, which could be done at home. She’s an unapologetic sentimentalist, with an iPod full of corny music, a den full of three-hanky romances and an address book full of lifelong friends. She loves reading in her backyard bower, though she struggles to keep even the ferns alive, and could never, ever manage a thousand acres of peaches!

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SUSANNAH EVERLY MAXWELL had been hiding in the bathroom for half an hour. For a bride on her wedding night, that was at least twenty-nine minutes too long.

She’d left the shower on, hoping Trent would assume she was still bathing, and the cascade of warm water had turned the room into a sauna. The towel knotted at her breasts hung heavily, saturated with moisture. Steam smothered the mirror, forming a blank screen of mist.

She knew she should go out into the bedroom, where her new husband was waiting, but she couldn’t force herself to do it.

Her new husband…

None of this seemed real. Reaching out one fingertip, she began to write on the glass.

Mrs…. Trent…Maxwell…

She’d penned the name a thousand times, in the turquoise ink she’d loved back in high school. But before she could finish the last syllable, the condensation pooled and began to run. It was like trying to write with tears.

Her reflection appeared in the open spaces, fractured into a collection of mismatched parts. Ironically, this stranger draped in the white towel, wreathed in clouds of steam, looked more like a bride than she had this afternoon at the courthouse.

But not a happy bride. A broken Picasso bride, or maybe a ghost bride from some terrifying urban legend—a confused wraith who would never find her way out of the mist.

She touched her damp cheek, as if she needed to confirm that she was made of solid flesh. Her new diamond ring sparkled in the mirror.

After all this time, she was really Trent Maxwell’s wife. For one year, anyhow. Not exactly the “forever” she used to dream of.

Suddenly, hard knuckles rapped against wood.

“Susannah?”

Staring at the door, she put her left hand against her heart, which once again thump-jogged in place.

Stop that, she commanded it. But her heart ignored her.

“Susannah? Are you all right?”

He didn’t turn the knob. He probably knew it was locked. Not that the flimsy button would have kept him out if he’d really wanted to come in. And he would come in, sooner or later, if she didn’t emerge. The Fates had blessed Trent Maxwell with a lot of gifts, but patience wasn’t one of them.

She’d fallen for Trent when she was just a kid—not all that much younger than her little sister Nikki was now. Susannah had thought she was so grown-up, ready to be in love. Now, watching Nikki struggle with hormones at the oh-so-mature age of sixteen, she knew better.

It had all been dreams. She’d fantasized about standing at the altar beside him. She’d dreamed of cooking him spaghetti and darning his socks, though she had no clue what that meant.

But those dreams had gone up in flames—quite literally—eleven years ago. Since then, she and Trent had barely exchanged fifty civil words.

Now here she was, a thirty-year-old woman, embarking on a one-year marriage of convenience. How dry those words sounded! They didn’t capture any of the heart-skittering anticipation. He was only ten yards away, and waiting for her to come to bed. This would be a real marriage, he’d insisted. And, because she needed a husband, she had agreed.

But maybe she wasn’t trapped. She had one last hope—a piece of paper hidden in her nightstand that somehow might miraculously save her.

She tried to imagine handing it to him. Tried to visualize his face as he read it. What would he say? They’d been so close once that they could finish each other’s sentences. But the bitter years lay between them now like a continent of ice. Her new husband was a stranger to her, and she had no idea how he would react.

“Susannah?”

His voice wasn’t angry. Not yet. That would come later. Later, when he read the paper. When he found out what her plans were for this, the first of their 365 nights of married life.

Her gaze returned to the pieces of woman reflected between the finger-written letters. Mrs… Her eyes shone. Trent… Her lips were parted, vulnerable.

Who was that woman? Suddenly horrified, she drew her eyebrows together. That woman looked like a victim.

Ridiculous. No one had abducted her, tricked her or sold her into wedlock. The bargain had been her idea, the only sensible escape from an impossible situation. It was just that marriage to Trent had seemed so much more manageable when it was weeks, days, even hours in the future, instead of right here, right now.

But she could handle it. She wasn’t weak. Ask anyone, from the lowliest fruit picker on her payroll to the richest buyer on the market. You could even ask her grandfather’s ghost, which was probably still prowling the halls of Hell, carrying his favorite switching strap.